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kjmsupremacist · 3 years ago

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WHEN IT WALKS (yuta/reader)

Reader is certain Yuta is the perfect man for her. But when ghosts from his past come back to haunt them, she finds herself reevaluating their relationship, digging deeper and deeper until she isn’t sure what is true anymore. (for the legends never die collab, go check out the other works! also for @/neowritingsnet’s carnival of horrors and @/kpopscape’s netflix & chills events!)

“This is why people cry at the movies: because everybody’s doomed. No one in a movie can help themselves in any way. Their fate has already staked its claim on them from the moment they appear onscreen.” —John Darnielle

“ORESTES: This was always going to happen. She’s been dead since the beginning.” —Aeschylus, The Oresteia

Characters: Yuta, Female Reader

Genre: horror, angst, ghosts and spirits, mystery, romance, tragedy

Warnings: discussion of suicide (no graphic depiction), blood, gore, horror, major character death, mention of rape (nongraphic, in passing), unhappy ending (kinda), some brief and nongraphic sex scenes, emotional manipulation, mental health issues, murder, violence, emotional and physical abuse, um like spooky shit (japanese onryō myth!)

Rating: Mature

Length: 13k

i feel like it goes without saying, but please read the warnings. also, obviously this, like all my other works, does not represent how I actually see yuta. I’m just having fun. I hope you will, too.

taglist: @nctlovesme

Do characters in a tragedy know they are fated to an unhappy end? Or is blind hope a fundamental piece of the human condition, no matter where you go—across borders, across time? Do we write them unrelentingly optimistic because that is all we know?

Here, at the end of all things, you have to wonder if a part of you saw it coming. You’re not sure if discovering you had would be a sorrow or a comfort.

Regardless, you probably should have known how this would end. You close your fist tight around the familiar white fabric as your feet take you to the place you know you belong. It was your fate from the beginning, and whether you knew it at the time or not, you played your role to perfection. Now, you enter the final scene.

It all started so innocuously. You met Yuta at work on the first day of your new job. You were twenty-three. He was kind; unlike almost all the other men you worked with, he listened when you spoke. He was funny and he always smelled good. And he was beautiful.

You liked him from the moment you saw him, but you had a strict no-work-relationships rule—they were usually more trouble than they were worth. It was unfortunate, but you didn’t lose sleep over it. Maybe you could be good together, but you didn’t think you’d ever have the opportunity to find out. There were plenty other fish in the sea, as the saying goes.

One day, Yuta appeared at your desk with a few spreadsheets for you to review and an invitation to dinner. You took the spreadsheets, eyeing him warily. “In a friend way, or a date way?” you asked.

He smiled. “A date way, if that’s not too bold.”

“I don’t date my coworkers,” you said. “I’m sorry—I really would love to.”

“Neither do I,” he said, his smile growing. “I just turned in my two weeks. I got a position at another firm. They’re on the other side of the city, but I think we could make the distance work.”

You laughed, shoulders relaxing. “Then in that case, yes. I’d love to have dinner with you, Yuta.”

You never really imagined you’d find a long-term partner in a finance bro. You’d gone to college with plenty of them and managed to escape their nonexistent charms. You thought you were in the clear. Your plan had been to girlboss your way into a management position by age twenty-seven—twenty-five if you could help it—and then lurk in your local Trader Joe’s until you found the malewife of your dreams.

But Yuta was different. He had the same ruthless ambition, and a bit of a god complex, sure, but so did you. Unlike the rest, though, he had access to his emotions, and was well-mannered to boot. He had a close relationship with his parents, and liked to draw in his free time. He liked all animals, though he said he planned on getting a couple of cats, and a dog too, when he was older.

He had long black hair, and he wore earrings and painted his nails. In all your time with him, you only witnessed someone bothering him over his appearance once. It was maybe your third or fourth date, and a guy next to you at the bar said that faggots weren’t welcome here—even though Yuta knew the owner.

“Your fragility is not my responsibility,” Yuta said calmly, almost gently. “Please find somewhere else to enjoy your evening, or I will be forced to choose for you, and I don’t think you will appreciate it.”

The guy ended up getting kicked out by security shortly after. “Does that happen to you often?” you asked.

Yuta shrugged, taking a delicate sip of his drink. “Every now and again,” he said. “They think just because I am shorter than them, and look skinny, that they can say whatever they want. If the establishment doesn’t step in, they usually find out pretty quick that I’m stronger than I look.” He sounded mildly amused, but it was tinged with weariness, not pride.

Good men still exist! you texted your best friend on the way out to the curb.

That finance guy? she asked. God, what has the world come to?

He invited me back to his. I don’t think it’s gonna be an issue, but you have my location, you replied.

Don’t make me read about you on the news, she said. Have fun.

You took a taxi back to Yuta’s place. He had a rather understated, single-story house in the suburbs—surprising for someone with his paycheck, but you didn’t mind.

“I’m saving for when I want to buy the house I’m going to spend the rest of my life in,” he explained. “I could get a nice apartment in the city, but I don’t really see the point. Besides, I’ve never really liked apartments. Too many neighbors.”

You nodded. “Yeah, I agree. Having a house is nicer.”

You set down your bag, hung up your coat, and followed him into his kitchen. His house was cute and tidy, with a comfortable living room off the kitchen and a small hallway that led down to what you assumed was his bedroom. It was a little dark, maybe, but that tended to happen when lots of rooms have to be crammed into a relatively small space. Too many corners.

He offered you a glass of wine, and then you retreated to his room to talk. His room was nice, too—clean and well-decorated. He grinned while you hovered in the doorway, unsure.

“Am I correct in assuming you’ll end up in my bed at some point tonight?” he asked.

You started, then laughed. “I hope so,” you replied.

He nodded for you to sit. “Might as well start getting acquainted with it now. Make yourself comfortable.”

It was things like this that made him attractive, you reflected. He was funny, but still sensitive. Forward, but never rude.

You and Yuta talked to fill the silence as you both finished your wine. He watched your hands as you carefully set your empty glass on the far side of the bedside table. You watched him watching.

“Well?” You tilted your head. “Are we going to finish getting me acquainted with your bed?”

He grinned, leaning into your space, and kissed you. You’d kissed before, but not like this, and soon he was laying you back against the pillows and hiking your shirt up, teeth and tongue and breath against your skin.

He ate you out, then fucked you nice and rough while you clung to one of his wrists and came twice on his cock. He covered you in hickeys and fingerprint bruises and came moaning your name. You wondered if you had just stumbled into the romance of a lifetime.

Later that night, though, showered and curled up in his bed, you could’ve sworn someone was watching you. It was the faintest of things—just the hair on the back of your neck bristling in alarm after Yuta turned off the lights. You said nothing to him about it, instead just snuggling a little closer. He didn’t seem to mind, and with his arm wrapped around your waist and his forehead brushing yours, you fell asleep.

Your dreams were strange and troubled. You only remembered pieces the next morning, when the warm light flooding into Yuta’s kitchen washed the horror away, leaving you feeling silly. All you could recall was a figure in a white robe, and an overwhelming sense of grief.

But when Yuta asked you how you slept, you said nothing. It was just a bad dream. They happen all the time. It didn’t mean anything at all.

The two of you continued to see each other for the next few months. Sometimes Yuta came over to your place, and sometimes you stayed at his. You didn’t have nightmares every time you slept over, but it was more frequent than what you could call coincidental. You began to wonder if his house was haunted, but ultimately chalked it up to not being good at sleeping in unfamiliar places. You used to have dreams like that when you’d go away to summer camp, so it wasn’t like it was out of character.

You did tell your mother, though. She seemed uneasy—never one to underestimate the power of dreams.

“You’re planning to move in together soon, right?” she asked you.

“Yes, so I don’t think it’ll be a problem for long. It only happens at his place,” you explained. “I’m sure it’s just because I’m not used to sleeping in a bed that isn’t mine. If we move in together, then it won’t happen anymore.”

“Still,” your mother said. “Will you go see my fortune teller? It would make me feel better—before you finalize moving in together and all.”

Hoping to put it all to rest, you took her advice and called the number she gave you to set up an appointment.

The fortune teller was located in a small shop on a street corner a few blocks from your house. The whole place was surprisingly well-lit; the afternoon sunlight streamed through gorgeous floor-to-ceiling windows, nearly blinding you when you turned to close the door behind you.

“[Y/N?]” The fortune-teller called from further within the shop, appearing around a corner. “Hello,” they said. “You may call me Aoi. This way, please.”

You followed them down a short hallway to a sitting room. There were beautiful, lush plants everywhere, and they gestured you to a few comfortable-looking armchairs arranged on one side of a small table, sweeping around the other side to sit in the chair opposite.

You picked the one in the middle, scooting it forward as best you could as they got settled. “Now,” they said. “What can I do for you today?”

“I’ve been having strange dreams,” you explained, feeling somewhat silly. “My mother is worried about me, so she told me to come… seek spiritual advice. She just wants to see how my future looks, I think.”

“Certainly. May I have your hand?” Aoi reached out with both of theirs; you extended your dominant hand, and they enveloped it in their own. Their touch was cool, their skin soft. “Ah,” they said after a moment. “You seem to be a very righteous person—worried about fairness, easily affected by injustices—which, given your line of work, unfortunately have not been scarce.” You were a little startled; it was true that you valued fairness and constantly worried over doing what was right. You liked to think it was how you kept yourself honest when you were surrounded by money-hungry crooks. Aoi blinked at you. “You work in a… fast-paced, male-dominated field, do you not?”

You smiled tentatively. “Yes,” you admitted. “Uh, I’m in finance.”

They nodded. “You should unlearn this. No one in your field values righteousness and virtue.” That’s true, you thought to yourself. Almost everyone in finance is corrupt as hell. “It will not serve you in your romantic life, either,” Aoi continued.

“How?” you asked, curious in spite of yourself.

“It may blind you,” they said simply. “Yes, your romantic life… will be passionate, but tumultuous.” A tremor ran through your body. You were sure Aoi felt it, but they did not comment. “This new love you’ve found—he will be the last love you will ever know.”

“I’m sorry?” you asked. To be fair, you had thought it before—that Yuta checked all your boxes—but you hadn’t wanted to get ahead of yourself. They’re just saying it, you thought to yourself. It doesn’t necessarily mean anything.

Aoi hummed to themself softly, then gasped and nearly dropped your hand. “I’m sorry,” they said quickly. “Your future is very… cloudy. I can’t see very far—only a few years ahead, and then… Nothing.”

It did make you tense up a little, though you tried to stay calm. “Ah,” you said with a nervous laugh. “Does that mean I’m going to die soon?”

Aoi narrowed their eyes, shaking their head slowly. “Maybe,” they said, which was not reassuring in the slightest. “Maybe not. Sometimes, it simply means there are so many moving pieces now that it’s difficult to tell.”

“Does it happen often—that you cannot see far into someone’s future?” You fought to keep derision and skepticism out of your tone.

Aoi must have detected it, anyway. Their eyes flashed. “No,” they said, somewhat sharply. “It is not common. I do not say this to scare you, or to try to scam you into coming back frequently for more readings or advice. I am simply telling you what I see.”

“Right,” you replied, feeling chastised somehow. “So… okay, then when will I know? Like, where does it cut off—if I do come back, when should I?”

Aoi was silent for a minute. “You will experience great turmoil within the next year. It will last for many months. You will be faced with a difficult decision.” Their voice had gained some odd quality to it that made you listen more intently. “You cannot play both sides. Make your choice quickly, and move on, one way or another. When the past no longer haunts you, when it walks free, your path will be set.”

They released your hand. “I—that’s it?” you asked.

“That’s all I can see,” Aoi replied.

Feeling shaken, you got to your feet. “Um—is there some kind of… protective, like, talisman or something that could help me?” You felt strange asking for it, but despite your own skepticism, you couldn’t help but worry about what was to come if Aoi was right.

But Aoi shook their head. “There is nothing I can sell you that can protect you from your future,” they said. “You are smart, strong of heart and of will. Those traits will be your best defense.”

“Right,” you said again, not sure how else to reply. They led you to the door. “Um, thank you.” You smiled politely at them as you reached for the handle.

“You’re welcome.” They did not return your smile; instead, they watched you with an intense sort of curiosity. It wasn’t until you got home that you realized they also looked a little sad.

‧͙⁺˚*･༓☾　✧　☽༓･*˚⁺‧͙

You weren’t a particularly superstitious person. You had a healthy fear of ghosts and the supernatural, but you didn’t subscribe to any specific rituals or a system of beliefs. Your fear stemmed less from a place of concrete knowledge that such things existed, and more from a “cover all my bases” sort of viewpoint—that they could be real, and you’d rather not risk it.

Still, your uneasiness followed you like a cloud for days after your meeting with the fortune teller. You did not tell your mother all of what they said; she didn’t seem to believe you, but eventually let you be about it.

After another month, you and Yuta started house-hunting. It was difficult at first—no place was good enough, and you turned all the choices over in your mind every night before you slept. You were getting impatient with the things Yuta was being picky about, and you could tell that he was getting impatient with you about the same thing. Fall had become winter, and still you were searching. The gloomy weather didn’t help.

But in early spring, you found a beautiful place nestled deep in a suburban neighborhood. It had natural wood finishes, two stories, and an expansive backyard. You began the moving process quickly, packing while the sale was finalized. Your contract was almost up at your old place, and Yuta was planning to rent his house. You were curious to know if the new tenants would have the same disturbances you had.

You moved everything in on the first day of May. You had just gotten the last box safely inside your front door when it began to rain, furiously.

“The sky waited for us,” Yuta said, grinning as he locked your front door and waded through a sea of boxes and furniture to where you were standing in the doorway of your kitchen. “I think we made the right choice.”

“I think so, too,” you agreed. The unease rustled in the back of your mind, but you really believed it. You opened your arms and Yuta fell into them, kissing you sweetly.

“What do you say we set up our bed,” Yuta said, “and order takeout?”

“Sounds like a good plan to me,” you replied.

The bed didn’t take long; you and Yuta were both pretty handy, so the frame was soon assembled, and the mattress dragged up the stairs and heaved atop it, then the sheets and pillows all tucked into place. Everything else in the house was somehow simultaneously bare and a mess, but you had a bed, and clean towels hanging in the bathroom, and food on the way. Things were good.

After dinner, Yuta unpacked a speaker so you could play a little music. He put on an oldies station and took your hand. Neither of you knew anything about ballroom dancing, but you did your best, holding each other as you swayed back and forth in your new bedroom. You watched out the window when you were facing it, the one that looked out onto the street. The soft orange glow from your neighbors’ windows warmed you as the music swelled.

I'm in the mood for love

Simply because you're near me

Funny but when you're near me

I'm in the mood for love

Heaven is in your eyes

Bright as the stars we're under

Oh, is it any wonder

I'm in the mood for love...

After a while, Yuta decided it was time to shower and start making your way towards bed. Once you were both clean, he pulled you onto the mattress. Since you were both freshly showered, there were no clothes in the way, just skin on skin and Yuta’s fingers everywhere as he bit kisses into your neck and jaw.

What was I so worried about? you wondered to yourself. Everything is fine. We left that haunted house behind, and now we’ll have each other, probably for the rest of our lives. Maybe the tumult was just choosing a house. And now the past is behind us. Maybe it’s already over.

You felt Yuta’s tongue on you, and you didn’t think about much else for a while after that.

That night, though, you had the most vivid dream yet. This time, you were sure it was a woman who visited you, in a stained white kimono. Her hair was long and black and wild, and she reached out to you, like she was begging. Her fingernails were ragged and raw, and worse, there was a rough, bloody scar around her neck. Ribbons, the same blinding white as her robes, fluttered behind her. The longest one was looped loosely, draped over her shoulders. She was crying, though you got the impression that it was just as much in rage as it was in grief.

“What do you want?” you called out sharply.

“Like me,” she cried. “You will end up like me.”

You woke earlier than you normally do, heart pounding. Yuta was still peacefully asleep beside you, and the morning sunlight was peeking in through your blinds. I’m fine, you thought. Just getting settled.

But as you turned your head, you thought you saw something white retreat down the hall.

You decided it was just a trick of the light when you kept watching for it and nothing came. Just tired, you thought, rolling over and closing your eyes again. It’s not real. But you couldn’t fall back to sleep.

You tried to convince yourself you were overreacting, or that it was just part of the adjustment period. But you dreamed about her every night. She didn’t seem to be angry with you exactly, but she scared you all the same. And she wouldn’t leave you alone.

Over the course of the next week or so, you found yourself becoming increasingly irritable and jumpy. You weren’t sleeping well, which didn’t help; frequently, you would have trouble falling asleep, and then your dreams would wake you very early in the morning. You were too scared to leave the safety of your bed, finding small comfort in Yuta’s presence at your side, but also too scared to go back to sleep. You would wait for the morning to come, heart still hammering in your chest.

You didn’t want to worry Yuta. You certainly didn’t want to tell him about your appointment with the fortune teller. And besides, you were too busy moving in and setting everything up. Most days after work, you’d unpack while Yuta worked on the yard. You only saw each other for dinner. But as your second week in your new house drew to a close, and there didn’t seem to be any improvement, you knew you had to say something. At the very least, he’d be able to reassure you.

“Yuta,” you said one night over dinner. “I have something… rather odd to tell you.”

He put down his chopsticks, giving you a worried look. “Ah, okay.”

“I’ve been having nightmares,” you began. “I mean, every time I slept at your old place, I would have really weird dreams. And I thought maybe it was just because I wasn’t used to sleeping in a bed that wasn’t mine, or—I don’t know, maybe that house just had bad vibes, right? But the dreams followed me here—and they’re getting worse. And I—I don’t know what to do.”

To your surprise, he didn’t say you were being silly, or tell you to try a sleep aid or to go see a doctor. Instead, he creased his brows in a gentle, probing frown. “I see,” he said slowly. “And what are the dreams about?”

“Um, a young woman in a white robe,” you replied. “She’s… always crying. And she has this bloody scar on her neck. And she keeps, like, trying to warn me about something. I think she’s a ghost, maybe.”

Yuta nodded. “Ah… I don’t know how to say this without scaring you,” he said. “Ghosts… tend to follow me. This ghost, in particular, has been a frequent visitor. I was wondering if she had begun to bother you.”

It was not the answer you were expecting at all. “Then—I mean, okay. What should we do?”

“I’ve been meaning to set up some offerings and wards around the house,” Yuta said. “I think if we can satisfy her, she will leave us alone. I’m… sorry that you’ve had to deal with that. It’s not your fault.”

“Is she dangerous?” you asked.

“No, I don’t think so,” Yuta said. “I’ve never been harmed by a ghost, even a particularly powerful one like her. In any case, I never see her when I’m awake. If we had an apparition walking around, that would be a different story.”

“What do you think she wants?” you asked, deciding to just dive in headfirst. Sure, you thought, ghosts. Spirits only stay if they have something they need, right?

“I think she blames me for her death,” Yuta said quietly.

“I’m sorry, what?” you asked. “What do you mean?”

“I didn’t kill her,” Yuta said quickly, offering you a smile that you didn’t feel like you could return. “She died by suicide.”

“You can’t just say things like that,” you said, shaking your head. “So—what, do you know why she blames you?”

The smile dropped off of Yuta’s face. “I… don’t really know how to explain.”

“Right, but if you’re maybe a murderer, I would like to know,” you replied, only half-joking.

“I am not a murderer, [Y/N],” Yuta said. He sounded kind of sad. “It’s difficult to talk about, still. Will you believe me for now? I did not harm her, and I will not harm you. When we’ve dealt with her spirit and she is resting, I will do my best to tell you everything, alright?”

It worried you, but you didn’t really see how you could say no. Yuta had never hurt you; he had never once shown any signs of violence or malicious intent. He was a good man. “Okay,” you agreed after a moment. “I’ll trust you.”

“Thank you,” he said, reaching out for your hand. You took it, and he gave it a squeeze. “Hey,” he said. “I love you. Okay?”

“Love you, too,” you murmured. This is Yuta, you reminded yourself. My Yuta, the man who I’ll probably marry. He’s been nothing but wonderful to me. If he doesn’t want to talk about it, he probably has a good reason. It probably just makes him sad. It’s not your history to revisit.

He will be the last love you ever know, Aoi’s voice repeated in your head.

‧͙⁺˚*·༓☾　✧　☽༓·*˚⁺‧͙

You left out offerings, hung lucky charms in every doorway and window, had a Buddhist monk come to cleanse and bless the house. Still, the dreams persisted. You only mentioned them when Yuta asked—it wasn’t like they were his fault.

They didn’t just persist, though. They grew worse; they changed. The landscape around you became more defined; you were in an unfamiliar backyard, sitting on a decorative stone. She would come out of the back door of an unfamiliar house and cross to you. Sometimes, it was hard for you to hear what she said. Or maybe when you woke, you just couldn’t remember. But slowly, it began to come together.

“We are not unalike,” she told you.

“What makes you say that?” you asked.

“I was loved by Yuta once, too,” she said.

For some reason, this information didn’t really shock you. “He says you blame him for your death,” you said. “Why?”

“He loved me and then ruined me, and he will do it to you, too,” she replied.

“No, he won’t,” you argued fiercely. “He is a good man. He loves me.”

“I thought the same thing,” she said harshly. “He killed me, [Y/N].” You didn’t ask how she knew your name. “He will kill you, too.”

You woke to your alarm, t-shirt damp with your sweat.

When you got home from work that day, Yuta was still at the office. You sat down at your laptop and opened a private browser. After debating for a moment, you finally typed Nakamoto Yuta into the search bar.

Dozens of articles popped up. You could hardly believe your eyes as you began to read.

Young woman found dead in parents’ home; fiancé found innocent, death ruled a suicide.

Suicide victim dubbed ‘White Lady’ for the long white robe in which she was found dead.

Nakamoto Yuta, fiancé of the White Lady, speaks out about the importance of mental healthcare.

Six Months Later: What We Learned from the White Lady Case

You clicked the last one, tapping your fingers against your desk absentmindedly as you waited for it to load.

Three months ago today, Ueta Kuriko was found dead in her parents’ home. Her mother called 119 immediately, but first responders guessed she had been dead for hours before her mother found her. She was twenty-three.

Though she appeared to have hanged herself from the ceiling in her parents’ basement, suspicions immediately fell on her fiancé, Nakamoto Yuta. Nakamoto was in a different city on business at the time; though he and Ueta had a house of their own, Ueta had gone to stay with her parents during his absence. Nakamoto was quickly cleared; he had not been in the surrounding area in the days leading up to her death, and Ueta’s parents personally vouched for his character, stating that Ueta’s suicide was not wholly unexpected.

“Kuriko had been troubled for years,” Ueta’s mother shared. “She had experienced some difficult situations when she was in university. Yuta has been by her side since high school. I think he may have been the only reason she kept going—because they loved each other. I feel ashamed that I didn’t think to keep a closer eye on her when he was gone. In some ways, I feel I have failed as a mother.”

Nakamoto was quick to refute her last sentiment. “If Kuriko’s parents are responsible for her death, then I am as well,” he said. “We should have done more to support her. I just didn’t know how. I wanted her to be happy, but I didn’t know what to do. I loved her more than anything, but sometimes that’s not enough.”

All of the couple’s friends said neither of them had once reported trouble in their relationship. “Sure,” one source said, “they had small fights here and there, like all couples do. But it was never anything serious, and they always solved their problems calmly and quickly, together.”

The couple had spent the week before Nakamoto left on his business trip planning their wedding.

Despite testimony from family and friends, and a thorough investigation from national police that declared Nakamoto innocent, many sided against him. Online forums became flooded with calls for justice and claims that the investigation had been, in some way, botched. Nakamoto mostly withdrew from the public eye for a few months, appearing only to attend talks and charity events for the benefit of mental wellbeing institutions.

Gradually, the tide changed. People began to realize that they had been too harsh. Nakamoto was not a villain. He was a grieving man who had just lost the love of his life. A mob’s mentality can be vicious, and often misguided. A case like this one, sensationalized in the news and played out on live television, can certainly be gripping. But in our eagerness to uncover the truth and see justice served, or perhaps simply in search of easy entertainment, we forget that this is not just a story. Real people lived the headlines; real lives were lost. Instead of becoming armchair sleuths, we might have better served ourselves, and each other, by trying to see what we could learn from this tragedy.

And now, it seems we may finally have done just that. New mental crisis clinics have popped up in the surrounding area. There is even one downtown named Kuriko’s Haven, in memory of the White Lady. The Ueta family tells us they are gratified by the community’s response.

When I reached out to Nakamoto to ask if he had anything to add, he simply replied, “No. The press has profited enough off of Kuriko’s story. I only ask that you let her rest in peace.”

You sat back at your desk, shock making your whole body feel cold. Your head spun. The police found nothing—no evidence of his involvement, nothing to suggest he was guilty in any way. And yet, the woman in your dream—Kuriko—seemed adamant that Yuta bore the responsibility for her death.

I am not a murderer, Yuta had said. I did not harm her, and I will not harm you. Could he have been lying? Did you only believe him because you wanted to?

You waited for him at the kitchen table. He arrived home less than an hour later, and drew up short in the doorway when he saw you sitting alone.

“[Y/N]?” Yuta asked, unsure. “Are you alright?”

“Will you sit, please?” you asked, not looking up at him.

He sat. He seemed to almost reach out to you before thinking better of it. “What is it?”

“I Googled you today,” you said, and he let out a long sigh. “I’m sure you know what I found.” You looked up at him then; he was looking back, brows knit. “She was your fiancé, Yuta.”

“Yes,” he said quietly.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I—I didn’t think it would matter. She’s dead. You never knew her.”

“It feels like something that should’ve come up in conversation before you asked me to move in together,” you bit out.

“I didn’t know how to bring it up,” he said.

“I don’t care if it’s hard to talk about,” you replied. “I had a right to know.”

“I didn’t kill her,” Yuta said. To his credit, he didn’t flounder to produce evidence he knew you already read. He held your gaze.

“Then why does she say you did?” you asked. “I know you said you would explain when it was all over. But we tried your way, and it didn’t work. I’m still having dreams, and I know you feel her presence too. It isn’t because I’m jealous of your relationship. I don’t care. I just want to sleep through the night. I need to know everything if we’re going to move on.”

“I know,” Yuta said quietly. “Okay.” He settled back into his chair, thinking for a moment. “Kuriko was… a very sad person. I loved her a lot, and I did what I could to support her, but I think sometimes it was difficult for her to understand me. It was worse because when we first met, she was bright and happy. We started dating in high school, and went to university together. She… was my first love. But…” His face darkened. “University was difficult for her. I watched her mental state deteriorate over the years. I hoped after we graduated, maybe, things would be better.

“She became somewhat paranoid, I suppose. She didn’t work, which was fine—I was making enough for the both of us. But she didn’t really have friends, and because of that she never really left the house,” Yuta continued. “I usually did the shopping. Which, again, was fine with me. I didn’t mind. It was just that I think it left her feeling a little stifled. And I had… a life, you know, outside of our house. And she sort of didn’t. She began to worry if I was truly dedicated to her. She never accused me of cheating outright, but I have a feeling she was thinking of it.”

He shook his head. “The few friends she did have, they checked on her from time to time. But she wanted them to think that everything was fine, so she didn’t mention anything to them, and she forbade me from mentioning any troubles to anyone else as well. I didn’t want to upset her, so I agreed. She even lied to her parents. But—I’d known her parents since I was a teenager, you know? So I did tell them I was worried for her. They told me they were worried too.

“I moved up in my career, and started having to go on business trips. Usually they were only a day or two, but I knew they worried Kuriko. Many times I asked if she wanted to stay with her parents while I was away, but she didn’t want to bother them. She didn’t want to come with me, either. Then…” He pressed his lips together. “Then I had to be gone for a week. I insisted she stay with her parents. I knew I would be far too worried about her, alone in our house for that long. So she went. And… that’s when it happened.”

He didn’t sound like a liar, or a murderer. He sounded sad and sincere. You couldn’t help but feel sorry for bringing it up. “I’m sure it was difficult. Not just—I mean, the whole time.”

“Yes,” Yuta admitted. “I considered leaving her a couple times. But I couldn’t do it. I loved her, and besides, I was afraid of what she might do—not to me, but to herself—if I did. But,” he sighed, “it happened anyway. I always wonder… what might have happened if I’d done something differently.”

There were tears misting his eyes, and your guilt grew. “I’m sorry to make you talk about it,” you said. “But it’s not fair to leave me in the dark. If I am supposed to be a part of your life—and I want to be—I need to know.”

He nodded. “I know,” he said quietly. “You’re right. I should have told you. I’m sorry.”

You heaved out a big breath, regarding him. After the silence stretched on for a few minutes, you finally pushed yourself to your feet. “It’s getting late,” you said. “I’ll heat up the leftovers.”

He caught your wrist as you passed. “I am sorry,” he repeated. “I didn’t—I never wanted you to have to worry like this.”

Yuta, you thought, looking down at him. Sweet Yuta, my Yuta. “I don’t blame you,” you said. “At least now you’ve told me the truth. It’s alright.” You brought your hand up to his cheek. “I meant it, that I want to be part of your life. Not every part will be easy. I know that. I know that, and I still want it. Okay?”

He nodded, looking at you gratefully, then stood. “Okay. Here, you get the leftovers out. I’ll open some wine. I think we need it.”

You smiled, watching him meander over to your wine rack. “Hey,” you said. He paused, turning. “I love you.”

He smiled back, warmth returning to his eyes. “I love you, too.”

‧͙⁺˚*·༓☾　✧　☽༓·*˚⁺‧͙

For a week or so, the dreams stopped. You slept peacefully, and woke without dread lingering in your mind. You wanted to be hopeful, but you didn’t think Kuriko’s ghost would give in so easily.

You were right. One night, the dreams came back, but they were not the same. Instead of being visited by Kuriko, she showed you what seemed to be pieces of memories. You watched through her eyes, feeling everything she felt, as her world turned dark and cold around her.

Yuta dated her in high school but she always felt like it was because she was beautiful and popular and not because he actually liked her. Still, she loved Yuta. He was cool and funny and handsome. In her teenage eyes, he put the stars in the sky. She convinced herself he was the best she could ever have.

University was fine until her sophomore year. Her roommate, her good friend, was killed halfway through the year. Her murderer was arrested, but it didn’t make Kuriko feel any better. Her mental health declined and stayed low. Her relationship with Yuta flatlined because she didn’t have the energy to even take care of herself, let alone anybody else. He withdrew; she knew he resented her. This was not the girl he signed up to love. He would barely speak to her for days, only to come back and tell her he still loved her.

“You’re the only one for me,” he said. “I love you. Please don’t be sad.” On these days, he would care for her—he helped her clean her room, do her homework, made sure she got something to eat, and hope would blossom in her chest all over again. But then something would go wrong and he would disappear again.

But she couldn’t give him up. She knew she didn’t deserve any of the care he gave her, however scarce. Who will love you, if not me? Yuta’s voice asked in her head. And so she stayed.

After they graduated, Yuta insisted they move in together. He said he worried about her living on her own, and besides, they’d been dating for years. It would be silly not to. With no other real option, Kuriko agreed. When he proposed, she said yes. And she stayed there in their house until its walls were all she knew.

“[Y/N].” Yuta’s voice, sounding worried. “Hey, wake up.”

You gasped, catching his wrist with your hand as you wrenched your eyes open. For a moment, you were still Kuriko, and he was the Yuta in the dream that had belittled you and lied and trapped you inside that house alone, and you shoved him away, hard, trying not to scream.

But then you returned to yourself, and the anger was gone. Suddenly, you were cold, even though you could feel a layer of sticky sweat on your skin. Yuta was hovering a few feet away, looking shocked, one knee on the mattress.

Tears filled your eyes as your heartbeat slowed. “I,” you gasped. “I’m sorry.” And then you were crying—big, ugly sobs, curling over yourself and burying your face in the duvet. I thought it was over, you thought miserably. I wanted it to be over. How much longer do I have to endure it? How can I decide who is right? Yuta wouldn’t lie to me. Would he?

Yuta had not touched you, but he remained nearby, concern coloring his tone. “[Y/N], what is it?” But you had a feeling he knew—at least, he knew that the dreams hadn’t gone away. There was hurt in his voice, too—“I’m sorry,” he said, sounding helpless. “It’s not fair. It should be my sleep she disturbs, not yours. I’m sorry you have to suffer because of it.”

You raised your head. He wouldn’t lie to me. Kuriko must be jealous and trying to mislead me, or else mistaken. He would never do anything like that. You held out your arms to him, and he collapsed into him, face painted with relief.

“They’re getting worse,” you whispered, and Yuta rubbed your back, holding you tighter.

“I’m sorry,” he repeated. “[Y/N], baby, I’m so sorry.”

But that was the thing—in his arms, you felt safe. This man would never hurt you. He loved you. Kuriko’s hatred, her fear, her anger, they were all faint in your mind now. You hid your face in his neck. “I’m scared, Yuta. She’s gotten inside my head.”

Yuta pulled away just a bit so he could look at you and wipe away your tears. His eyes were earnest. “If you—if it’s too much, and you want to leave me,” he whispered. “I understand, okay? But I want to get through this together. You make me so happy. Even now.” He was cupping your jaw with both hands, holding your head up. “Even now, I am glad I have you.”

You shook your head. “I don’t want to leave you,” you said. “I think she would follow me anyway.” You sighed, realizing now that the room was still quite dark aside from the small nightlight in the corner. “What time is it?”

“A little past three,” Yuta murmured. “You were talking in your sleep.”

“I woke you,” you said, feeling guilty. “I’m sorry.”

“No, that’s alright.” He smoothed down some of your hair. His eyes were distant, troubled.

“Why has she latched on to me?” you asked. “Was she haunting you before?”

Yuta shook his head. “Not… directly. Not like this. I would get dreams from her occasionally, but nothing like this.”

“Then… why now?” you asked. If she was so hateful, so bent on revenge, why wait?

“I think…” Yuta trailed off. “I think she knows it would be worse this way. For me to watch her torture someone I love, like…”

“Like?”

But he didn’t reply. “I don’t think I’ll be able to sleep. Do you want to come downstairs with me to make some tea? Let’s both call out of work in the morning. We’ll be too tired to focus, anyway.”

You agreed, letting it go. As Yuta flicked on the light, you thought you saw the hem of a white robe disappear around the corner of the doorway. For a moment, the ember of doubt in your mind glowed a little brighter.

He killed me, [Y/N]. He will kill you, too.

‧͙⁺˚*·༓☾　✧　☽༓·*˚⁺‧͙

The dreams did not stop. They came in nonsensical, jagged puzzle pieces. It was like Kuriko was getting desperate. She was trying to tell you something. There was something she needed you to see. But in her desperation, nothing made sense. Scenes flashed through your mind. It was less visceral this way, less terrifying. But it made you dizzy. Often, when you woke, you had to stumble to the bathroom, heaving into the toilet, relying on the coolness of the tiles to ground you. Not real. None of it was real.

But the dreams did not stop. You remembered only flashes. A white sash tied around an ankle, discolored from use. A locked door. Bars over a window, bolted shut. Resounding silence, emptiness that seemed to never end.

The scene changed. You were standing in a dim hallway, listening to voices coming from a kitchen you almost recognized.

“…don’t know how we’ll repay his kindness,” a woman was saying.

“He loves her,” a man replied. “He’s choosing it. I’m just glad she has him.”

You took a step forward, and then another. There was something you needed to tell them, but you hesitated.

“It isn’t his job to fix her,” the woman said. “I don’t know what happened to my little girl, but this isn’t her. The girl he fell in love with is gone. I almost wonder if it’s cruel to hope he continues to stay.”

Whatever you needed to say escaped you. It wouldn’t do any good anyway. You tightened your fingers around the carefully-folded sash, turning and heading back down the hall, to the stairs that led to the basement.

You woke to a dark room. Me, you said to yourself. Not me-as-Kuriko. Me. This is real. You looked over at Yuta, sleeping quietly beside you. You weren’t as nauseous this time, but you slipped out of bed anyway, padding into the bathroom. The moonlight shone cold through the window; it was dim, but enough to make out your reflection in the mirror as you passed.

The sash was important. Why was it tied around her ankle? Was it her ankle? Why did she have it at the other house? Had those been her parents’ voices?

You studied your reflection in the mirror, the light and shadows playing tricks on your eyes. You hardly recognized your own face. You tilted your chin up, lips parting slightly. The air felt stale on your tongue. Almost involuntarily, you brought your fingers to your neck.

When you woke next, you were back in bed. You didn’t remember returning. Yuta was gone, his side already cold, but you could hear him rustling around in the kitchen downstairs. Bright summer sunlight streamed in through the cracks in the blinds.

You sat up slowly. Your body hurt, like after a hard workout. You stretched, and a figure in the corner caught your eye.

It was Kuriko, white kimono hanging from her shoulders, bare feet making no noise as she paced across the hardwood. And around her neck, the bloody scar you had grown so accustomed to, it hardly scared you.

Not real, you told yourself, too frightened to close your eyes. But Yuta was still moving about downstairs; you could hear the clang of metal as he placed a pan on the stove. You wanted to scream—he would come running, and then you would be safe—but you couldn’t. Not real, you repeated. Sleep paralysis, maybe.

But you weren’t paralyzed. Kuriko moved towards the bed, and you scrambled out of it, backing against the wall. Dreaming, you tried to convince yourself. I’m just dreaming. Yuta is here; I am safe and I am dreaming.

“Wrong,” Kuriko said quietly. “Wrong both times. This is not a dream, [Y/N]. And you are not safe here. You will never be safe with him.”

“Stop it,” you said. “Stay back.”

But she wasn’t walking to you, you realized. She was studying the bed, where you had been lying just moments before. Her ribbons settled behind her. “He still takes the right side,” Kuriko mused. Her image flickered for a moment, and she gave an irritated sigh. It was the calmest you’d seen her, and that scared you worse than the wild anger. She reached out to ghost a hand over his pillow. You expected her to leave rust-red fingerprints behind from where her nailbeds bled, but the pillows stayed a pristine blue. “Interesting, the blue sheets. When we lived together, he liked white.”

She moved her attention to the headboard. “Nowhere to tie anything,” she remarked of the flat surface. Was it distaste in her tone, disappointment? “But he set up the room the same. Except our closet was to the inner wall.” She pointed to the bathroom door, left ajar. “And the bathroom on the other side. I remember. It always got tangled around the legs of the bed if I wasn’t careful.” She looked up. “When he buys you a rope, will that be blue, too?” Without waiting for your answer, she shook her head. “No, rope is not the word. Leash. For when the madness makes you an animal and he fears letting you roam free when he is not here to watch you.”

“Yuta wouldn’t do that. And I am not mad.” Your voice trembled. “Leave me alone. Get out of my house.”

“Hm.” Kuriko looked up at you. “Aren’t you?”

You blinked, and she was gone. Your bed was how you left it, sheets crumpled.

You wanted to tear the blinds open, let the light purge her presence. But you felt weak, and your legs gave out beneath you. You sank to the floor, still shaking, hid your face in your hands, and cried.

‧͙⁺˚*·༓☾　✧　☽༓·*˚⁺‧͙

You didn’t bring it up to Yuta at first. You didn’t know why—maybe you wanted to pretend it didn’t happen. Maybe you were hoping it was a dream. Maybe you feared that Kuriko was not lying. If her version of events was the truth, you didn’t want Yuta to know you knew.

But the dreams still did not stop. Kuriko sent you the same scenes—days spent alone, tethered to the bed while Yuta was away. A sort of hazy madness taking hold. And grief, for her dead roommate. Every time you tried to get control and turn toward it, Kuriko whisked you away. She showed you Yuta—images of his eyes, cold like you had never seen them, the touch of his hands, harsh like you had never felt them.

She visited you in the day, too. Sometimes it was just the flash of things—a white specter, gone as quick as it came. Other times, usually when you were home alone, she would talk to you. Sometimes, like the first time, she would goad you. She was quiet and terrifying then. Other times, she would demand her revenge from you.

“You are the only person who seems to think he has done some wrong,” you insisted. “I cannot believe he would harm you like that.”

“You will be sorry,” she snarled, but you found out long ago that all she could do was pace. When she tried to touch you, some force held her back. You weren’t sure what it was, but it seemed enough to dissuade her from attempting assault. “It will happen to you. It is only a matter of time.”

“I must believe him,” you replied. “I do believe him.”

“Why? Because that hack seer told you he would be the last person you love?” Kuriko laughed wildly. “Do you believe your fate to be immutable? Don’t you wonder if your fear of your fate will be what cements it in reality?”

“How do you know about Aoi?” In truth, you had thought often of their words in the past few weeks. You were making your choice. You chose Yuta.

Is that why you won’t tell him about these visits? a voice in your head asked. You weren’t sure if the voice sounded more similar to Kuriko’s or your own.

“How do I know?” Kuriko asked. She laughed, but stopped when she heard the sound of a key in the lock of your front door. “I’m in your head, [Y/N]. How could I not know?”

She disappeared as you heard the front door open. You turned to the stove to see your pot nearly boiling over.

“[Y/N]? Sorry I’m late. Is someone here?” Yuta called from down the hall.

You turned the stove off, looking at the space Kuriko had just been standing in. “No,” you replied. “Just me.”

“Huh,” Yuta said. He appeared in the doorway, wearing a bemused expression. “I thought I heard voices.”

You thought maybe, if you kept refusing to help her, eventually Kuriko would give up. But the problem with ghosts was that they had little else to do day to day. Kuriko would not simply grow bored of you and find a new purpose. This was her only purpose.

It didn’t matter if you slept or stayed awake. It didn’t matter if you knocked yourself out with a sleep aid or exhausted yourself in the hopes that you would not dream. Kuriko found you anyway. She seemed to be growing more insistent, stronger. You began to worry that whatever barrier stopped her from touching you soon would not be enough to hold her back.

In the end, it was Yuta who brought it up first. “I know you’re not sleeping well still,” he said. “What do you dream?”

“It’s not just dreams now,” you admitted. “I see her in the day. She comes to taunt me, to beg me to listen.” You told him all the things she claimed he did to her, explained the memories she showed you. “I can’t imagine that to be true. And what happened to her roommate?”

Yuta’s face crumpled. He was silent for a moment; you could see his mind working. “I have been keeping something from you, still,” he said at last. “I wasn’t sure but—if she is appearing when you are awake, then I don’t think I am mistaken. [Y/N], do you know the Japanese belief in the existence of the onryō?”

You nodded. “A fearsome ghost, a vengeful spirit. You think that Kuriko—?”

“Yes,” Yuta said heavily. “Onryō are made from the spirits of those who died violently or wrongfully. Murder and suicide victims are among the most common. If there is deep resentment, their spirit remains behind, hounding those they believe are responsible for the terrible nature of their deaths until they are satisfied. Some are more easily appeased than others. For some—like Kuriko—the request is impossible because they are wrong.”

“You sound like you’re speaking from experience,” you said.

“I am,” he replied. “I have seen it once before. Kuriko’s roommate, she was killed by another university student one night. He drugged her, raped her, suffocated her to death. She blamed Kuriko for her death. They attended a party together that night, but when Kuriko couldn’t find her after she wanted to leave, she assumed she had found a guy to sleep with and left on her own. It had happened before.”

“She couldn’t have known,” you protested.

“No,” Yuta agreed, “she couldn’t. But her roommate blamed her anyway. Kuriko had been the one to step up first to help with investigations, which eventually led to the murderer being caught, tried, and sentenced. But it wasn’t enough. Her roommate said Kuriko should have stayed to look. She should have made sure she was alright before leaving. She seemed to think it was only fair that Kuriko died with her.

“Kuriko spiraled deeper and deeper into her depression, her guilt, her insanity. She turned her anger on me. She said I was to blame, because I had told her to hurry home that night. I did my best to help her. She convinced herself that I did not care for her. She convinced herself of a lot of things. Or…” Yuta sighed. “Or her roommate’s spirit convinced her. I watched as the insanity took her. I did everything I could, but I didn’t know how to fight that.” He stretched a hand out to you, and you took it. “I did not do any of those things she showed you. She lost herself, [Y/N]. I hoped desperately that I could save her. She was my first love.”

“I know,” you said. The weight of his story sat heavily with you. Kuriko’s sudden and steep depression made sense now, and with your understanding came sympathy.

“I don’t want to see the same thing happen to you,” Yuta said quietly.

“I am not her,” you insisted. “I believe you, Yuta. I know you couldn’t have done those things.”

“Thank you. You can’t go on like this, though,” Yuta said. “It’ll wear you down.”

You shook your head. “We’ll manage it. If there’s no hope for her, then maybe she will leave. It’s worth it to me. Is it worth it to you?”

Yuta looked uneasy, but he nodded. “Of course it is. I love you,” he said.

You let him convince you. You were on the same side, after all. “I love you, too.” You offered him a brave smile. At least you knew what you were dealing with. “I’ll be fine.”

That night, Kuriko approached you in a dream. It had been a while since you’d seen her when you were asleep. “You won’t leave me alone even if I leave him now,” you said. “So what is it you want?”

“I want people to know what he did,” Kuriko said.

“But he didn’t do anything,” you said. “And—neither did you.” She was silent. “Yuta told me about your roommate. I understand why you never showed me those memories. I’m sorry about what happened to her. It wasn’t your fault, though.”

“Yes, it was,” she said bitterly.

“No, it wasn’t.” You watched her, the anger there, the turmoil, the despair. “Don’t you want to rest?” you asked her.

She turned her eyes on you, and you saw tears there. “I can’t,” she wailed, leaning towards you. You flinched back. “I can’t, not until—”

Her fingers closed around your throat and you woke to a dark and silent bedroom. You laid in bed awake until morning.

‧͙⁺˚*·༓☾　✧　☽༓·*˚⁺‧͙‧͙

She left you alone for a couple of nights after that. You had a feeling she hadn’t been very happy with how your conversation had gone. And then one night, Yuta was home early. He cooked a whole feast for you, broke out expensive wine. And when he brought out dessert, he also brought out a ring.

“I’ve never known anyone braver,” he said. “I know it’s not really a romantic time, but I’ve made up my mind about you. It’s you I want. I know this all has been because of me. But I won’t abandon you now. Will you marry me?”

It was sweet in its own tragic way. And it filled you with hope. “Yes, Yuta,” you said softly, offering your hand so he could slip the ring onto your fourth finger.

“Together,” he said. “We will fix it together.”

That night, you waited for Kuriko to come to you. You were in the backyard you had found yourself in the first time you remembered seeing her. You stood tall. You remembered what you said a few nights before. If there is no hope for her, then maybe she will leave. You hoped you were right.

Kuriko came. You imagined she couldn’t help herself, drawn to the love she and Yuta might have had for one another.

“It’s over,” you told her softly. “I’m sorry, but you will get no satisfaction here.”

“He will pay,” she said angrily. “And you along with him.”

“You have no power here,” you told her. “You have disrupted my life long enough. You will never convince me to help you. I’m sorry for the way your life ended. I’m sorry you felt alone. I am demanding now you leave me be. Leave the living to live. You deserve rest.”

“I hate you,” Kuriko said venomously, but after a moment she spun on her heel and walked back towards the house. As you watched her go, you realized that her robes seemed much cleaner. The tattered ribbons that usually billowed behind her were gone.

The back door shut sharply. You stayed for a moment, then turned and walked away. As the world around you dissolved into another dream, you remember what she said in the kitchen a couple of weeks ago, when you asked how she knew about Aoi.

I am in your head, [Y/N]. How could I not know?

But it was over now. She had left your head at your request.

When you woke you thought of the lack of ribbons. Was that what Aoi meant by when it walks free? Maybe things would finally be peaceful.

‧͙⁺˚*･༓☾　✧　☽༓･*˚⁺‧͙

Things were peaceful, for a while. For three weeks, you dreamed normal dreams. No ghosts visited you, awake or asleep. Your life was simple, easy, full of love. You told Yuta about your confrontation with Kuriko and he seemed to agree that it was all over. You thought of calling Aoi, but figured you’d get around to it soon. For the first time in about a year, your future felt clear to you. You and Yuta would grow old together, and your nightmares would remain nightmares, nothing more.

On the one year anniversary of the two of you moving into that house, you woke up in the doorway of your bedroom. You were holding a glass of water. You were not known to sleepwalk—or sleep-anything. You didn’t even really snore, as far as you knew.

Without knowing what to do, you set the glass down on your bedside table and fell back into an uneasy sleep.

You mentioned it to Yuta the next morning over breakfast. “I think I sleepwalked last night,” you said. “I don’t know—I don’t remember what I dreamt. I just woke up at the door of our bedroom with a glass of water, which means I must’ve come down to the kitchen.”

Yuta frowned. “Huh. Well, I’m glad you didn’t hurt yourself. Did you sleepwalk as a kid?”

“No,” you said. “Not that I remember.”

“Well, maybe it was a one-time thing.” He paused to kiss the top of your head as he passed by your chair. “If it keeps happening, though, you should probably go talk to a doctor.” He noticed your expression. “Don’t worry,” he said. “I imagine your brain is a little fried from… this last year of troubled sleep. I wouldn’t be surprised if that just made it a little overactive at night.” He put his plate in the sink. “And maybe tonight, get a glass of water before bed, just in case. I don’t want you to hurt yourself on the stairs or something.”

In the light of day, with Yuta’s soothing voice to calm your fears, you decided he was right. You nodded. “Yeah,” you agreed.

It didn’t happen every night. But once in a while, you’d find yourself somewhere else in your house. Sometimes it was the kitchen; other times, the living room. One day you woke with a slash wound on your palm, a kitchen knife still gripped in your other hand. You bandaged it quietly, mopped up your blood, and put the knife away.

In the morning, you showed the wound to Yuta and asked him to hide the knives.

His eyes were round with fear and concern. “You should definitely see a doctor,” he said. “You’re lucky it was just your hand, and not something more serious.”

You agreed; you scheduled yourself for the next appointment that your primary care doctor had, which was about a week and a half away. Yuta hid the knives.

A few nights later, you woke up in the entryway with dirt under your fingernails and all over your shoes. The next night was the same, and the night after that, too, except it had rained, so it was much harder to clean up.

“There isn’t any way you can bump your appointment up?” Yuta asked. “I don’t want anything to happen to you.”

“I don’t think so,” you said. “They’re booked. It’s okay, it’s just another week.”

“Maybe you should go to urgent care,” Yuta suggested.

You were worried, of course, but the suggestion made you laugh. “And say what? ‘I need to see a doctor right now, I’ve been digging up flowers in my sleep’? They’ll tell me I’m wasting their time.” You shook your head. “I’ll be okay.”

Yuta did laugh, albeit begrudgingly, at that. “Okay, yeah, if you put it that way, it sounds silly.”

What made you apprehensive, though, was that you could not recall anything you dreamt on nights that you walked. Your memories would stop sometime around when you drifted off to sleep, and only restart again once you awoke, wherever your body had decided to take you. It’s not that you expected the dream to be cohesive or sensical, but there should be something there, right?

You weren’t certain it was linked to Kuriko. You hadn’t seen or heard from her in a month. But something in the back of your mind screamed danger. If you had been wise, maybe you would’ve gone to Aoi the first time you walked. But you weren’t wise. You were hopeful. And you were afraid that what Aoi had to tell you might shatter than hope. You wanted everything to be fine.

But one night, you woke to find yourself up to your knees in mud and a little chest in the ground at your feet. It was still dark outside, early morning in mid-spring; the ground smelled fresh. You bent to pick it up and clambered out of the hole you had apparently dug in your own backyard.

You dusted it off, holding it up in the moonlight. You’d never seen it before. With shaking fingers, you unlatched the clasp and flipped the lid open. There, lying in a perfect coil at the bottom of the chest, was the white sash you had seen in your dreams—the sash Kuriko had been convinced Yuta used to tether her to the bed when he was away, the sash she had ultimately used to hang herself.

Sitting on top was a picture of Kuriko in her graduation robe. On top of that were two engagement rings.

You remembered how Yuta had dedicated himself to working on your landscaping when you two first moved into this house a year ago. How he was determined to have a beautiful garden. Had he buried this while you screwed knobs onto cabinets and folded his clothes? And if he had, why had he kept it all these years?

You walked back inside. These days, when you found yourself sleepwalking, you went straight back to the bedroom to wake Yuta, at his request. But today, you didn’t want to. You didn’t want to see him—fear and anger and confusion mixed in your stomach as you tracked mud through the house, not even bothering to take off your shoes. You placed the open chest on the kitchen table and slumped into one of the chairs.

You waited there until morning. The mud caked onto your fingertips. You stared down at the chest, unwilling to wake Yuta, unwilling to go back to sleep. Why would he keep it? The photograph you could understand, and maybe even the rings, but the sash? What good would that do? Maybe that was why Kuriko had been haunting you, because these items had not been put to rest.

Old doubts about Yuta resurfaced. It was creepy; what else was he hiding? What had he lied about? Maybe Kuriko had been telling the truth all along. Maybe you had been a fool not to listen to her. You twisted your own engagement ring around your finger.

“[Y/N]?” It was Yuta’s voice, floating down from the landing. “Are you here?”

“In the kitchen,” you replied, forcing yourself to speak loud enough to hear him.

“Did you sleepwalk again?” His voice was clear of any guilt; he was all concern as he came into view. Recognition twisted his features when his eyes landed on the chest lying open in front of you. “Where…?”

“I woke up in the yard. I was digging,” you said. “Apparently this is what I was digging for.”

It was like he could sense your anger, the accusation hovering at the edges of the room. Or maybe he was guilty. “[Y/N], I don’t know how that got here,” he said. “Really.”

“This sash,” you said, pointing at it. You could feel your anger mounting. “Kuriko said you used it to keep her tied to your bed when you were gone on business trips. You left food in the room for her so she wouldn’t starve, and locked the windows and doors. That’s why she used it to hang herself. Is that true?”

“No!” Yuta exclaimed.

“Then why did you have it? How did she have it, then?” you asked.

“It—we used it—it was for sex, [Y/N], just—like, bondage and stuff, that’s why I never talked about it,” Yuta said. “How was I supposed to bring that up? And who wants to hear about their partner’s past sex life with their ex?”

“Okay, then why did you keep it?” you asked. You’d raised your voice without realizing it in your agitation. Nothing made sense. Am I still dreaming? you wondered. But I don’t dream when I walk.

“I didn’t keep it!” Yuta said. He was pacing in front of you now. “I threw out all of her things. I swear to you, I didn’t keep it. I threw out the sash. Packed away the few physical photos I had of her. Returned the rings. I don’t know how this stuff got here.”

“You’re lying,” you accused. “How else could it have gotten here? It was buried like two or three feet deep, Yuta, it didn’t just end up there by accident! You worked so hard on the yard when we first moved in. Is this why?”

“You have to believe me,” he begged.

“That’s all I’ve done!” You didn’t know where the rage was coming from, but it was burning up inside you. Somehow, you were on your feet. “All I’ve done this whole time is believe you, Yuta! I trusted you even when you couldn’t explain, even when you wouldn’t tell me things, even when you lied. I was patient. I was good to you. How much more are you hiding? How much more do you want?”

Your world was collapsing. So long you had tried to convince yourself that things would be fine if you just kept pushing through. Your rage thrummed through your body like a second heartbeat. You chose Yuta because you wanted to believe he was telling the truth, and you endured nightmares and apparitions and fear and hurt and lies, and now you didn’t think you would stand it any longer.

“Please,” Yuta was saying. You blinked, and realized you had backed him up against the kitchen counter. There was a knife in your hand. You didn’t know where you got it. You didn’t even know where Yuta had hidden the knives, but when you looked over, you saw one of the cupboard doors flung open. “Please,” he repeated, his throat working against the sharp metal of the blade. It didn’t horrify you as much as it should. All you could think of was your anger. He betrayed you, you thought to yourself. He deserves this. “I love you, [Y/N]. Please.”

“That’s what you said to her!” you yelled. “Liar!”

Something registered behind his eyes. “Kuriko,” he said quietly. “Let her go.”

It only made you angrier. “What are you talking about? You’re still thinking of her, even now?”

“No! Listen, please,” Yuta said. “I’ve made mistakes. I don’t pretend to be without them. I admit it, I should have just broken up with Kuriko when it was clear we could no longer help each other. But, [Y/N], I swear I never did any of those terrible things she showed you. Please. Put the knife down,” he wheedled. “I never did any of that. The only thing I did was lie. The last few years of our relationship, I didn’t love her. I loved a memory of her, and I was too stupid and cowardly to admit that things would never go back to how they were. I was too stupid and cowardly to let her go.”

You could hardly hear him. It didn’t matter what he said; the roaring of anger in your ears was louder. “You’re lying,” you repeated. You felt something wet on your cheek; you had begun to cry. “She told me everything, and I should’ve trusted her from the start. You’re lying! You did it to her, and you tried to do the same to me.”

“No, I didn’t, [Y/N],” he said. “I’ll do anything you want, please, just put the knife down.”

Your voice was not your own; your thoughts, not your own; your breath, not your own. “I can’t let you do it to anybody else.” Your hands, too, were not your own. You were still crying, but you didn’t stop. A feeling of satisfaction settled heavy in your chest when the knife sank into Yuta’s stomach, all the way up to the hilt.

Thank you, a familiar voice said, for letting me borrow your body. You asked me if I wanted to rest. I can rest now.

As swift as it came, the rage left you, and you looked down to see Yuta slumped on the floor against your cabinets—cabinets you painted together. The knife slipped from your wet palm. Yuta bled and bled and bled onto the polished hardwood and you sank down next to him. You heard your own sobs like they were coming from somewhere else—another person, another lifetime.

“Yuta,” you sobbed. “What did I do? Yuta, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. I’ll call 119, I’ll fix it, just stay with me, just stay, I’ll, I’ll—”

“I’m sorry.” Yuta reached out to you weakly. You shook your head, horror coursing through your body. “It’s my fault,” he whispered. Wrong, it was all wrong. Why should he apologize? “I should’ve known better than to drag some innocent girl into my life before the ghosts of my past had been put to rest.” He drew a rattling breath. “But I meant it. I love you.”

“Yuta.” You could barely see him through your tears. Not real, you thought desperately. Maybe you were begging. Not real, it’s not real.

“I love you,” he repeated. “I loved you from the start.” A beat of silence; he was blinking slowly, not quite looking at you. “I couldn’t help it.”

“It’s not fair,” you whispered. A tidal wave of grief crested inside you. “It’s not fair! Kuriko!” You turned, stumbling to your feet, trying to see any trace of her. “Come back and face me! You bitch! You loved him too! How could you? How could…”

You looked back down at Yuta and realized he had stopped breathing.

“No,” you murmured, crouching back down. “No, no no no, Yuta, I—I’m sorry.” You wrapped your arms around him; you could feel his blood, still warm, seep into your shirt front. “I’m sorry.”

But Yuta was dead.

You curled over his body, sobbing. Blood and dried mud stained the carpet under the table. You cried; hours could have passed and you wouldn’t have known. It didn’t matter—nothing mattered anymore. Kuriko was gone. Yuta was dead, and you had killed him.

He will be the last love you will ever know, Aoi had said.

Your brain felt like a shattered mirror. With Yuta and Kuriko gone, how could you ever know what was true? How much had Kuriko made up? Did she make it up on purpose, or was she simply driven insane, and truly believed all of it? Or was it you who was mad? Did you imagine all of it? Did you kill Yuta over a hallucination? Was it your knowledge of your future that made this happen?

Do you believe your fate to be immutable? Kuriko had asked. Don’t you wonder if your fear of your fate will be what cements it in reality?

You were too slow to your decision. You should have trusted Yuta from the beginning and never let Kuriko embed herself so deeply in your mind, or you should have left immediately. Then Yuta would still be alive.

When the past no longer haunts you, when it walks free, your path will be set. You understood it now. Kuriko had stopped haunting you because her spirit had begun to possess you. You did not dream when you walked because it had been her.

My path. You pushed yourself to your feet. What was your path now?

Your eyes fell on the sash, still coiled in the chest, just as you found it. You took one step closer, and then another, arm outstretched. You knew what you would do. It was the only thing, really. The only choice you had left.

‧͙⁺˚*･༓☾　✧　☽༓･*˚⁺‧͙

It’s poetic, as all things should be. The sash is soft in your fist. You open the basement door.

It’s odd—since you moved in, you haven’t been down here once. You had forgotten how it looked. Boxes are stacked in the corner; extra decorations overflow in bins. You and Yuta wanted to put more art on the walls. You wanted to make a game room.

You find a chair and a sturdy metal pipe. You hook the sash around the pipe and tie it tight.

It’s a funny thing, grief. It’s different every time. When you were seven and your grandmother died, it only brought you terror and confusion. When your first boyfriend broke up with you—doubt and rage. Now, your grief comes with overwhelming clarity, and bitter regret.

You and Yuta could have loved each other for the rest of your lives. You are sure of that. You can see it now, like scenes out of an old movie: a picnic in the summer, a homemade dinner with friends. Maybe children. Yuta, eyes sparkling as he laughs.

But it was never possible, you realize. You’d never once imagined your future in great detail. It was always the vague outline of a thing. You always thought it was because you were preoccupied, but now you think maybe some small part of you knew. You were fated to die from the moment you met Yuta. Of course you would make all the mistakes that led you here—mistakes only you could make. There was nothing you could do to stop it.

You catch your reflection in the window. It’s overcast today, dark enough that you can see the image, but it’s still blurry. The tied sash hangs over your head like a halo. Another lie, to bring the story of you and Yuta and the love between you to its grand conclusion.

You bring one foot up onto the seat of the chair, then look back around you. But you’re not really leaving anything behind. Everything you had is gone. And Yuta is waiting for you.

‧͙⁺˚*･༓☾　✧　☽༓･*˚⁺‧͙

News crews gather in the streets. The neighbors watch through half-drawn blinds as two body bags are quickly carried out of the house and placed in the back of a vehicle. Yellow tape goes up everywhere. The reporters clamor; one police officer tries to corral them away while the others flit in and out the house, wearing rubber gloves and carrying evidence bags.

There are a few words being passed around. Nakamoto Yuta. White Lady. Murder-suicide. No note.

Most of the cameras are aimed at the ground level, following the activity of the cops. But one swivels upward, zooming in on a second story window.

For a moment, there seems to be a figure there. No—two figures. They’re slow-dancing, coming in and out of view. As if on cue, it begins to rain, and the water blurs the camera lens. If the figures are still there, they’re impossible to see.

But over the sound of rainfall, someone listening closely might pick out the sound of a song.

Why stop to think of whether

This little dream might fade?

We've put our hearts together

Now we are one, I'm not afraid

If there's a cloud above

And it must rain, we'll let it

But for tonight, forget it

I'm in the mood for love…

46 notes · View notes

pickalilywrites · 4 years ago

Text

a mikahisu au inspired by one of my favorite shows~ please enjoy ^^

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Do You Still Dream of Me?

MikaHisu. Hotel Del Luna AU.

Like the Moon Loves the Ocean Series: Chapter 1

13252 words.

Read on Ao3!

Armin Arlert hunches over a stack of documents, nibbling on the end of his fountain pen. The pen costs more than his entire outfit — an oversized suit that Armin had fished out of a bin at his local thrift store when he was trying to find a respectable ensemble to wear for the interview that snagged him his current job. Even now, Armin isn’t sure how he managed to get a job as a finance manager at one of the most expensive hotels he’s ever seen in his life. Actually, this might be one of the most extravagant places Armin has ever stepped foot in. He still feels out of place when he arrives in the morning, his polyester suit looking even cheaper against the marble floors and gilded staircase, but nobody ever seems to pay him any mind when he sneaks through the door and scurries away to his office at the far end of the lobby.

His brow furrows as he looks at a particularly confusing set of numbers, numbers that don’t add up the way that they should. Or, well, they’re not adding up in a way that will be satisfying to the hotel owner when he reports the new estimated budget for next month. They’ll have to cut spending once again. At the very least, they need to stop splurging on unnecessary decorations for the hotel and personal luxury expenditures. It’s the same report he’s made every month since he’s been here, but always surprises the hotel manager nonetheless. And she’s never happy to hear it. Armin highly suspects that it’s a major reason why he’s her least favorite hotel staff member even though he’s really just the bearer of bad news.

Ah, how do I break this to her? Armin wonders, leaning back in his chair and rubbing his face tiredly. He lets his arms fall to his sides and sits in his chair, his head tipped back and his eyes closed as he contemplates his next move. On one hand, the woman can’t possibly fire him because her assets would be entirely in the negatives if he weren’t here to keep her in check. On the other hand, the glare she shoots him as he delivers the bad news is enough for him to wish an abyss would appear and swallow him up on the spot. He briefly wonders if he can lie his way out of it - maybe fudge the numbers so that the woman can live as extravagantly as she desires - but that just seems like a disaster waiting to happen. There really isn’t any way out of it.

Armin sighs once more before opening his eyes ... only to see a set of cold, dead eyes staring back at him.

He’s not sure what kind of noise comes out of his throat as he jumps out of his chair, knocking over the stack of papers he’s been working on and tripping over his chair. He’s still shrieking as the thing approaches him, its hand outstretched as it walks toward him even as he crawls backward up against the wall. Armin can hardly look at it - this ghost of a person, a bloody wound across its neck where it had been decapitated before its untimely death - and he shrinks against the wall as it comes closer and closer.

The door opens just then and the sound of footsteps alerts the ghost, making it turn its head to see who has just entered.

“Excuse me, miss,” a voice says. A woman appears, completely calm even though Armin still sits huddled in the corner screaming. She ignores him, her focus entirely on the ghost, to which she offers a warm smile. The woman gestures towards the opened door. “I’m afraid you’ve stumbled into the office of our financial advisor. If you can step into the lobby, our receptionist can assist you in checking into a room at the front desk.”

The ghost looks slowly from the woman and then to Armin. After a long pause, the ghost woman slowly bows to Armin — her form of an apology, Armin supposes — before departing, the door swinging shut behind her.

The woman stares at the closed door for a moment before shifting her attention to Armin. Gone is her professional smile; it’s replaced with an amused expression, laughter stifled behind lips closed in a thin line. She offers a slender hand to Armin to help him up. “I thought you’d be used to our clients by now. Hasn’t it been almost a year since you started working here?”

“Er, yeah,” Armin says sheepishly, the tips of his ears turning pink in embarrassment. He drags his feet to his desk, collecting his papers and dropping them into a messy stack on his desk before collapsing in his chair. Face in hand, he says, “I probably should, but it’s still weird. I can probably see a million ghosts for the next few years, but they’ll always make me jump in my seat. Maybe if they didn’t stop phasing through the walls of my office and sneaking up on me …”

The woman only laughs, and Armin feels a little more relaxed. Mikasa Ackerman, the assistant manager of the hotel, is one of the only hotel staff members Armin feels comfortable around. While the other staff members either roll their eyes or laugh when Armin encounters their ghostly clientele, Mikasa has always been patient with him.

“The next few years,” Mikasa muses, a lopsided smile on her face. She takes a seat in a chair across from him. She leans her elbow on the armrest, her cheek pressed up against her hand. Eyebrow raised, the manager asks, “You really think you’ll be working here for a few more years? Do we not pay you well enough?”

“You’re really underestimating the cost of student loans these days,” Armin sighs, slumping lower in his chair. He reaches for the mug on his desk, bringing it to his lips, and takes a long sip of coffee. It’s cold as it hits his tongue and slides down his throat, and he shudders when it hits his stomach. On second thought, caffeine probably isn’t the best decision considering the fact that he was almost scared shitless only a minute ago. He returns the mug to its coaster, an unsatisfied frown on his face.

“Poor, poor you,” Mikasa coos, eyes crinkling as her smile widens. She sits back, legs crossed and hands placed on her knees. She looks so comfortable here, so much like she belongs in her wool suit, the golden badge that lists her name and title pinned against her breast. If she weren’t so nice, maybe Armin would feel inferior. “It’s kind of your fault for going for a Ph.D. What do you need a doctorate in finance for anyway?”

“I don’t really know what I was thinking, to be honest. I thought maybe I could teach at a university somewhere down the line. Hoped the salary I earned down the line would make the investment worth it, but obviously I didn’t learn anything in my undergrad.” Armin waves his hand around the room. “Anyway, here I am now working at a ghost hotel so that I can pay off my student loans.” It’s probably the biggest mistake of his life next to taking a job at this hotel. Obtaining a Ph.D didn’t give him the salary bump he hoped it would and this was the only place that paid him nearly enough for his years at school.

“Could be worse,” Mikasa says with a shrug. “At least you don’t age while you’re here.”

“Ah, right,” Armin says. That was mentioned as an added perk when he had started to work here, but he hadn’t really believed it at first. Sure, some of his coworkers claim to have been working at this hotel for decades, although most of them look well under the age they say they are. Armin’s not even sure how that’s possible considering the demanding boss they work under. He supposes he’ll find out if it’s true in a few years, assuming he’s still paying off his student loans by then. Armin sits up a bit, eyebrow raised. “How long have you been working here again?”

Mikasa grins. “A little over twenty years.”

The answer isn’t anything new, but it’s always a punch in the gut whenever Armin hears it because it never makes sense to him. Mikasa can’t be older than twenty-seven — and that was pushing it. If she really were working for twenty years, she would have been a child when she had first been employed. Armin thinks she must be joking with him just like the other employees are, but Armin finds that strange too. Mikasa is always friendly with him, but she’s not the type to tell strange jokes.

“Right,” Armin says. He looks at Mikasa cautiously, but her expression tells him nothing.

“Don’t worry. It’s not so bad after a while,” Mikasa says. She leans back, staring back at Armin. Even though she doesn’t look at him threateningly, Armin still shrinks under her gaze.

“How’s your work going, by the way? Any good news for the boss?” Mikasa reaches over, a finger tapping on Armin’s stack of papers.

Armin groans, burying his head in his hands, although it’s more because of the mention of their boss rather than the work itself.

Historia Reiss is the hotelier of the Blutmond, the phantom hotel which Armin finds himself unfortunately employed. Her appearance is anything but intimidating. She wasn’t even close to being five feet tall. With hair of spun gold and aquamarine eyes, the petite woman could be mistaken for a life-sized doll if it weren’t for the terrible scowl on her face. In all of Armin’s time at the Blutmond, he doesn’t think he’s seen her smile once. She glowered the entire time during his interview, never opening her mouth except to ask whether or not he’d be able to balance her account in time for her to buy the latest model Porsche. The woman didn’t even congratulate him when she and Mikasa came to visit him with the news of his new job, only telling him that she expected him to come to work on time and not to make any mistakes with her finances or she’d have his head. He completely believed her and has always double-checked his work at least three times before finalizing his spreadsheets. His other coworkers have insisted that the woman isn’t nearly as frightening as Armin believes her to be, but the way they cower and scurry to put everything in place whenever she steps into the room doesn’t fool him. He’s also heard a curious rumor about her. His coworkers always mention that she’s been here the longest — over a thousand years — although he’s not sure if it’s just a way of them calling her an old hag because the woman doesn’t look a day over twenty-five.

“It’s really not going so great,” Armin says with a pained expression. He flips through some of his papers, pulling out a small stack that documents Historia’s personal expenses. Most of the page is highlighted in bright red. Armin thought the severe color would help convince their boss about his budgeting suggestions at the end of the week. Handing the papers to Mikasa, Armin says, “It’s only been half the month, but Miss Reiss is spending way too much on her credit card already. At this rate, she won’t have enough to buy that caviar that she likes so much.”

“It’s fine. Historia doesn’t actually like caviar that much. She just likes how rich she feels when she eats it,” the manager says absentmindedly. Mikasa flips through the papers, an eyebrow raised, but she doesn’t seem surprised as she reviews Armin’s findings. Once through with them, she straightens them out on the desk. “Maybe I can convince her to get sashimi next time.”

“I’m serious. She really needs to cut down on her spending habits.” He hates how whiny he sounds, but it’s difficult for him not to whine when he’s imagining how infuriated his employer will be when he timidly suggests that she not buy anymore jewelry for the rest of the month. “I mean, does she really need to have twelve different sports cars lining her garage? Where is she even going?”

Mikasa sits with her fingers steepled, a pout on her lips as she looks down at the papers again. She reaches over to thumb through the papers once more before sitting back again. “I guess I can talk to her about it.”

Armin sits up, his mouth shaped in a perfect “O.” “Would you really?” His mind is already going a million miles a minute, thinking about everything he has to review with Mikasa before she presents the information to their boss. Maybe he can show her the presentation slides he prepared in advance. He thought having his notes on an elegant Powerpoint would be much better than him stuttering through his notes while Historia glared at him. A little more energized now, Armin is already clicking through his computer, pulling up the presentation slides for Mikasa to look at. “If you’re really serious, I have some materials that can help you-”

“I’m not,” Mikasa says, an amused smile on her face. She laughs when Armin visibly deflates. “Ah, I feel a bit bad seeing you so disappointed, though. Are you really that scared of her?”

Armin thinks about the little woman, the blue flames that ignite in her eyes whenever he so much as hints at the fact that her shopping sprees should have a cap on them. He shudders. “I’m terrified.”

The woman nods sympathetically. “Alright, I’ll try to talk to her. No promises, though. You know how she feels about these things.”

“Oh, thank you, thank you,” Armin breathes, collapsing against the back of his chair with relief. He knows that most of Historia’s ire will be directed towards him, but he hopes that having Mikasa deliver the news will somehow soften the blow.

“Mhm. You’re going to get used to being in her line of fire though. It’s unfortunate, but it comes with the job of being her finance manager. She’ll always be bad with money no matter how much you tell her not to spend,” Mikasa tells him with a wry smile. Her phone buzzes in her pocket, the sound making Armin jump in his seat. She looks at him, snickering, and pulls her phone out. Mikasa glances at her phone before turning it so that Armin could see the name flashing across the screen - Historia. “Unless you’d like to practice right now.”

Armin, eyes wide and throat closing shut at just the sight of the hotelier’s name, shakes his head.

“Alright, alright,” Mikasa laughs. She stands up, straightening out her blazer. “I’ll stop teasing you and leave you to your work then. And don’t worry about Historia; I’ll take care of her for you.” The manager returns to her phone, swiping across the screen and taking the call.

“Thanks, Mikasa,” Armin says. He didn’t mean for his voice to come out as a squeak, but he finds that he can’t speak knowing that his employer might hear his voice on the other end.

Mikasa simply waves at him, walking towards the door. “Yeah, I’m free, but I’m surprised you’re not calling Levi for something like this,” she’s saying. She pulls open the door, her voice fading as she’s walking out. “No, the work is fine. It’s perfect, actually. I was hoping we could talk about your finances. I just talked to Armin …”

Armin winces at the mention of his name and, as much as he knows he shouldn’t because it’ll only make him feel worse, strains to listen in on the conversation but the wooden door proves too thick of a barrier to let him eavesdrop. Just as well, he thinks as he rests his forehead against the cool surface of his desk. He’ll just get back to work estimating next month’s budget. And, he thinks as he squeezes his eyes shut, praying that he won’t have any more unexpected paranormal visitors today.

≿————-　❈　————-≾

Historia sits in the passenger seat of a slick blue Bentley, one of the many luxury cars that line her parking garage. Mikasa has tried to convince the hotelier that one car should be enough, has even tried selling them behind her back only for Historia to buy twice as many cars to replace them. Looking at Historia now, Mikasa understands why the blonde gravitates so naturally to high-end sports cars. In the passenger seat with her golden hair falling behind her back in waves, Historia looks like she could be a model for the luxury brand. Her pastel dress, one that Mikasa is fairly certain has been flaunted on a runway at some point in the past year, is probably worth just as much as the Bentley if not more. Mikasa doesn’t even want to think about how much jewelry that adorns the woman’s neck is worth, although she knows she should probably ask.

“What took you so long?” Historia asks, her scowl breaking the illusion of her pixie-like appearance. She sits up, holding her matching clutch purse in her lap. Her bottom lip sticks out, making her plush pink lips look even more like a doll’s. She looks cute, Mikasa could even say, but she knows the words would only cause Historia to narrow her blue eyes in an irritated glare.

Mikasa slips into the driver’s seat, fishing the car keys from the inside of her breast pocket. “My apologies. I was speaking with Armin before I came here,” she tells Historia. She turns the ignition, the engine purring as the car starts up. “He had some interesting things to say about your finances.”

At the mention of the man’s name, Historia hisses, tossing her hair over her shoulder. It seems to be a common reaction whenever the finance manager is mentioned in the hotelier’s presence. “I don’t want to hear anything he has to say,” Historia sniffs, as if not speaking about it will somehow help her avoid her financial issues. She reaches for the remote, clicking the garage door open so that they can make their exit. “He never has anything good to say to me. All he ever does is bring me bad news. I don’t even know why we hired him.”

“Because you’re terrible at budgeting,” Mikasa answers easily, ignoring the glare that she receives. After working at the hotel for decades, she’s quite used to being at the receiving end of Historia’s scathing looks. She doesn’t take her eyes off the road as she drives, maneuvering out of the parking spot and onto the driveway easily. “He mentioned that you might not even have enough money for an ounce of caviar at the end of the month.”

Historia whips her head so quickly that her neck might have snapped if she were a normal person. Mikasa doesn’t have to look at the woman’s expression to see that she’s horrified at the thought of not eating the overpriced salt-cured fish eggs. “Should I just fire him?” Historia murmurs, sitting with her back against her seat. She shakes her head, her brows furrowed as she considers letting go of her financial manager. “Or maybe we can cut his pay. I’ll have more money if I cut his pay, right?”

“If you cut his pay, he’ll be working here for longer to pay off his student loans,” Mikasa reminds her employer. “You could try hiring someone else, but he was the best in his class. Harvard.”

Historia’s bottom lip wobbles and, for a moment, it looks like she might even cry. Instead, she lets out a frustrated shriek like a spoiled child. “Ah, that kid! I hate him, you know. Out of everyone here, he’s probably my least favorite.”

“I know,” Mikasa says with a sympathetic nod, trying her best to keep her face stoic even though all she wants to do now is burst into laughter at the childish outburst.

These words aren’t new to Mikasa. In fact, she’s heard different variations of the same words over the years that she’s been here. Sometimes it’s Levi, the current general manager of the hotel. Other times it will be Pixis, the elderly but sweet bartender, or Colt, the receptionist at the front desk who looks barely out of his teens. Quite a number of times it has been Connie, the room manager, for swiping too many snacks from the kitchen in between mealtimes. Mikasa’s even been the least favorite every once in a while, although Armin has been given the title these past few months because he’s come in the way of Historia and the thing she loves the most - a luxurious lifestyle.

The funny thing is that Historia has not always been rich. It’s something that the woman likes to remind everyone, Mikasa included, every now and again. Mikasa doesn’t doubt that, but she does find it amusing that Historia turned her back on her past lifestyle so much so that she doesn’t have an ounce of frugality in her body.

“Who’s the client today?” Mikasa asks just as they’re about to hit the main road.

“Some man named Reiner Braun,” Historia says with a click of her tongue. She flips idly through her phone before inserting coordinates in the device. “His grand-niece reached out to us, but she couldn't tell me how rich he was. Don’t you think that’s ridiculous? You’d think someone so close to him would have a sense of how much money he has.” Historia frowns as she inspects her pearly pink nails.

“Children these days,” Mikasa tsks wryly, but Historia doesn’t seem to pick up on her sarcasm.

“They’re terrible. Terrible, terrible. Stupid and spoiled, all of them.” Historia clicks her tongue disapprovingly. The irony of calling someone else “spoiled” while she’s wearing a diamond choker around her neck hasn’t yet reached Historia.

“And I suppose you know what being spoiled looks like?”

It takes a moment for Historia to realize what Mikasa is saying. She sits up, clearly insulted. “I worked for this!” Historia says indignantly, smoothing out her skirt to prevent wrinkles. “I’ll have you know that I worked for every single cent that pays for my lifestyle. I earned all of this.”

“Of course,” Mikasa says with a nod. Beside her, Historia begins to settle down in her seat. “I’m sure the exorbitant prices you charge your clients also helps.”

Historia gives Mikasa a scathing side glare, one that would have made Mikasa flinch in her early days but now it’s like watching a kitten get angry after hiding its toy. She tosses her head, her golden tresses flying back in the wind. “I should have just brought Levi with me,” she mutters under her breath.

Mikasa remains unbothered. “You probably should have,” she replies in a sing-song voice.

≿————-　❈　————-≾

“You know,” Mikasa says as they stand on the doorstep of a sprawling mansion fit for a lord, “you would think his grand-niece would have mentioned that he was loaded.” She reaches over to ring the door, frowning when she’s unable to hear its chime through the thick mahogany door.

“This?” Historia asks, gesturing around the estate. She shrugs, unimpressed. “This is nothing.”

Earlier, they had been stopped at the gate and asked for their identification. Mikasa had thought they would have been stopped there after Historia had gotten into a shouting match with the guard over the intercom until someone else popped on the screen — a young woman with thick dark hair tied half-up in a messy bun — and said they were cleared to come through, pressing open the button for the visitors despite the guard’s protests. As Mikasa drives up the road to the house, Historia hardly looks up at the sprawling green lawn, the freshly trimmed topiaries, or the sparkling fountain. The petite woman doesn’t even blink when Mikasa parks at the front of the house, throwing open the door and stepping out of the car without glancing back even as a valet hurries forward and asks Mikasa for the keys. Although not a fan of letting other people drive around in Historia’s cars, Mikasa grudgingly left the keys in the valet’s hand, chasing after the blonde woman because Mikasa knew Historia never likes to wait for anyone.

“I suppose since he’s living so shabbily we shouldn’t take any commission from him,” Mikasa says dryly. She doesn’t flinch when Historia smacks her sharply on the arm. “Or at the very least offer him a discount. I’m not sure he can afford our services otherwise.”

“Don’t joke like that,” Historia snaps. She reaches up to tuck a lock of her hair behind her ear. “Money is money, so we’ll take what we can get.”

The door opens just then, the same young girl who was on the intercom with a bright smile waiting behind it breathlessly. She looks to be just thirteen or fourteen. Her hair is falling out from its little bun and her clothes — a ratty t-shirt and some cutoff denim shorts — look out of place in the mansion. Historia is no doubt looking at the girl’s outfit in disapproval, but the girl doesn’t seem to notice. Instead, she sticks out a hand towards the pair. “Hi, I’m Gabi! I spoke to you on the phone,” the girl says, oblivious to the maids and servants panting behind her that are trying to pull her back. “You’re Mikasa and Historia, right? From the Blutmond?”

“Miss Braun,” a butler hisses, grabbing at Gabi’s arm. “The guests haven’t been properly screened. You can’t just allow anyone to enter the Braun estate.”

“Relax. Uncle Braun said I could invite my friends over whenever I want,” Gabi snaps. She shakes the man off, scowling at him before turning back to Mikasa and Historia. “And these two are my friends, right?” She looks at them expectantly, silently begging them to play along.

Historia and Mikasa exchange a look, not confirming or denying anything. After a moment, Historia sighs, her arms folded across her chest. “For the duration of this visit, yes, we are Miss Gabi Braun’s … friends.” She looks as if the word leaves a sour taste in her mouth, but Gabi looks smug, happy that she’s managed to dupe the mansion’s staff members even though the majority of them look unconvinced. Of course, none of this bothers Historia, who just charges forward, looking around and not hiding the fact that she’s inspecting every inch of this place.

“Oh, um, let me show you around a bit,” Gabi says, shutting the door behind Mikasa and hurrying after Historia. “It’s easy to get lost here because it’s so big.”

“It’s not that big,” Historia snorts.

“Excuse me,” Mikasa mumbles as she pushes past the staff. It seems that they’ve either given up or just don’t want to bother with the Braun girl anymore because most of them just sigh before returning to their assigned tasks.

Although Gabi is supposed to be giving the tour, Historia is the one that leads the way while Gabi and Mikasa follow behind. Historia hardly says anything as she closely inspects the many statues and paintings that decorate the corners and walls of the various rooms they visit, but Gabi fills the silence with needless chatter of the art pieces. Every now and again Mikasa expresses some admiration for all the historical and artistic knowledge Gabi displays and the praise has the girl puff her chest out in pride, but Historia will sigh under her breath or roll her eyes at times. It really may be that nothing in this mansion really interests her because she never lingers on a painting for longer than a second or two before moving onto the next art piece.

“So, Gabi,” Mikasa says after a moment, making sure that the group was out of earshot of any eavesdropping maids or busboys that might have followed them. She makes sure to keep close to Gabi, her voice low as she speaks. “You called about your great uncle, is that correct? Can you tell us a little bit more about him before we meet him?”

Gabi bites on her lip and fiddles on a loose thread on her faded shirt. She nods before looking over at Historia, who’s halfway across the room frowning at a grand piano. “Er, yeah,” the girl mumbles. “I can … I can tell you about him.”

“You can talk from there,” Historia says without looking up. She presses a finger to an ivory key and a note rings out, echoing across the room. It seems that the note is unsatisfactory though because her frown deepens after hearing it. “I have impeccable hearing.”

Gabi looks unsure, but Mikasa puts a reassuring hand on the girl’s shoulder and smiles. “Go ahead, Gabi.”

“Okay,” Gabi says. She takes a deep breath, but she’s already shaking. Tears already forming in her eyes, she looks up, swallowing hard. “Uncle Reiner … he’s been strange for a while now. Maybe a few months. My parents say it’s just dementia because he’s so old but … I don’t think that’s it.” Tears roll down her cheeks and she’s looking down now, stubbornly wiping them away with the back of her hand.

“Take your time,” Mikasa says gently, rubbing soothing circles on the young girl’s back.

Historia is a little less sympathetic. She strides over, taking a seat on a nearby chaise lounge and sitting back like it’s an appropriate time to relax. “And what makes you think we can help? I don’t typically enjoy doing business with doddering old men.”

“Ignore her,” Mikasa tells Gabi, shooting a look at Historia. Historia simply sticks her tongue out in reply.

“N-no,” Gabi says with a shake of her head, sniffling. “I h-heard you could h-help people. That you h-have a special business. My uncle … I don’t think the th-things he’s seeing are hallucinations. I th-think what he’s seeing … they’re ghosts.”

Historia looks a little more intrigued now, sitting up on the chaise with her legs crossed instead of lounging back. “What makes you think that they’re ghosts?”

Gabi hesitates. “Well … he mentions these names sometimes… Bertholdt, Porco, Marcel…,” she says, brow furrowed. “He hardly ever talked to me about them, but sometimes their names would slip. Whenever I asked about them back then, he would just tell me that they used to be friends back when he was younger. He always looked so … sad whenever he talked about them like … like he couldn’t see them anymore.”

This story is enough for Mikasa to offer their services or at least give Gabi an offer to look at her great uncle, but Historia simply lets out a huff, pushing herself off the chaise and making her way out the door.

“An old man haunted by his old, dead friends,” Historia says with a toss of her head. She beckons for Mikasa to follow her, ignoring the horrified look on Gabi’s face. When the young girl runs forward, barring Historia from leaving, the haughty woman only sighs once more. “Look, if you’re worried he’s getting haunted by ghosts, why don’t you just run over to a church and get some holy water to splash on him? Or just buy some salt to sprinkle around his bed.” She waves her hand, gesturing for Gabi to move out of her way, but the girl refuses.

“I’ll pay you!” Gabi says. She stands resolute, her arms spread wide even as her lower lip trembles.

Historia raises an eyebrow. She steps back, a hand on her hip. “You’ll pay me?” she repeats. “You’re thirteen. What could you possibly offer me?”

“I could give you … my inheritance,” Gabi says. She sticks out her bottom lip, jutting her chin out and lifting her head. Her eyes are still red from crying, but tears have stopped falling down her cheeks. She clears her throat and continues, “Uncle Reiner hasn’t told anyone … but he’s made me the sole heir of his estate … among other things. I can … give you this mansion and everything in here if you just please help me.”

Mikasa wants to tell Gabi that it’s not necessary. Their services aren’t nearly worth that much and, even if it were, it’s illegal to make such a transaction with a minor.

Historia, of course, doesn’t care. She’s looking at Gabi with more interest now, her blue eyes shining as she looks at the girl. The woman isn’t even thinking about the logic of such a promise — when she would be able to collect the inheritance or what she would do with it. Her mind is occupied with calculating the worth of the estate and the many statues and paintings that decorate it. “I hope you know,” Historia says, her eyes glittering, “that any contract you make with me is binding.”

“You really don’t have to do this,” Mikasa begins to say, but Historia cuts her off with a snarl.

“No, I’ll do it,” Gabi says with a shake of her head. “All of this stuff … it doesn’t mean anything to me. I’ve never been very materialistic. All I really want … is for my uncle to be okay.” She lowers her arms, looking at Historia with uncertainty.

“How very noble of you,” Historia says, but she isn’t really listening. She’s busy fishing something out of her clutch purse, reaching in and pulling out a document filled out in the tiniest font. Even though the contract could have never fit perfectly in Historia’s purse without being folded up, there isn’t a wrinkle in sight when the woman presents the document to Gabi. The woman fishes out an expensive-looking fountain pen, one that Mikasa is only half-sure had originally been in the hotelier’s purse although it might be more likely she had snatched it off of a desk from the mansion when nobody was looking. Historia holds up the contract with a lipsticked smile, a perfectly manicured nail tapping at against the line where Gabi should sign. “Just sign your name here, darling.”

Gingerly, Gabi takes the pen from Historia, staring at the document with uncertainty. The pen sits uncapped in her hand, hovering over the dotted line where her signature should be. Her eyes scan the document, but the words begin to blur and she begins to gnaw at her lip.

Mikasa steps forward, lowering the document from Gabi’s face. “You don’t have to sign it.”

“Mikasa,” Historia hisses. An angry glare flashes across her face for half a second before switching to a more composed, reassuring smile directed at Gabi. “Don’t listen to her. Just sign it, sweetie. It’s harmless.”

Gabi looks from Mikasa to Historia, her expression uncertain, but she glances once more at the document and grips the pen in her hand with more conviction. The tip of the pen hits the paper and Gabi scrawls her full name — Gabrielle Mariella Braun — in an illegible, childish print before handing the fountain pen back to Historia.

“Perfect, perfect,” Historia says in a sing-song voice, squinting as she inspect’s Gabi’s signature. She turns her head slightly to Mikasa, lowering her voice a bit but not enough as she asks, “They don’t teach children cursive these days, do they? This girl’s signature is terrible. It’s like a toddler let their crayon wander across the page.” Historia takes another look at it before rolling up the contract and stuffing it into her purse.

“Cursive?” Gabi repeats with a knitted brow.

“It’s just connecting all the letters with a line, really,” Mikasa tells the girl, patting her on the shoulder to show that it’s not that big of an issue. A small part of her regrets not talking Gabi against signing the document, but she figures Gabi’s at more of an advantage than Historia is since the former is a minor and any contract she signs could be deemed void. She’ll just leave the problem for later, preferably when Armin is at her side so he can drive Historia mad enough to leave the poor girl and her inheritance alone.

“Right then!” Historia says, a lot more lively than she was a few minutes ago now. She flicks a lock of golden hair away from her face and smiles brightly at Gabi. “Be a dear and show us where your grandfather is. We’ll help him in any way we can.” It’s become quite obvious to Mikasa that Historia has long forgotten Gabi’s name despite being introduced to the girl a little while ago and having just seen her name written on a document not a minute before. Gabi doesn’t seem to have noticed. She’s more taken aback by Historia’s change in character. Mikasa can’t really blame her. The hotel manager had seen the woman do a complete 180 after being offered a yacht for her services once and thought new yacht-owner Historia was a completely different person from the usually crotchety hotelier.

“Er, yes. If you follow me, right around here …,” Gabi says, her voice trailing as she leads them out of the room and into the hallway.

Mikasa and Historia follow the girl, Historia with a new spring in her step as she lets her fingers trail against every vase and statue that they pass by with renewed appreciation for the artwork. As they walk, Historia hums a song that Mikasa almost knows by heart, but she knows it’s a song that hasn’t been sung in centuries.

≿————-　❈　————-≾

Gabi leads them to a room at the end of the east wing. The room is much smaller than Historia and Mikasa anticipated. Historia had almost walked ahead and yanked open the largest double doors in the hallway before Gabi hurriedly pulled the woman away and rushed them over to her great uncle’s quarters. The door was considerably less extravagant — a single mahogany door with simple square panels and a gilded doorknob — and Mikasa could see the frown returning on Historia’s face.

The girl opened the door just a crack, leaning in to whisper, “Uncle Reiner? I brought some visitors for you. They’re … friends of mine. They said they might be able to help you.” She waits a bit for an answer. Even when Mikasa strains her ears to hear, she can’t hear a thing. It seems that Gabi does, however, because after a pause, she finally opens the door, allowing Historia and Mikasa to enter before her.

Mikasa isn’t quite sure where to look when she steps into the room. The bedroom is every bit as lavish as the rest of the house, the furniture all in deep reds and browns with highlights of gold here and there. There’s a noticeable lack of decoration, the walls instead adorned with photos of an elderly man with a wide jaw, snowy white hair, and milky white eyes. In most of the photos he stands alone — many times posing next to some art piece that he has lying around the house — but other times he’s seen with other members of his family including his grand niece. Mikasa is so busy looking at the pictures that she almost doesn’t see the man himself buried under a mountain of pillows and blankets in his bed. He looks so still that there isn’t much difference between his real self and the version of him in pictures. The ghosts that stand beside his bed look livelier than he does, Mikasa thinks.

“Uncle Reiner,” Gabi says, her voice quiet so as to not disturb her great uncle too much. She approaches his bed, Mikasa near her side while Historia wanders around the room unbothered. “This is Miss Historia and Miss Mikasa. They come from a special place … the Blutmond Hotel. They help people like you … people who can see ghosts.”

The man’s eyes flutter open but he struggles to keep them open. He sits up and his head turns towards Gabi, following the sound of her voice, but his gaze is fixated on something past her. It’s not a ghost, Mikasa knows, because there are only three in the room right now. One is currently hovering around the old man, unsure of what to do with his ghostly hands even as his face is filled with worry as Gabi’s great uncle sits up. The other two stand on the other side of the man’s bed eyeing Historia warily as she carefully inspects the room for any valuables.

“Ghosts? Have your parents been talking about me again?” the old man asks before coughing violently into his hand. He hunches over, his whole body heaving with every cough. He pounds his chest pitifully with his other hand as he wheezes. He shakes his head when Gabi runs over with a tissue box from his nightstand. One hand is clutched to his chest, but he’s still breathing heavily when he tells Gabi unconvincingly, “I’m fine. They just worry about me because of my old age.”

The man at Reiner’s side kneels down next to the old man. His ghostly blue hand reaches out to touch Reiner’s, his taut young skin such a stark contrast from the old man’s thin, veiny hands. All of the ghosts are significantly younger than Reiner, Mikasa notices. If she has to guess, they were probably in their late twenties when they passed. Judging from their military garb and the bloodstains that bloom across their chest, they died in a war. She wonders about their relationship to the old man, why they’ve stayed with him so long when it must have been decades since their death.

“Your names are Historia and Mikasa?” the old man asks, a tired but polite smile as he looks from the two women. He sits up in the bed, his back resting against the headrest and his hands folded in his lap. Unbeknownst to him, the ghost who had held his hand earlier sits beside him, gazing cautiously at both Mikasa and Historia. “I’m sorry to say that my relatives have a habit of spreading unnecessary rumors. They seem to have worried my grand niece.”

“They’re not untrue,” Gabi insists. She tugs on the elbow of Mikasa’s suit, her lower lip trembling dangerously. Her eyes are moist as tears begin to form and she sniffs loudly before turning to her great uncle. “I’ve seen you talking to … them. I’ve heard you call their names. Bertholdt, Porco, Marcel… You’re always talking to them when you think I’m not listening, but you always tell me it’s nothing when I ask you about them.”

At the names, the ghosts stiffen, but they don’t move from their positions. They look at Mikasa, wondering if she’ll give away their existence. She tries her best not to look at them.

“Because it’s nothing,” the man says, laughing it off weakly. He gets into another coughing fit, banging against his chest. The ghost at his side, eyes wide with worry, can only look at him helplessly.

Historia’s voice pops up, the hotelier speaking for the first time since stepping into the room. “Were you in the Second Great War, Mr. Braun?” She observes a glass case with different medals, leaning forward as she inspects the engraving on all of them. Historia hums, “I didn’t realize you were a veteran.”

“Ah, yes,” the old man says belatedly, surprised at the sudden jump in topic.

“You have quite a lot of medals and honors.” Historia’s finger traces the glass edge of the case. “You fought well.” The words should be congratulatory, but Historia says this almost coldly.

The old man must feel it too because he begins to fidget under the young woman’s gaze, his silken sheets tangled in his fists as he begins to stammer a “yes” under his breath.

The ghosts must dislike Historia’s tone because the two that had stood at the side of Reiner’s bed stand up, walking over to Historia and staring down at her petite frame. They tower above her, identical expressions of repressed fury on their faces, and Mikasa wonders for the first time if they’re brothers. With only a slight difference in height and hair color, the two could be identical. Despite the two spirits that are glowering down at her, Historia doesn’t waver, not even sparing them a passing glance as she continues to peruse the other items around Reiner’s room.

“You’ll have to forgive my partner. She’s quite interested in … history,” Mikasa lies. She wrinkles her nose as she says it — partly because she’s a terrible liar and partly because the thought of Historia being interested in anything other than money is ridiculous — but Gabi nor her great uncle seem to take notice. Mikasa fishes for the little business card in her breast pocket before presenting it to Mr. Braun, making sure to hold it at an angle for the nearby ghost to see as she hands it over. She clears her throat, glancing back at the other two ghosts to make sure they were paying attention before saying, “Miss Historia and I are from the Blutmond Hotel. We provide services for those who have passed.”

All the ghosts look at her, their necks turning so fast that they might have cracked if they were alive.

“For those that have passed?” Reiner repeats, eyebrow raised as he takes the business card gingerly between his fingers. He frowns and is about to toss the card on his nightstand before seeing the upset expression on his great niece’s face. He drops the card in his lap instead before running a tired hand through his thinning hair. “I’m hoping that won’t be until a few more years yet,” he jokes, but he’s the only one that laughs. It sounds strange echoing alone in the quiet room.

“Uncle Reiner,” Gabi says, her voice rising into a whine that Mikasa knows will make Historia grate her teeth.

Mikasa puts a hand on the young girl’s shoulder, giving her a quick squeeze and reassuring smile. “It’s fine,” she whispers before turning once more to Mr. Braun. To the ailing man, she says with a soft voice, “Mr. Braun, how many ghosts do you see in this room right now?”

His eyes flicker for a bit, roaming around the room but never resting on the ghost that sits beside him nor on the ghosts that stand near Historia. His gaze finally stops somewhere above Mikasa’s shoulder, eyes watering as he whispers, “Three.”

Gabi’s grip on Mikasa’s arm is vice-like and the hotel manager has to pry the girl from her arm for her blood circulation to return. “It’s alright, it’s fine,” she says to Gabi again, brushing her off gently. Mikasa looks at the ghost beside Reiner and watches as the young man shakes his head ever so slightly, his eyes begging her not to tell the old man of his existence. She opens her mouth, but Historia speaks first.

“Those aren’t ghosts,” Historia says, finally strolling across the room to stand beside Mikasa. She ignores Mikasa’s eye roll and instead bounces about on the balls of her feet, speaking casually as if talking about the weather. “Ah, I should clarify. Those things that are haunting you … I guess you would say they’re your own memories. There are ghosts here too, but it looks like they’re only here to keep you company.” She waves her hand as she explains, trying to find the right words. Historia looks quite proud when she’s done, but everyone (with the exception of Mikasa) looks at her with a bewildered expression.

“You mean there are ghosts here?” Gabi asks with wide eyes.

If Gabi grabs onto Mikasa’s suit any tighter she’ll tear the fabric. Mikasa doesn’t particularly mind, but she knows Historia would be infuriated if Gabi ripped such expensive clothing in her presence and the hotel manager carefully pries the girl off her arm.

“The supernatural world is quite complicated,” Mikasa says gently. She’s worked in the supernatural business for years and she still hasn’t grasped it entirely, so she can only imagine the confusion that Gabi and her great uncle feel right now. Mikasa sucks in her cheek as she tries to think of how to explain the situation in layman’s terms. “There is a myriad of things that can haunt a person, not just ghosts. Spirits, demons … even deities if they’re angry enough.”

“And next you’ll be telling me werewolves and vampires exist,” Mr. Braun scoffs, but his eyes still roam aimlessly around the room for something they can’t see.

“Don’t be silly. Werewolves and vampires are another thing entirely,” Historia snorts with a roll of her eyes, although she doesn’t confirm or deny the existence of either. She points a painted finger at the old man. “What you have haunting you are your own memories, Mr. Braun, although I imagine they’ve grown horribly distorted over time.”

Mr. Braun’s mouth is tightened into a thin line, all laughter gone from his eyes. He fixes Historia with a steely glare, but she doesn’t waver. He doesn’t speak, not even to ask her to clarify. Perhaps it’s because he already knows what memories she’s alluding to.

“What’s she talking about?” Gabi hisses in Mikasa’s ear.

“Mr. Braun, how old were you when you were drafted for the war?” Historia asks, stepping closer to the bed. She ignores that ghost closest to Reiner’s side even when he stands in front of her. She stares right past him as if she can’t see him at all and continues her questioning of Mr. Braun. “Perhaps in your twenties, judging from the looks of your companions. Mid- to late twenties, even. Life was just beginning for you. Being caught up in a war you had nothing to do with must have been frustrating to you.”

“No, it was an honor to fight for my country,” Reiner murmurs, but his eyes begin to cloud over and his expression grows grimmer.

“Did your friends share the same sentiment?” Historia continues to inquire. The ghost brothers from before each put a hand on her shoulders, their expressions just as dark and dangerous as Mr. Braun’s. Still, Historia presses on. “Were they just as brave as you when they camped in those trenches with corpses of other soldiers? Did they die with honor, their bodies rotting in those holes for weeks before whatever remains of them are shipped back to their loved ones? And were you honored to be one of the ones that made it out alive, standing tall even though the guilt was slowly killing you all these years?”

The ghosts are hostile now, their hands rough as they pull Historia back from Reiner. With a flick of her wrist, Historia sends them flying against the wall, their presence only detected by the way the portraits on the wall shake slightly. It’s enough to make Mikasa flinch, but Gabi and Reiner are too distracted to notice.

It’s the last ghost, though, that has Mikasa the most worried. He stands in a protective stance, his eyes flickering with a dangerous blue flame. On his face is a terrible glower, a stark contrast from the worried look he had worn earlier. His fists are clenched against his sides, shaking slightly with suppressed rage. Historia has faced her fair share of ghosts over the years. Mikasa doubts that this one is any more powerful than the malicious spirits that Historia has gone up against, but a ghost powered by violent anger is not something to be underestimated.

“Historia,” Mikasa warns, her voice low.

“It wasn’t my fault,” Mr. Braun whispers in a hoarse voice. He seems to shrink into his bed, his silken sheets pulled tight around his body as if trying to protect himself from something. His wild eyes continue to wander above his head, looking at things that don’t exist to anyone else but him. The old man pulls the sheets over his head, but the tremble in his voice can still be heard as he whimpers, “Every day they’ve plagued me, haunted me, but they never leave.”

“Uncle Braun-“ Gabi begins, but Mikasa holds her back after Historia gives her a subtle gesture to restrain the girl.

“Mr. Braun,” Historia says, stepping through the ghost easily. She reaches over and pulls the sheets from the man’s hands, letting them fall carelessly to the floor. She grasps the man’s face in her hand, lifting his chin up, and forces him to look at her and only her. “You said it yourself that it’s not your fault. Why have you gone so long doubting your own words?”

It’s the first time the man’s gaze was fixed on something, his eyes no longer wandering aimlessly at things unseen. He licks his chapped lips as he struggles to find the answer to Historia’s question. “Because I lived while they died,” he tells her in a voice dripping with grief. His eyes grow glassy, moist with tears. “I believe that warrants some guilt, don’t you?”

Historia is silent, holding his gaze. Even when the man’s tears begin to fall, dripping down his cheeks and spilling onto her hand, she still holds on. After a moment, she finally lets go a little too roughly, throwing Mr. Braun’s head back with unnecessary force. The movement earns an indignant squawk from Gabi, who struggles to break free from Mikasa’s grip, but the hotel manager manages to hold the girl. The ghosts move towards the hotelier too, their faces alight with anger, but she waves her hand again and all three are pinned against the wall with much greater force than last time.

“What if I told you that you could see your friends one last time, Mr. Braun?” Historia asks as casually as if she were asking about the weather. She digs through her purse, humming that little tune as she does so. She pulls out a little silver pistol, her slender fingers wrapped against the gilded grip, and loads a single bullet into its chamber. She speaks again, her words light and honey-sweet as she points the barrel at the old man’s forehead. “Mr. Braun, would you like to see your friends again?”

“Historia,” Mikasa growls with narrow eyes.

“What’s she doing? Why does she have a gun?” Gabi asks, voice rising. Her head whips back to Mikasa, eyes wide with horror. She tries to break free from Mikasa’s grip, but the woman holds the girl back tightly. With more urgency, Gabi thrashes more violently, trying to lunge towards Historia’s gun. “Let me go! She’s going to shoot him!”

The ghosts have broken free, all of them clambering for Historia with arms outstretched, but the blonde stands there with her gun aimed as if she and the old man are the only two in the room. Historia ignores the ghosts even as they grab at her, her arm remaining steady even as they try to pull the gun from her fingers. She keeps her gaze fixed on the old man who only stares back at her. While Gabi screams and Mikasa struggles to keep the young girl out of the line of fire, the old man appears calm, a look of resignation on his face.

“What do you say, Mr. Braun?” Historia asks quietly.

He doesn’t answer. Instead, he rests his head against the headboard, eyes closed as if he’s about to fall asleep. His answer is adequate enough for Historia to fire the gun.

A piercing shriek cuts across the room just as Historia pulls the trigger, but it’s the only sound that can be heard. There is no whistling bullet. There is no bang as the bullet makes its mark upon the target’s skull. There is no dull thud as a corpse falls to the floor. There is only Gabi screaming for her great uncle as she finally manages to pull away from Mikasa’s hold, her screams only halting when she reaches for the wound on Mr. Braun’s head only to find him fully intact and unmistakably alive as he blinks back at her.

“What …?” Gabi asks, turning slowly to look at Historia and Mikasa.

“It’s a special gun, sweetheart,” Historia explains as she blows at the tip of the barrel. It’s for show, really, because the gun isn’t smoking at all. She drops the gun in her bag, patting it happily before looking back at Gabi and noticing the girl’s stunned expression. Historia frowns, leaning over to Mikasa to ask, “Did I not make that clear?”

“Not at all,” Mikasa replies. Her employer is many things, but clear is not one of them.

“Ah, it’s so troublesome to explain though,” Historia grumbles. She looks at Gabi, watching as the girl slowly loses her mind trying to comprehend everything unfolding in front of her. Her lower lip sticks out in a pout and Mikasa can already see the wheels turning in her mind as she tries to find a way out of dealing with the young girl. If there’s something Historia dislikes almost as much being told how to handle her money, it’s dealing with people on the verge of a mental breakdown. Historia looks over to Mikasa, her face hopeful as she waits for her employee to step in and take the lead, but Mikasa shoots her down with a dirty look and Historia sighs. “Look, Gabi,” Historia says impatiently, hands folded across her chest and foot tapping already. “It’s really not that difficult to understand. You see, the bullet I shot your Great Uncle Braun with allows people to see ghosts. Now, Mr. Braun can finally interact with the ghosts that have been watching over him for so long, all thanks to yours truly!” She waves a gracious hand and waits expectantly for the praise that she believes is deserved of her, but it never comes. Gabi is too busy staring at the empty air around them to give Historia any sort of thanks.

“What do you mean?” Gabi asks, her voice reaching a terrible whine that makes Historia sniff disdainfully. She looks at Mikasa, her expression making it quite clear that she thinks that Historia is speaking nonsense, but the woman offers her no further explanation. Her eyes land once more on her Great Uncle Braun and she notices that his eyes no longer roam. Instead, they are fixed on something in front of him, something that she cannot see. Horrified, she turns to Mikasa, gripping the woman’s wrists so hard that her knuckles turn white. “What’s wrong with Uncle Reiner? Why is he like that? He’s even worse than before!”

“He’s fine,” Mikasa says soothingly. She breaks one hand free from Gabi’s grasp and pats the young girl’s head gently.

“We could make this a lot more simple, you know,” Historia says. She pulls out the gun from her purse once more, twirling it carelessly in her hand. “Shall I shoot her too?”

Mikasa shoots Historia a hard glare. “You are not shooting a child.”

Her employer rolls her eyes, grumbling under her breath about how she was simply suggesting an easier solution, but she puts the gun away.

The ghosts are speechless as they cautiously approach Mr. Braun. The two brothers keep their distance but the other ghost — the tall one that had looked so murderously down at Historia when she had pulled the trigger — is the only one to stand right in front of his old friend. Both the ghost and Mr. Braun stare at each other as if they are the only two in the room. The soldier holds up a hand, reaching for the old man but too afraid to touch.

“Bertholdt.” It’s not a question that comes from Reiner, but a statement of disbelief. As he gazes at the ghost, the old man looks more awake than he has been this entire visit. He sits up, reaching for Bertholdt’s outstretched hand. Their fingetipsrs touch, then their palms, and then their fingers lace together. Ever since he had first laid eyes on Bertholdt, the real Bertholdt, Reiner hasn’t looked away once. “It really is you.”

“It’s true, then? He can see me now? He can really see me?” Bertholdt asks, staring in awe at his fingers interlaced with Reiner’s. He looks to Historia, eyes begging her to tell her that this is all real and not some cruel trick.

It’s a heartwarming scene, but Historia stands there with her arms folded across her chest. She gives him a curt nod before looking away disinterestedly, an inaudible sigh slipping from her lips.

Mikasa gestures for the ghost and his companions to get closer. “Go on,” she says with an encouraging smile. “He hasn’t seen you in so long. It must be overwhelming to reunite with you after all this time. Tell him everything and banish the nightmares that have been plaguing him for so long.”

Reiner continues to converse with Bertholdt as if nobody else is in the room. “But have you been here all this time?” He looks behind Bertholdt, a genuine smile now on his face. Although he has aged, his grin is as youthful as a young boy’s. He gestures with his free hand, waving his friend’s over. “Marcel and Porco, too? After everything I’ve done, you’re still here?” Tears are beginning to well up in his eyes once more but Bertholdt hastily wipes them away with a tender thumb.

“We were worried about you,” Marcel says. He takes a seat on the edge of Reiner’s bed. His expression is much softer now, filled with affection as he gazes down at his old friend, and rests a gentle hand on Reiner’s arm. “After the war … we were sorry we abandoned you. We couldn’t find it in ourselves to leave you again until we knew you were alright.”

It must have been torture for them to stay by Reiner’s side all those years, observing him helplessly as he screamed at distorted visions of them that blamed him for their deaths. It takes a certain type of strength — a certain type of love, Mikasa thought — to stay for someone for all those years. It had already been over half a century and still they had never left him. It must have been a similar pain for Mr. Braun too, Mikasa thinks, to have been tortured by the memory of his fallen for all those years. All those years he had suffered alone. Not anymore.

“What’s going on?” Gabi whispers, eyes wide as she tries to take in a scene she can’t understand.

“We’ll explain outside,” Mikasa whispers back. She places a hand on Gabi’s back and leads the girl towards the door, Historia dragging her feet as she follows behind. In the background, Reiner and his old comrades continue to talk.

“We were so worried,” Porco is saying, voice quiet as he takes a seat beside his brother Marcel. “You blamed yourself for things that weren’t your fault. It didn’t feel right to just leave you when you were suffering so much without us.”

“Did I worry you? I’m sorry. You stayed because of me instead of moving on like you should have,” Reiner says with a wry smile. He gazes down at the hand that holds Bertholdt. “But I’m glad I could see you all one last time… I missed you.”

Bertholdt gives Reiner’s hand a quick squeeze. “We missed you too.” His eyes crinkle when he smiles. It fades a little bit, affection replaced with concern as he asks, “But the things you were seeing … are they still here?”

Reiner doesn’t even look around to check, keeping his eyes on Bertholdt instead. “No,” he says with a shake of his head. His smile is spread so wide, wrinkles appearing at the corners of his mouth and eyes. “I only see you.”

Mikasa shuts the door gently behind her, a small smile on her face.

≿————-　❈　————-≾

“So let me get this straight,” Gabi says slowly. She holds up a fist, bringing up a finger every time she brings up each new topic she’s had to process. “There were no ghosts haunting Uncle Reiner. The things he was seeing were just hallucinations that were conjured up in his mind due to his own guilt. But there were ghosts — the ghosts of his old friends — that were watching over him all these years because they were worried about him. And I can’t see them because I wasn’t shot with a magic bullet?” She looks at her three fingers with a frown and then at the two women beside her.

“That’s pretty much it,” Mikasa hums. She’s only had to explain it a handful of times to the girl, so she’s quite pleased that Gabi’s grasped it so quickly even if the young girl’s expression grows more and more troubled with each repetition.

“Please don’t make us go through it again,” Historia says with a grown, knocking her head back against the wall. She bangs the back of her head against the wall a few times in frustration, her expression one of tired impatience, before letting out another exaggerated sigh. Although Mikasa has been patient throughout, Historia has been growing more and more impatient, only offering a few words here and there while Mikasa took care of most of the explanation.

“Well, it’s hard to believe you when I can’t see anything! How can I even trust you guys? I might have signed over my entire inheritance to a bunch of frauds!” Gabi points out, her gaze more suspicious of them than it was when they first met. “For all I know, you might have just made things worse bringing up his past!”

Historia stiffens at the young girl’s words and for a moment Mikasa thinks she’s going to get up and leave, but the woman opens her mouth to say quietly, “Darling, would you have rather he been haunted by his past until his last breath?” Gabi doesn’t respond and Historia continues, her eyes a little less icy now as she leans against the armrest. “You don’t understand because you’re so young. You don’t have things that you regret or lost things you can’t live without, not the way your uncle has. You should be thanking me, really, for allowing him the ability to reunite one last time with his old friends. Some people aren’t so lucky.”

The young girl’s cheeks blaze a bright red and she looks down at the floor, her eyes bright as they begin to fill with tears. “I’m sorry. I’m just scared,” she mumbles, lower lip trembling dangerously. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen him like this before. So sad, but at the same time … so happy.” The tears begin to roll down her cheeks one by one, her shoulders shaking as the girl tries to suppress her crying. Mikasa is about to reach out and offer Gabi a shoulder to lean on but, surprisingly, Historia beats her to it.

Gently, the blonde wraps an arm around the child’s shoulders before guiding her onto her shoulder. It’s a rare sign of sympathy, one that Mikasa usually doesn’t see Historia display, especially towards clients. It’s even more surprising when Historia begins to stroke the girl’s hair, brushing stray locks away from the child’s face as she hums that song that Mikasa still can’t fully recall. “Farewells are like that,” Historia murmurs, looking into the distance as if remembering something. “They’re always sad, but they’re not entirely sad. Never entirely sad.” There’s something wistful in the way she says this and Mikasa almost opens her mouth to ask why, but now isn’t the time. Maybe another day when they’re alone and there isn’t a child between them that needs comforting.

The three of them stay that way for a while, silent save for Gabi’s sobs and the muffled conversation on the other side of the while. As Mikasa rubs circles on the young girl’s back, she focuses her gaze on Historia, who has that faraway look in her eye that she sometimes gets when she isn’t thinking. It’s not one that Historia wears freely around others, but she’s gotten more careless around Mikasa over the years. Mikasa notices that such a distracted gaze tends to appear during businesses such as these where a client with ghosts that should have left a long time ago. There’s no ghost that haunts Historia now, at least none that Mikasa can see, but she has a feeling she already knows the memory that keeps Historia up at night. Why Mikasa never asks the woman herself, she doesn’t know.

The door to Mr. Braun’s room finally creaks open and the ghosts — Porco, Marcel, and Bertholdt, who is still holding onto Reiner’s hand as the old man follows them to the hall — trail out. They look much calmer now, their expressions serene and no longer hostile as they look first at Mikasa and Historia.

“Did you have a nice talk?” Historia says, getting up to meet them. She looks over at Mikasa and Gabi. Although the young girl is still crying, Historia beckons her forward, a twinge of annoyance on her face that’s replaced with a polite smile as she looks at Mr. Braun. “I hope you’ve had enough time to say your goodbyes. Goodness knows you’ve probably had a lot you wanted to say to Mr. Braun for the past half a century, but you’ve stayed here far too long, don’t you think?”

They nod in agreement, but they all look reluctant to go, Bertholdt especially. Still, Marcel steps forward with a gracious smile and says, “We have to thank you, Miss Historia, for allowing us to meet with Reiner one last time before we pass.”

Historia waves away his thanks with a wave of her hand, although her smile grows into a smirk after hearing the praise. “Not at all. It’s the least I could do.” She turns to Mr. Braun, her gaze more patient than it was when she was dealing with the elderly man’s great-niece. “Are you ready to say goodbye, Mr. Braun?”

He doesn’t look at Historia, his gaze lingering on Bertholdt whose hand he still holds. His withered hands cling to the spirit, eyes wistful like he never wants to let go. “Will I ever see you again?” he asks.

“If there’s ever a way, then I’m sure we’ll find our way back to each other,” Bertholdt replies. Mikasa can’t see the ghost’s face, but she knows he means it. She doesn’t know if it’s possible — to meet someone again after death or if reuniting in another life is feasible — but she believes his words now. If anyone can make it happen, it will be him.

≿————-　❈　————-≾

Mikasa and Historia drop the ghosts off at the hotel, leaving Connie and Levi to assist them and introduce the ghosts to the hotel’s rooms and various facilities. Mikasa had taken a few minutes to assure the ghostly trio that all of their accommodations (within reason, she added) would be met to the best of the staff’s ability. She would see them all again soon, the manager assured them even as Historia impatiently dragged her away to meet their reservation at the dim sum restaurant Mikasa had placed earlier today.

“So,” Mikasa asks, watching fondly as Historia shoves an entire BBQ pork bun into her mouth, “how is the food?”

“Incredible,” Historia answers with her mouth full of food. Despite how elegant the woman might appear on the outside, Historia — much to Mikasa’s amusement — always eats as if she’s starving. It doesn’t matter if they had eaten hours ago or thirty minutes ago; Historia will shovel food into her mouth until her cheeks are filled and doesn’t stop until every dish is licked clean. While others have found the woman’s table manners atrocious and even frightening at times, Mikasa can’t help but be entranced whenever she watches Historia eat.

“Come, eat more. The shrimp dumplings are absolutely divine.” Historia plucks a beautifully wrapped shrimp dumpling with her chopsticks and offers it to Mikasa.

“Thank you,” Mikasa says, holding out her plate to accept the dumpling. She takes the extra time to admire the delicate pleats in the translucent skin and the gorgeous pink of the plump shrimp sitting inside. When she takes a bite, the delicate wrapper breaks apart and her teeth dig into the shrimp with a delightful crunch, her mouth filling with the shellfish’s sweet flavor. Mikasa easily finishes the dumpling in another bite, savoring the taste of it as the starch wrapper melts on her tongue and mingles with the savory-sweet filling. When she’s done, she looks up to see Historia looking at her with a smug smile on her face.

“Delicious?”

“Very.”

“You’re very welcome,” Historia says, her chest puffed out proudly as if she was the one to suggest they eat here tonight. She goes back to inspecting the dim sum dishes laid out in front of them, her eyes latching onto a plate of chicken feet. She nibbles on one, spitting the bones out onto a napkin. When she’s done, she gets another, her lips shining pink from the grease. “It’s lovely, but it would have been better if you had let me change like I had asked.”

After dropping the ghosts off at the hotel, Historia had thrown the door open and rushed out to go change before Mikasa had caught her by the wrist. The woman needs to have a wardrobe change almost every hour of the day. It’s another one of Historia’s eccentricities that Mikasa lets slide half the time, but she had made reservations earlier and changing it would have been inconvenient.

“Would the chef’s cooking be any different if you were wearing a different outfit?” Mikasa asks. She takes a gentle bite into a soup dumpling, making sure not to slurp the broth too noisily. It almost burns her mouth, but the tender pork filling inside more than makes up for it.

Historia frowns, discarding the bones from her third chicken foot onto the table. She licks the sticky sweet black bean sauce from her fingers before wiping them on the napkin that sits across her lap. “It would taste better if I were wearing a different outfit,” Historia replies before plucking a fried crab ball from its plate. She digs her teeth into its crispy exterior with a loud crunch and swallows before continuing. “Things taste better when you’re dressed for the occasion. You should know this by now, Mikasa. We’ve been together for over twenty years, you know.”

She doesn’t need the reminder. Mikasa has been counting the days just like her cousin has been counting down the days. He’s been with Historia for almost an entire century. Mikasa wonders what it’s like to know someone for one hundred years. She can’t fathom it.

“And what would you wear instead?” Mikasa asks.

“Mmm.” Historia brings her chopstick to her mouth to nibble at thoughtfully. The woman has entire rooms filled with clothes — all organized by color, season, and style — and yet she’s still able to remember and assemble entire outfits complete with shoes and accessories. She grins when she’s finally thought of the perfect outfit, pointing her chopsticks at Mikasa with a grin on her face. “The Majorica pearls. They look like little dumplings. And the blue tulle dress, the one with the trailing skirt.”

Mikasa knows exactly which ensemble Historia is referring to, although it’s admittedly been a while since she’s seen the blonde hotelier wear the fairy-like tulle. With its shimmering skirt that seems to be a different shade of blue every time Historia moves and its long billowing sleeves that hang off Historia’s shoulders, it’s a piece that’s far more suited for a runway or an elegant wedding than a casual outing to a dim sum restaurant, but Historia wears such extravagant pieces with such confidence that it would seem out-of-place if she were to wear anything less luxurious.

“I think you look beautiful right now,” Mikasa replies.

Historia hardly bats an eyelash. “Of course I do. I’m always beautiful,” Historia says, brushing off the compliment as easily as she always does. It used to bother Mikasa, but she’s used to it now. “That blue dress would really suit the atmosphere of this restaurant better though.”

Mikasa only hums in response.

The two continue eating — Mikasa in delicate bites while Historia gorges herself with buns stuffed with succulent meats and crispy deep-fried shrimp balls but somehow never dropping a crumb. Mikasa doesn’t even eat much. She’s never had much of an appetite, but Historia cleans every plate. By the time Historia cleans off their last plate, there’s a mountain of dirty dishes stacked high on the side of the table, and yet Historia is still hungry enough to call over a nearby waitress and order nearly every dessert on her cart.

Mikasa doesn’t touch any of the pastries that are laid out in front of them, but Historia plucks a crispy durian cake and breaks it in two, the flaky crust crumbling underneath her fingers and spilling onto the table. The intoxicatingly sweet scent of the durian custard is fragrant enough to fill the whole room. Historia stuffs one half into her mouth, savoring the delicate taste of the durian custard as she chews and swallows. She follows with the other half before wiping her fingers on the cloth napkin in her lap.

“Do you still dream of me?” Historia asks nonchalantly. The question comes out of the blue, making Mikasa look up from where she was staring at Historia’s fingers.

I do, Mikasa wants to say. I dream of you every night. But she doesn’t say it. She never does. Instead, the manager replies with a simple, “Yes.”

“Hm,” is all Historia says.

≿————-　❈　————-≾

That night, Mikasa dreams of Historia in a garden. She wears clothing from a different time, the material like that from a rough burlap that has been bleached white from the sun and stitched into a plain dress. She’s younger in this dream, her face a little rounder and her blue eyes less guarded. Historia lays in the garden, staring up at the starry sky. She doesn’t stir even as another girl joins her.

“Historia,” the girl says, freckles sprinkled across her olive skin. Her hair is chopped unevenly in a short cut that frames her thin face, but Historia still smiles when the girl leans over her. It’s not the first time Mikasa has seen this girl in her dreams. “I dreamed of you again.”

“Did you?” Historia asks. Her mouth always curls upward whenever she sees the girl. She’s probably not even aware of it.

“I always dream of you,” the other girl replies.

“Was I beautiful?” Historia asks.

“Of course, you were,” the other girl replies. She lies down beside Historia and the blonde curls up against her, Historia’s blonde head resting against the other girl’s shoulder while their fingers intertwine. “You’re always beautiful.”

It’s painfully intimate. The two look so happy together, curled up against each other as they stare up at the sky. Mikasa doesn’t think she’s ever seen Historia smile like that. It makes her heart ache.

#mikahisu #mikasa ackerman #historia reiss #krista lenz #snk #hotel del luna au #like the moon loves the ocean series #ltmlto

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flowerfan2 · 5 years ago

Text

Private Time

I’ve been reading and writing (and living with) so much angst lately, I decided to indulge in some silly, sexy funtimes with a fandom I haven’t visited in a while. Enjoy.

Klaine, 2k, A03.

Summary: Living with his grad student roommates in quarantine, private time is hard to come by...

Blaine is generally very happy living in the somewhat rickety four-bedroom house he shares with three other grad students. It’s not too far from school, it’s got a workable washer and dryer in the basement, and the kitchen was renovated sometime in the past twenty years so it’s perfectly adequate for making whatever quick meals he manages to scrounge together after class.

But boy, are the walls thin.

This hasn’t been a problem until recently, when COVID-19 struck. School has gone online, but unlike the undergrads, Blaine and his roommates have a lease and all of them decided to endure the quarantine here in Somerville, Massachusetts rather than go home. According to Kurt, Somerville may not be where he wants to end up, but it’s far better than the Midwest town he grew up in and he has no desire to weather the quarantine back in Lima.

Thanks to the quarantine, Blaine has learned this and many more facts about his flatmates – and yes, they have all taken to calling it a flat, after an evening which started out with teasing Sam about how he likes to talk with a fake British accent turned into one of the most carefree nights Blaine has had in a long time. Apparently all it took was a few bottles of cheap wine and a defrosted cheesecake from Star Market to loosen them all up.

“We’re proper mates, now,” Sam had announced, waving his arms and nearly knocking over a lamp in the process. By the time they had all wandered off to bed, Blaine had learned that Kurt’s favorite singer was Lady Gaga, that Rachel had taken a year off from school to film a television pilot, and that Sam played the guitar rather well, as long as it was country music.

Blaine has liked Sam since they met playing intramural soccer in the fall. So when Sam mentioned last month that they had a spare bedroom, Blaine quickly took him up on the offer. Blaine’s previous apartment was lonely and smelled like something had died in the ceiling, so it was really a no brainer.

What had caught Blaine by wonderful, wonderful surprise, however, was that Kurt Hummel was one of Sam’s roommates. Blaine had seen Kurt perform in a production of Macbeth back in October, and had been mesmerized by the man’s performance. It hadn’t even occurred to him that Kurt was a regular grad student just like he was, not until Sam gave him the tour of the house and Kurt waved to him from the kitchen where he was gossiping with Rachel over skinny margaritas.

With just a smile and a nod and an agreement to take his turn putting out the trash, Blaine gained three roommates, including the guy he had been crushing on for months. Not bad for a Wednesday.

Much to Blaine’s dismay, simply moving into the house didn’t result in any quality time with Kurt. Between school and performances Kurt was hardly ever home, and Blaine’s schedule studying history and music theory was hardly better. Since the stay at home order was put in place, however, it’s a whole new world. Now the four of them can hardly get away from each other.

For the first two weeks of their enforced togetherness, everyone was on their best behavior, and the drama of it all gave them a shared sense of adventure. Kurt sewed them all homemade masks, Blaine carefully organized grocery trips to minimize time in the stores, Sam tried to get them to adopt home fitness routines, and Rachel kept them apprised of the most interesting celebrity bits to watch on You Tube.

But they are entering into week three of the quarantine, and the novelty is wearing off. For one thing, Rachel has been getting more and more demanding about household details (she is constantly editing the chore wheel and claiming someone else did it), and while Kurt generally has acted as peacemaker when confronted with Rachel’s whims, even he seems to be getting tired of it. Sam hasn’t done his laundry at all since they got locked in, and Blaine is running out of hair gel. Kurt has taken to cleaning the fridge so often that Rachel accused him of stealing cleaning supplies and rubber gloves from health care workers.

They are all becoming short-tempered and irritable. Blaine even catches himself snapping at Kurt, which is the last thing he wants to do. He’s worried that by the time the quarantine lifts, Kurt will never want to speak to him again, let alone date him.

Blaine has a few tried and true strategies for when he gets like this, but none of them are working. Sam insists on running with him every time he goes out, and his well intentioned chatter prevents Blaine from finding any escape. He can’t let off steam by boxing, because his gym is closed. And as for the things he really knows would do the trick, especially after an afternoon of watching Kurt do ballet stretches in yoga pants, well… the walls of their apartment are very, very thin.

Blaine knows this because Sam apparently feels no shame in indulging in his own solo activities. It’s easy to hear him, even from across the hall. Given that Blaine’s bedroom shares a wall with Kurt’s, there’s no way Blaine’s going to risk Kurt hearing anything of the sort from Blaine’s room.

Towards the end of the third week, Rachel calls a roommate meeting. Blaine has just finished an endless zoom call with his research supervisor, and he feels like his eyes are going to pop out of his head if he doesn’t get his contacts out soon. But Rachel insists, so they all gather in the sitting room, Sam and Blaine on the lumpy brown couch, and Kurt sitting on the edge of an armchair, looking to Blaine like he could be posing in a fashion magazine.

“Thank you for coming,” Rachel begins, as if they had any real choice in the matter. She launches into an overview of their past few roommate meetings, and brings up an excel spreadsheet on her computer, on which she has apparently made further edits to the chore wheel.

Blaine tries not to be distracted by the way the asymmetrical neckline of Kurt’s cashmere sweater drapes over his collarbone when he leans forward to look at Rachel’s chart.

“So I decided on Saturdays, Tuesdays, and Thursdays,” Rachel says, looking around the room for approval. Blaine realizes he has lost the plot completely, but luckily he’s not the only one.

“Wait, what?” Sam asks. Kurt has found a nail file somewhere and isn’t paying much attention either, but his mouth quirks up at little at Sam’s question, so he’s probably glad Sam is taking the blame for this one too.

Rachel lets out a long suffering sigh, and places an Amazon box on the table. “As I said, I haven’t been able to use the practice rooms for weeks now, and my vocal production is suffering. I need to be able to focus properly on allowing my voice to soar over my accompaniment at its expected volume, without having to censor myself.”

Sam still looks confused, and Rachel glares at him. “I need to listen to loud music, and sing loudly, ok? So I got these for all of us.”

Sam frowns. “I don’t mind if you sing, Rach.”

Rachel’s hands clench at her sides. “It’s not about you, it’s about me.” Kurt coughs not indiscreetly into his hand, but Blaine doesn’t quite catch what he says. “I need you all to wear these, for an hour, three times a week. I’ve clearly marked this as private time on our schedule, from 11 to midnight, Saturdays, Tuesdays, and Thursdays.”

“But what if-“

“Sam, let it go,” Kurt says. “We’re all missing <I>private time</I> these days.” Kurt stands up and smooths his hands down his skin tight jeans. “It’s fine with me, Rachel.”

Blaine stands up too, and peers into the box, then takes out a set of headphones. They are high end noise-cancelling models, clearly expensive, and probably quite effective. “These are great, Rachel. Thanks. But you didn’t have to do this. I’m sure we could have worked something out so you could practice.”

Rachel glares at him now too, and tosses her hair over her shoulder. “I <i>have</i> worked it out.

Private time commences at eleven o’clock on each designated night. I expect you all to go to your rooms, and wear the headsets. It’s the least we can do to help preserve our collective mental health during this trying time. Do I have your agreement?”

They all agree, and Rachel smirks, satisfied. Blaine chalks it up to roommate harmony and sets about seeing what he can make for dinner out of tortillas, one cucumber, and three apples (answer: nothing, they eat frozen pizza).

Later that evening, he and Sam are on the couch trying to find something to watch on Netflix. Suddenly Sam leans over and slaps Blaine on the shoulder.

“Ow, Sam, what was that for?”

“I know why Rachel got the headphones for us,” Sam announces, grinning crazily, “It’s so she can have a wank!”

Blaine attributes Sam’s ongoing affinity for British slang to the amount of Sherlock fanfic he’s been reading lately, but now really isn’t the time to get into it.

He reflexively starts to deny it, but then he realizes with a flush of embarrassment that Sam is probably right. Sam watches his face and his grin gets even bigger.

“She’s kind of a genius, isn’t she?” Sam grabs a set of headphones and bounds away up the stairs.

“Sam,” Blaine calls out, wanting to remind him that it’s Monday, and therefore no private time is scheduled. Not that it’s stopped Sam before.

The next night Rachel reminds them all after dinner that private time will begin precisely at eleven o’clock. After a group viewing of the first episode of Deadwater Fell (during which Blaine divided his attention between watching David Tennant, watching Kurt, and watching Kurt watch David Tennant), Rachel checks the time on her phone and orders them all upstairs. At five minutes to eleven, she screams “put your headphones on,” and slams the door to her bedroom.

Blaine thinks this is all fairly ridiculous, but he puts on the headphones anyway, and settles on his bed with his laptop. He surfs around for a while, finding clips of some noteworthy Shakespeare productions (okay, fine, it’s Benedict Cumberbatch playing Hamlet), but then his mind starts to wander. Being cooped up with his roommates has been… constraining… for him too, and maybe he should go ahead and take advantage of the private time Rachel has arranged for them.

Blaine makes himself more comfortable and slides a hand down his body, wondering if his roommates are doing the same. Wondering, especially, if Kurt is doing the same. He unzips his fly and takes himself in hand, letting out a long sigh at the sensation – and then freezing when he hears himself. Blaine quickly realizes that as he got comfortable on the bed, the headphones had slipped off his ears.

And if he can hear himself, what if Kurt can hear him too?

Any interest in solo activities leaves him in a flash, and Blaine quickly zips himself up and plants his feet on the floor. He makes sure the headphones are properly situated on his ears, and spends the remaining twenty minutes of private time organizing his sock drawer.

The next morning his roommates seem downright cheery, and Blaine starts to regret his nerves. It would have been nice to get a little relief from the stress of quarantine, even at the risk of potential embarrassment. Maybe he just needs to be quieter, next time.

Thursday night Blaine fluffs his pillows and arranges himself on the bed face down, so that any noise he makes will be muffled. This turns out to be a brilliant idea, and he has quite a good time imagining that Kurt is underneath him, writhing and squirming and rutting against him, all long lines and warm skin. It’s not a pillow stifling his cries, it’s Kurt’s wet mouth…

When Blaine finally comes to, he feels a little guilty, but he’s more relaxed than he’s been in weeks. Maybe he’ll get through this quarantine after all.

#klaine #klaine fic #blaine anderson #kurt hummel #glee #quarantine fic

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knowfromme-blog · 5 years ago

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5 Paid Life & Money Apps That Are Actually Worth The Money

Not too long ago, I wrote an article for TFD all about the fabulous free apps that attend me manage my health. And while I try to be as frugal as possible when using mobile apps, there are a select few that I’ve found really enact warrant the price tag.

Here’s my breakdown of which ones made the slice:

1. Buddhify ($4.99; one-time purchase) Buddhify is a really glowing meditation app. It was recommended to me by a facilitator of a DBT skills group I took last year, and I’m so gay that I found it. It’s pretty unique in its layout — the way you pick a meditation is via its Wheel. There are 12 different options on the multi-colored wheel, with topics like Meditation 101, Stress & Difficult Emotion, Traveling, Going to Sleep, etc. To be honest, I had a bit of a learning curve with this layout — I wasn’t used to categorizing the type of meditation I wanted before playing it. But once I got the hang of it, the process totally changed the way I meditate. Now, before meditating via Buddhify, I pause to consider what exactly I’m trying to accept out of my practice: enact I need something short to pass the time while on the train? Am I feeling stressed and need to find a way to unexcited down? Taking the time to ask such questions allows me to maximize the benefits of my practice — I can choose the perfect recording for any moment. After a while, you’ll find your preferred tracks, which you can “Favorite” and save for easy reference. I particularly be pleased the Traveling and Walking tracks, which offer meditations specifically designed to be used on the disappear. I’ve yet to find another meditation app with such multi-purpose tracks. I also really appreciate the fact that Buddhify is a quality app, but only asks for a one-time payment. Other, more expensive apps (i.e. Headspace) charge on a subscription-based model, which adds up over time. I like that I only had to invest $6.99 (CAD) up-front and can continue using the app for years to advance. 2. DailyPocket, formerly DailyPay ($5.99 premium version; one-time purchase) DailyPocket is a budgeting app that I’ve mentioned in TFD articles before. Although I employ many tools — such as my bank’s mobile app, or even Mint — to accept overviews of my spending habits, this itsy-bitsy app has served me well. Its premium version is 100% worth its weight in gold. The concept is fabulous: you set a weekly budget, personalize a list of spending categories, and manually enter your purchases as you disappear. Then, the app calculates handy numbers — like how many days are left in the week, how much money you should spend each day to stay within your weekly budget, and what percentage of your weekly budget you’ve spent so far. You can also see visual breakdowns of your spending in the form of pie charts. I’m not very wonderful at math (or spreadsheets), so this app does a lot of the work for me. I treasure being able to see exactly how much money I can spend for the rest of the week — it takes the guesswork out of budgeting. It kind of blends the process of manually entering expenses into a spreadsheet or journal, but combines that with the convenience of digital tools. I like to employ this app mainly for my weekly disposable income, and I employ other means to calculate larger figures (like my monthly savings, debt repayment, etc.). Again, this app only requires a one-time purchase, which makes its cost-per-employ very, very low. 3. The modern York Times Digital Access ($4 per month currently; promotional rate) When I first tried quitting social media for wonderful, I realized that there was a gap in my daily routine — I had been using Facebook to sustain up with a lot of daily news, from pages I’d followed and friends’ written posts. Without that constant stream of information, I needed a solid way to sustain up with current events. Personally, I be pleased reading The modern York Times for the bulk of my news. I like the fact that it includes plenty of progressive ideas, but also has a healthy dose of conservative viewpoints. Even though I’m very left-wing in my beliefs, I find it useful to hear opposing perspectives in order to challenge my own ideas and understand their counter-points. I got a promotional offer that allows me to pay $4 per month for digital access, which has been totally worth it. Reading the NYT truly enriches my life, allowing me to sustain up with the news while also enjoying some leisure reading. If you’re trying to limit your social media usage, I’d definitely recommend trying this strategy out — find a reputable news source that you genuinely be pleased reading, and purchase a subscription (bonus points if you can find a promotional rate, which most publications will offer to modern readers!). In the age of information overload, it can be refreshing to sit down and read wonderful journalism, instead of just scrolling through social media and taking in a haphazard selection of posts (most of which are probably not fact-checked). 4. QuickBooks Self-Employed ($7 per month currently; promotional rate) If you’re a freelancer or otherwise self-employed, I’m sure that you can sympathize with the hassle that is organizing your books and tax documents. There are many upsides to working for yourself, but having to prepare all of your famous financial documents is not one of them. When I first started freelancing, I found that I was getting indolent with record-keeping, which often meant that I was missing out on claiming real business expenses at the halt of the year. So, I ended up purchasing a subscription to QuickBooks Self-Employed (the Canadian edition), and it has been a valid lifesaver. It’s allowed me to sustain track of my accounting, book-keeping, and tax preparation pretty much on autopilot. I simply link my bank accounts/credit cards, etc., and the program automatically imports all of my transactions, which I can then brand as Business or Personal (I am a sole proprietorship, so this helps sustain things separate). I can also import images of receipts for cash transactions — the app then automatically reads the info and imports the data. This software lets me enjoy a clear overview of my total net income per month, year, etc., and easily organizes all of my tax documents for the halt of the year. There are other options out there — like hiring an accountant or tax professional, or doing everything manually — but for me, this is what works best, and it is cost-effective. The app allows me to stay organized, and to avoid the hassle of doing lots of math (this seems to be a theme in my life), so the monthly price-tag is worth it. 5. Spotify Premium — Family ($4.99 per month; $14.99 price split three ways with family members) Lastly, I enact pay for Spotify Premium. My family members and I split this between the three of us, so we each contribute $4.99 per month. While Spotify isn’t the most novel service, it does enrich my life. I’ve tried free music apps, and I’ve also used the media apps offered through my public library, but they simply aren’t comprehensive or user-friendly enough for my needs. Shelling out the $4.99 is worth it to me, as a former musician who does really appreciate the act of listening to wonderful music. It adds a lot of joy to my days, allowing me to rock out in the shower, in my room, or even with headphones on the bus. And I like the offline mode, which saves me data charges on my phone bill. You could certainly trim this app from your budget if you were really trying to save, but at this point in my life, the subscription fee is manageable and seems reasonable for the enjoyment I accept out of it on a daily basis. Sometimes the itsy-bitsy pleasures in life really are worthwhile. What are your favorite paid apps? enjoy you slice certain ones from your budget, or added others? Let us know in the comments. Mercedes Killeen is a Toronto-based professional author and editor. You can purchase her book of poetry, tulips, at greyborders.com and order her freelance services at fiverr.com/killeenm. Image via Unsplash Like this narrative? Follow The Financial Diet on Facebook, Instagram, and Twitter for daily tips and inspiration, and sign up for our email newsletter here.

!function(f,b,e,v,n,t,s) {if(f.fbq)return;n=f.fbq=function(){n.callMethod? n.callMethod.apply(n,arguments):n.queue.push(arguments)}; if(!f._fbq)f._fbq=n;n.push=n;n.loaded=!0;n.version='2.0'; n.queue=;t=b.createElement(e);t.async=!0; t.src=v;s=b.getElementsByTagName(e); s.parentNode.insertBefore(t,s)}(window, document,'script', 'https://connect.facebook.net/en_US/fbevents.js'); fbq('init', '1864103540333553'); fbq('track', 'PageView'); Read the full article

#beauty #fashion #hair #makeup

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echoes-of-realities · 6 years ago

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be my fire in the cold (and I'll be waiting by the mistletoe) - 5/25

* * *

[From the Start] // [Fanfiction] // [ao3]

[Previous Chapter] // [Next Chapter]

Chapter Summary: Tina and Santana have a long talk; Santana wishes she was better at comforting people.

Chapter 5: but some are sick of this grey

///

“If that’s anyone besides Santana don’t you dare come in!”

Santana rolls her eyes and eases the door open, finding Tina standing in front of the mirror of her vanity wearing only her tights and sports bra. “You know it’s a little suspicious that I’m allowed in here when you’re half-naked but your boyfriend’s not,” she comments idly.

Santana can see Tina roll her eyes in the mirror as she touches the mascara brush to her eyes one more time before capping the tube and dropping it on top of the pile of her makeup. “Mike doesn’t knock.”

“Still,” Santana repeats teasingly, “suspicious.”

Tina huffs out a laugh as she shakes her head. “Sure it is, you’re like the only other person who ever comes down here that’s not another principal or a dresser,” she says easily.

Santana hums in agreement. “And I’ve seen you in less, so,” she teases.

Tina just rolls her eyes as she tugs a loose shirt, turning and leaning her hip against the vanity, her arms crossed with a grin. “So is this an official visit?”

“Why do you need to know?”

“I wanna know if I can make fun of you or not.”

Santana snorts out a laugh. “As if it matters, we both know you’ll make fun of me either way,” she complains. Tina concedes with a wide, knowing grin. “But I have a couple notes to go over,” Santana continues, smacking the palm of her right hand with her notebook as she makes herself at home on Tina’s couch, propping her feet up on the coffee table. “So come sit.”

Tina laughs and crosses the room to collapse on the couch beside her best friend. Santana quickly flips through her notebook until she finds the pages she’s looking for, going over some blocking issues and a music cue that Schue missed last show that threw Tina off a little bit. Once she’s done she groans and lets her head loll onto the back of the couch, trying to roll out the tension in her neck. “I need a coffee,” she decides.

Tina smiles. “Lucky for you, Brittany went on a coffee run not too long ago, and she dropped an extra one off with me on the off chance that you dropped by.”

Santana’s smile is involuntary, and she tries not to let it be known how warm her cheeks are, but Tina’s not her best friend for nothing and she smirks at Santana knowingly as she crosses to the vanity to grab the two coffees sitting there.

“You got time to sit and drink it?” Tina asks.

Santana checks her watch as Tina hands over her coffee. “I mean, probably not, but no one should be unlucky enough to see me until I’m properly caffeinated, so sure.”

Tina laughs and resettles on the couch. “Good, I feel like I’ve barely seen you despite the fact that we’re in the same building like nine hours a day.” Santana grunts in acknowledgement as she gulps down a long sip of coffee, pleasantly surprised to find that it tastes exactly how she likes it; it’s far more lukewarm than hot, but just the fact that Brittany thought of her when getting coffee makes warmth settle in her stomach anyways. “I know we haven’t had time to talk about it since Thanksgiving,” Tina continues, “but did you think about Christmas?”

Santana sighs and drops her coffee to rest in her lap, shaking her head. “I appreciate the offer, but I think I’ll just stay home.” She doesn’t add the again, but they can both hear it, too loud in the following silence.

“You sure?” Tina murmurs, “My parents would love to have you. They haven’t stopped talking about the flan de queso you brought to Thanksgiving, and they keep asking if you’ve accepted the invitation yet.”

Santana shrugs uncomfortably. “You know I’m not great company this time of year,” she says.

Tina sighs but she knows Santana well enough to know when to drop it. They sip their coffee silently for a long moment, before Tina turns expectantly towards Santana. “Wanna know the latest gossip?” she whispers dramatically.

Santana laughs and sits up a little more, more than grateful for the change in subject, turning towards Tina and feeling like they’re back in their college dorm, sitting cross-legged on their beds and talking about everything and nothing. “Always. I gotta keep track of whatever dumbass decisions this company makes. Remember how awkward Sister Act was our second year of college?”

“God!” Tina laughs, “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you turn so red than when Kate and Christian started going at it!”

“How the fuck was I supposed to know that they broke up the night before?” Santana protests, her voice bright with amusement. “They weren’t even in the scene together and somehow they managed to mortify me, the company, our professor, and the entire audience.”

“I’ve never seen you so lost for words before, but the look on your face when you had to chase after Christian and actually get on stage in the middle of the scene to physically restrain them? Priceless!”

Santana rolls her eyes at herself. “I was so scared Hagberg was going to fail me, but she just bought me a box of chocolates instead.” She takes a sip of her coffee before looking expectantly at Tina. “Now, what do I need to know about here to avoid being forced to jump on stage in the middle of The Nutcracker?”

Tina grins and sets her coffee down on the coffee table, and that’s how Santana knows she’s about to get a list of gossip a mile long. She feels like she needs to write down a list of all the connections, but she also has a feeling that it would get so tangled and convoluted it would be near impossible to understand. Rachel and Finn have a messy on-again-off-again relationship that somehow Quinn, that St. James guy from sound, and Brody from maintenance have all gotten mixed up in at some point; Puck and Quinn refuse to talk to each other unless absolutely necessary; Kurt and Blaine had a messy breakup and Karofsky somehow ended up caught up in it; Schue’s ex-wife showed up near the start of rehearsals claiming to be pregnant with his baby, and it made things super awkward when Emma, his new girlfriend, showed up at the same time; Shelby from the pit band was caught making out with Puck the second month of rehearsals; Sue, the theatrical producer, and Schue have a nasty rivalry still ongoing despite the fact that no one, not even them, know how or when it started; Kitty, The Snow Queen, dated Artie before he was hired, and then it got weird and they broke up and now don’t speak; Jane, Brittany’s understudy, and Mason, Mike’s understudy, have adorable but obvious crushes on each other, but both of them are too shy to do anything about it; Zizes once dated Puck, which makes Santana’s head spin because Zizes is pretty cool and Puck is so slimy.

Santana shakes her head slowly as she taps her empty coffee cup against her thigh. “This is insane,” she mutters. “I need a spreadsheet and seven hours just to figure half of this out.”

Tina laughs. “It’s pretty messy,” she agrees, “And it’s all only happened since we started rehearsals.”

Santana chews on her lip, wondering if she should even ask the question she so desperately wants to know, but before she can debate it she’s already asking it. She wishes she could blame her lack of filter on her exhaustion, but she finished her coffee ages ago. “What about Brittany?” she blurts, aiming for nonchalant but landing somewhere far past too-invested.

“Apparently she dated Artie for a little bit when they were in college, but she always conveniently ‘forgets’ that.” Tina laughs, her eyes sparkling knowingly as she regards her best friend. “But I haven’t heard of her dating anyone since we started rehearsals months ago, inside the company or out.”

Santana tries desperately to remain calm and collected with that information, but she can’t hide the way her stomach flips or the smile she’s fighting. “Cool,” she manages, leaning forward to put her empty coffee cup on the table and avoiding Tina’s eyes.

“What about you? Meet any nice girls lately?” Tina teases, grinning widely at how obvious Santana is about her little crush. “Besides Brittany,” she whispers, deftly dodging Santana’s flailing arm as she reaches out to smack her.

Santana draws back and rolls her eyes so hard that she shakes her head a little. “As if. You know I’m too busy with work.”

Tina just stares blankly at Santana, a thoroughly unimpressed look in her eyes. “Santana, I mean this from the bottom of my heart, but that’s bullshit. Work isn’t your entire life.” Santana scoffs but Tina doesn’t let her shut down. “Listen, I totally understand if you just don’t feel like dating anyone right now, but you can’t use work as an excuse.”

“Hey, I went on a date when I was covering for the stage manager on Anastasia back in August!” Santana protests, but as soon as the words leave her mouth she knows it’s a weak argument.

“What? The girl from that startup band? You went on one date and never mentioned her again,” Tina says, and Santana knows that, no matter how much she wants to protest, she can’t argue that point. “What was even her name?”

Santana opens her mouth but finds her mind has gone completely blank. “Uh, Dina?”

“Dana?”

“No wait, wasn’t it like a unisex name or something? Daniel?”

“Daniella?”

“Dani!” Santana shouts, snapping her fingers and pointing at Tina with a proud grin for finally remembering the name. “It was Dani!”

“Right!” Tina’s satisfied expression turns sly. “You know, this just proves my point. You need to find a nice girl whose name you can actually remember. Like maybe Brittany.”

“Oh, shut up,” Santana says with an eye roll, flustered and bashful.

There’s movement from the hallway, the sound of someone dropping something bouncy and heavy footsteps as they chase after it. Tina quickly stands up and crosses the dressing room, sticking her head out into the hallway and looking both ways; if someone just broke a prop she feels the need to warn them before Santana finds out and goes on the war path. When she doesn’t see anyone she just shrugs and closes the door. “You’re not getting out of this conversation,” Tina threatens as she turns around.

Santana plays with the notebook in her hands. “I’m too busy with still learning this show, you know that.”

Tina studies her for a long moment and Santana fidgets under her scrutiny. “I’m not going to push it,” Tina says slowly, “But I think you deserve to let yourself be happy.” Santana sucks in a quick breath and resolutely doesn’t look at Tina. Her first instinct is to argue and get defensive, but she can’t quite get the words to form in her mouth. Tina sighs and crosses back to the couch, sitting down beside Santana a little closer than she normally would, ducking her head down under Santana’s until Santana is forced to meet her eyes. “It’s been four years,” she whispers, “She would want you to be happy. Whether that’s with some nice girl or with some new hobby or whatever, it doesn’t really matter. But this,” Tina pauses and Santana’s eyes cut away from hers, “this relentless, constant pace you’ve set for yourself isn’t healthy. When was the last time you actually took time off that wasn’t a no show day?”

Santana can feel the tremble in her chin and she chokes down the thickness she can feel in her throat, choking her. Tina shifts on the couch until she can wrap an arm around Santana and draw her into her embrace. She wants to struggle against her best friend’s arm, but Tina’s always given the best hugs. “I just don’t want to see you burnout,” Tina continues.

Santana lets herself be held for a moment before she shakes Tina off and stands abruptly. “I’ve gotta finish giving notes,” she rasps.

Tina sighs but nods. “Half hour is coming up soon anyways,” she agrees, “And I’ve gotta get Kurt to fix some things on my skirt.”

Santana ducks her head as she crosses the room, barely giving Tina a second glance. Tina just shakes her head and lets her friend go, staring at the empty coffee cups on the coffee table and hoping that she didn’t just cause Santana to close herself off again.

“Tina,” Santana suddenly calls from the doorway, waiting until Tina glances up at her before continuing, “I know you worry. I’m just— Work keeps my mind off of her, you know? When I’m busy I don’t think about her as much, especially this month.” Tina’s face crumples a little and she nods in understanding. “But you’re right, I could probably use a break,” she admits, “The next no show day is Monday. We should actually do something, all three of us, instead of me spending the my only day off working anyways. Maybe we can go to the mall and do some Christmas shopping?”

Tina brightens and smiles. “That sounds really good,” she says.

Santana shifts awkwardly before giving her friend a small smile. “Thanks for— For looking out for me, or whatever.”

Tina laughs, knowing that sometimes it’s best to just let Santana stumble through her emotions without too much teasing. “It’s practically my second job by this point,” she says easily, “Now you better go and finish yours.”

Santana rolls her eyes but sends Tina a fond, grateful smile before slipping out the door and heading down the principal hallway towards the stage.

As the evening wears on, Santana decides to just give notes before the show tomorrow because she’s so tired from running around the entire show trying to deal with the technical issues they’ve been having with the flies. Karofsky still has no idea what is happening with them, even after him and Santana messed with them for about forty minutes after the show. He offered to stay even later to try and fix them, and while Santana appreciated the offer, she just sent him and the rest of the automaton crew home, telling them meet her a couple hours earlier than usual tomorrow so they can figure it out.

She’s not sure why she ends up in the principal hallway; she knows Mike and Tina have already left, and she doesn’t have anything she needs to check on since she’s giving notes tomorrow, but her feet lead her down the stairs before she realizes where she’s going. She figures she’ll just check in on whoever is still lingering down there, but because she’s alone she can’t quite hide the fact that she’s only really hoping to check in with one person.

Most of the doors are closed and locked as she wanders down the hallway. She runs into Mason, who is just heading out after looking around for Mike to ask him a couple questions. Santana chats with him for a little bit and promises to let Mike know he was looking for him before waving goodbye and heading further down the hallway. The lights are a little dimmed, and as she heads for the end of the hallway she can hear a muffled conversation. She slows as she approaches the only door that’s cracked open; the lights to Brittany’s dressing room cast the hallway around her door a little brighter, and Santana stops just before she reaches the door.

She’s about to turn around and leave, figuring she can just talk to Brittany talk tomorrow when she’s giving notes, it’s not like she ever has many to give her anyways so she’ll definitely be able to spend a couple extra minutes with her just talking, when she hears a sniffle. She freezes and waits for a long moment, Brittany’s voice distorted and muffled by her door. When she hears that sniffle again, followed by a choked sob, something in Santana’s chest shifts and shatters a little at the sound.

She’s pushing the door open and entering the dressing room before she realizes it, and Brittany glances up at her in shock. They stand there staring, wide-eyed and worried, at each other for long drawn out moments. Brittany still has her phone pressed to her ear, tears streaming down her face and making her skin shine wetly against the redness blotching her face. “Uh, I’ll call you back, mom,” she mumbles, and now that her voice isn’t muffled by the door Santana can hear exactly how tight and wet it is. “No, no, it’s fine. Just the stage manager. I’ll call you when I get home.” She pauses, sniffling, while her mom says something over the phone. “Yeah, I will. Love you too.” She hangs up and suddenly Santana becomes aware of how rude it was for her to barge into Brittany’s dressing room like that, but she looks so heartsick that Santana can’t find it in herself to regret it; no one should be alone when they look so miserable.

“Sorry,” Brittany chokes, scrubbing furiously at her face, “I was just—”

“No, Britt,” Santana interrupts, taking a couple quick steps forward, “I’m sorry for eavesdropping and barging in here but are— Are you okay?”

Brittany looks about ready say yes, even though they both know how obvious of a lie it would be, before her face falls and she slowly shakes her head. Something deep in Santana’s chest aches at the look on Brittany’s face.

“Was this— Was this the thing you were sad about yesterday?” Santana whispers. Brittany nods hopelessly and Santana sucks in a breath. “Oh, Britt, I’m really sorry.” Brittany gives her a small wavering smile, but it drops as her eyes fall to the floor. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Brittany takes a deep, steadying breath. “I— Um— That was my mom,” she manages to whisper, “They just had to put our cat down.” Santana sucks in a breath; she’s never had a pet before, they were too expensive and high maintenance for her mom, who was a full time shift worker, when they lived in Ohio, and their apartment didn’t allow pets once they moved to New York, but she remembers how devastating it was when Tina’s family had to put down their dog in their second year of college. “He’s just— We’ve had him since I was eight,” Brittany explains in a croak, “He’s been in our family longer than my sister has. And I— Sometimes I had a hard time at school with— Schoolwork and making friends and whatever. But he was just a cat, you know? He didn’t care if I was failing math or if Katie stopped talking to me, he just wanted treats and snuggles.”

“Britt, I’m so sorry,” Santana whispers, feeling completely and utterly inadequate. “I don’t— I’m just sorry.”

Brittany sniffles and blinks rapidly. When her eyes meet Santana’s they’re too bright and shiny and Santana wants so desperately to take away the grief cracking the beautiful blue there. “He’s been really sick for a couple weeks,” she explains, “But I haven’t been able to go home and see him because of the show and I’m just— I wish I could have seen him one more time before— Before—” she chokes herself off.

“Do you want a hug?” Santana blurts without thinking.

“What?” Brittany croaks.

Santana suddenly remembers that she’s technically only known this woman for five days, despite the fact that they spend most of their waking hours in the same building and seem to have an uncanny ability to run into each other outside of the theatre and that it feels a little bit like she’s known Brittany for years. “I— Never mind. I just— You looked so sad and— I mean hugs usually help so,” Santana trails off lamely.

Brittany chokes on a sob and nods. “A hug would be nice.”

Santana breathes out a sigh of relief that she didn’t just creep Brittany out and takes the last few steps to Brittany, hoping that a hug will make her feel better, even if it’s just for a moment. She hesitantly opens her arms and Brittany immediately falls into her; she fits against Santana easily, their ribs locking together as Brittany clings to her, muffling her sobs against Santana’s shoulder and neck. Santana sighs and soothingly runs her hands over Brittany’s back, just letting Brittany cry without saying anything, knowing how cathartic it can be to just let someone else take your weight for a while.

She’s not sure how, but they eventually end up huddled together on the couch, and Santana keeps her arms around Brittany until she sighs and swallows thickly, wiping at her eyes with trembling fingers. “This is just another reason December and Christmastime sucks,” she mutters.

Santana hesitates for a moment before tightening her arm around Brittany; Brittany melts further into Santana’s embrace, boneless and heavy, and any awkwardness Santana feels nudging at her consciousness eases. “You’ve got that right,” she sighs.

#brittana #brittany pierce #santana lopez #glee #brittana fanfiction #glee fanfiction #tina cohen chang #santina #my writing #story: be my fire in the cold (and I'll be waiting by the mistletoe)#we're already one fifth of the way through lol

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handsupinthebalorclub · 7 years ago

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Anagapesis (chapter 2)

pairing: the shield x reader

word count: 3,640

summary: Anagapesis (n.) no longer feeling any affection for something or someone you once loved. After three years, you’re officially the manager of the Shield once again. But, things aren’t quite the same as they used to be.

warnings: cursing, mentions of betrayal and trust issues

a/n: this chapter sucks so I firmly apologize and I’ll do my best to make chapter three better

chapter one / chapter two / chapter three / chapter four

Your (eye color) eyes focused on the laptop screen in front of you, which displayed a clip from the August 14th, 2017 episode of Raw. For the past hour, you had been trying to piece together what had happened in your absence. Prior to your involvement in the Shield reunion, you had heard a lot about the small interactions the three men had before Dean and Seth’s tag team reign. But, you had never brought yourself to see it with your own eyes. Well, until now.

Dean stood in the center of the ring with Seth. Seth stood confidently, a microphone in his hand as he addressed the elder man.

“When I take the fight to the Miz, and I will, brother. Will you be standing in my way? Or will you be standing by my side? That’s all I want to know.” Dean took a second to survey the crowd, who had launched into a chorus of ‘Yes’ chants, with a look of disbelief. His grip tightened on the steel chair in his hand before he had turned back to Seth.

“I’m-I’m sorry. Did you just say brother?” Dean scoffed.

Seth automatically recoiled when he heard this.

“C’mon you know I didn’t mean it like that-”

“Brother? I ain’t your brother.” Dean took a step back, anger now evident. “My brothers were in the Shield.”

Seth opened his mouth to retaliate, but it seemed as if he was at a loss for words. Once Dean saw he wasn’t going to say anything, he continued.

“My brothers fought with me in the trenches. I trusted my brothers!”

“How many times-” Seth held up a hand to stop Dean, but he just kept going.

“My brothers stood for something!” Dean took a step closer to Seth, maintaining strong eye contact. “You? I don’t know you.”

The expression of Seth’s face switched. You wanted to say that the look was regret, but you weren’t quite sure.

“I mean, I knew a guy who looked like you once. He was a liar. A cheater, the kind of guy to stab his brothers and sister in the back. That guy took a chair,” Dean held up the metal chair that was in his grasp. “Just like this one and stabbed it right through my back, and right through my heart.” “And that was over three years ago! And you know what? I’m sorry!” Seth yelled before he took a step back and tried to calm himself down.

Dean only smiled, happy with the reaction he had earned from The Architect.

You had thought about pausing the video in this moment, your mind racing at the words Seth had just said. But, you powered through and decided to continue watching. Back on the screen, Seth raised a finger and prodded the air between him and Dean.

“And I never said that before, so I’ll say it again. I’m sorry, alright?” He stared down Dean as the WWE Universe cheered. “If you think I forgot about that, I live with that every single day of my life! I remember that, but do you know what else I remember? I remember you and I tearing each other apart inside of Hell in a Cell!”

“I remember you,” he pointed to Dean before continuing. “Cashing in your Money In the Bank contract and beating me for the WWE World Heavyweight Championship. But all that, all that, everything we’re talking about- that’s in the past. This is the then and now. I’ve moved on! What is it going to take for you to move on man?”

The two men looked at each other, Seth obviously waiting for an answer. Dean scratched the back of his neck and began to pace around the ring. He rested his hands onto the crimson robes to collect himself, then walked back over to Seth.

“Y’know, I see your lips moving. But I don’t hear nothing.” Seth looked around the ring, done with his ex-brother’s claims.

“Alright, alright.” He looked at the chair in Dean’s hands before hitting it with the back of his hand. “You got that...you got that little chair right there in your hand.” Seth re-positioned himself so his back was facing towards Dean. “Do it. No, do it! Hit me! If that’s what’s going to make you feel better, hit me!” He spread his arms out wide and gave Dean the opportunity to strike, like Seth had done to Dean all of those years ago.

A shiver rushed down your spine as you looked at the laptop, very curious what Dean would do. You honestly expected him to take the chair shot, all of the pent up anger from the betrayal rising to the surface. Dean pocketed his microphone and took a step back, raising the chair with one hand. Seth began to get restless.

“Do it right now! Hit me, damn it!” Seth threw his microphone onto the mat below and went into a T pose once again.

This is when everything changed. To your surprise, Dean threw the metal chair out of the ring, a smile on his face as he did so. You sat there, dumbfounded as Seth looked towards Dean in surprise. You were about to watch more, but the sound of the hotel door being pushed open made you pause the video and take out your headphones. When you looked towards the door, there Roman stood with his hair in a bun and his clothes practically drenched in sweat.

You didn’t know what the three men did travel wise before you were thrown back into the group, but you decided to revert them back to the format that was set up before the incident. It was a rotating system, where each person would be paired with someone they would share a hotel room with for that week, despite wherever the brand had traveled to. Thankfully, Roman offered to be paired with you first for obvious reasons, which left the other two men to share a room.

Once he had entered the room, Roman didn’t speak until he had made his way over to the bed he had claimed earlier on in the morning and sat down on the edge of it.

“Whatcha up to, babygirl?” He asked.

“Nothing, just worked on the schedules for a little bit. How was the gym?” You lied, not wanting to admit to Roman that you had spent your time watching old pre-reunion videos.

“Good. I have a feeling I’ll be super sore later though.” Roman replied. Before he had left, he had asked if you wanted to join him in a workout, but you politely turned down the offer. You were never really the gym type, despite the profession and people you surround yourself with. Sure, sometimes you had gone on early morning jogs with Seth in the past or occasionally accompanied the members of the New Day when they worked out, but you yourself had never been an insanely active person.

Roman got up from his seat and traveled over to the dresser. He pulled out a new outfit then turned back to you.

“Do you need the bathroom before I take a shower?”

“Nah, go ahead.” You shook your head while replying and watched as he vanished into the bathroom. Once he was out of sight, you brought yourself to spin the chair back so it was facing the desk and open your laptop once again. Instead of continuing the video, you reopened the spreadsheet that withheld the Shield schedules that had been abandoned when you started your research.

* * *

“Ro!” You grunted as you watched Roman walk in front of the television. He casted you a look of confusion and looked towards what was on the tv.

“Since when have you cared about Breezedango or The Ascension? Why are you even watching Smackdown?” He teased once he noticed what was being displayed.

“Tyler and Fandango are actually really cool once you get to know them.” You shrugged before a chuckle escaped your lips from a comment Tyler Breeze had made about The Ascension's many fashion violations. “Plus, the New Day guys put in our group text that I should watch their match. Something about unicorns? I don’t know. Whatever supports them, I guess.”

“You guys have a group chat?”

“It’s mostly reserved for memes, but we talk normally in it occasionally.”

Roman looked at you strangely before picking up his wallet from the desk. Your eyes darted towards the television to catch Viktor knee strike Fandango into the ropes. Once Fandango managed to get the upper hand once more, you brought yourself to look at Roman again.

“Are you about to head out?”

“Yeah. Are you sure you don’t want to come?” The house show wasn’t until the next day, which gave you guys the night off. Roman, Dean, and Seth had planned on the car ride to Arizona that they were going to spend their night bar hopping. Roman offered for you to come, and you considered it up until the situation that had occurred with Dean.

“I’m sure. Have fun though, alright? Don’t get too drunk.”

Roman nodded then checked his phone, which happened to just buzz at that moment.

“Alright, I’m leaving.” He took a step forward before gazing at the television, then over to you. “Can I walk across here without being killed?”

“Go ahead,” You rolled your eyes at his comment. “Bye.”

“Catch ya later.”

When Roman exited the hotel room, you put your focus back onto the match.

After approximately two matches later, the announcers handed the show off to Renee Young, who had a scheduled interview with none other than your previous client, Dolph Ziggler. You debated on muting the television for this segment and finding something else to do until the New Day match, but your curiosity got the best of you.

“Dolph,” Renee addressed the blonde man next to her. “Last night your manager, y/n l/n, made it clear that she was back with the Shield. Does this mean that you’ll be going out to fight Baron Corbin alone tonight?”

“Sadly, yes. We stayed up late the other night talking about it, actually. She didn’t want to go at first, thought it wouldn’t be safe for a number of reasons.”

You looked at the television with a look a disgust at the lies Dolph was spewing.

“And those were…?” Renee wondered.

“Ambrose is a handful and being his manager instantly translates to being his handler. Reigns has a giant target on his back constantly, which puts her in danger. And Rollins...do I even have to explain? C’mon, how can you be the Hounds of Justice when you’re the ones spreading the injustice?” There was a pause before he smiled towards the camera and continued.

“Anyway, she was apprehensive. But, I talked her into switching. Not as a client, but as a friend. It’s what’s probably best for her career. I’ll miss her just as much as she misses me.”

You picked up the remote and muted the television.

“Fuck you, Dolph.”

* * *

You smiled lightly as The New Day busted out into their iconic celebratory dances. They had just won their match against the Usos and you were quite impressed with their performance. Not because of the unicorn entrance that Xavier had previously mentioned in the group chat, but rather their comradery. You had always admired how in sync they were both in and out of the ring, but you thought they took that to new heights that night. Especially with how smoothly they had pulled off the Double Midnight Hour. Overall, you were really proud of them not just as their past manager, but also as a friend.

This was around the time that you remembered that there was a drink vending machine down the hall and being quite thirsty, you decided to check it out. You turned off the television and stood up, making sure you had everything before you exited the room. You traveled down the hallway and stopped in front of the black container that held a variety of different drinks.

After retrieving your drink of choice, you returned to your hotel room. You put your hand into your pocket to retrieve the keycard, only to figure out that you had left it on the night table.

“Fuck.” You grumbled to yourself. The thought of calling Roman and asking him to drive back to let you in popped in your head but you didn't want to bother him. From prior experience, the typical Shield bar hop could last from anywhere from four to six hours and they had only been gone for about an hour and a half at this point.

Thankfully, it didn’t take long for another idea to pop into your mind. You grabbed your phone and went through your contacts until a familiar name popped up onto the screen. You hit the call button and patiently waited for Finn to pick up.

“Hey, y/n.” He spoke after the phone rang twice.

“Hey, Finn. Are you up to anything important right now?” You leaned against the hallway wall.

“No, not really. Why? What’s up?”

“Long story short, I locked myself out of the hotel room and Roman’s out right now. Do you mind me hanging out with you until he comes back?”

You heard Finn softly laugh at your mistake, which made you pout.

“Or you could just sit there and laugh. I could always just sit in the lobby.”

“I’m sorry, y/n. It’s just that’s such a rookie mistake. You’ve been traveling for how many years now?”

“Alright, I see your point.” You allowed a small laugh to escape your lips.

“But to answer your question, sure. I’m in room C21.”

“Thanks, Finn. See you soon.”

“Bye.”

With that, you hung up the phone and placed it into your pocket. It wouldn’t take long to find his room, since you were already on the C floor.

After going to the complete other end of the hallway, where C21 was located, you raised your fist and knocked lightly on the door. There was some shuffling sounds from behind the door before it opened to reveal Finn.

“Hey, come on in.” He took a step back to allow you into the hotel room. You gladly entered, expecting his room to be a carbon copy of your own. But, you were fairly surprised to see that instead of occupying two beds like your room did, his own occupied one.

You moved further into the room and took a seat onto the bed, Finn following in succession after he had shut the door.

“So, how has everything been going?”

The way your face instinctively dropped must have said it all, because Finn looked at you with sad eyes.

“That bad, huh?”

You took a deep breath and then went into explaining everything. You mentioned all of the little things that had happened since your last conversation with Finn in the gorilla. Dean’s small comments, Seth hugging you after the match, your confrontation with Dean in the hall, how tense the car ride to Arizona was, and last but not least: Dolph’s down-right lies to the WWE Universe.

“It’s like when it rains, it pours. I swear, the only good things that have come out of this so far is being an official manager again, still being close with Roman, and being on the same brand with you.” You sighed.

“Well, sounds like you could use a distraction from all of this.” Finn stood up and made his way over to the desk. He grabbed the remote before turning back to you, a smile on his face. “How about some Netflix and chill?”

You know Finn didn’t mean it a lewd way, but you couldn’t help but bust out into laughter at his words.

“Finn….sweetie…that’s not what that means!”

Finn scratched the back of his neck with a flustered look on his face. His reaction only made you laugh harder.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” In the matter of seconds, a teasing look came across his face. “Or did I?”

You scrunched up your nose then raised your hands, signaling that you wanted him to throw you the remote.

“Yeah, yeah. Let’s just find a movie or something.”

* * *

Slowly, you opened your eyes and tried to adjust to the lighting of the room. It took you a few seconds to fully wake up and process why you weren’t in your hotel room, but eventually you realized that you had fell asleep at Finn’s.

“Good morning.”

You looked towards Finn, who was sitting in an armchair on the other side of the room. He had a cup of coffee in his hand and had already changed into casual clothes.

“Morning.” You sat up and grabbed your phone off the night side table. You tried to turn it on, but realized it was dead. “What time is it?” You asked Finn.

He looked at the watch on his wrist before answering.

“Ten twenty.”

You stretched and swung your legs over the side of the bed.

“Why didn’t you wake me up earlier?”

Ten was considered quite late for WWE talent. Most did their workouts in the morning or had other things to attend to. When you acted as the manager of both the Shield and the New Day, you were up by seven most mornings to make sure everything was in line or to answer emails. Being Dolph’s valet involved less productive mornings, but you had already developed the habit of being up early.

“I thought that you could use the extra sleep.” Finn quickly decided to further explain himself with how bad the first sentence sounded. “I mean, since you’ve been under a lot of stress.”

“Ah, okay. Thanks, then. Having a little extra shut eye was kind of nice. But, I should probably go back to my own room now.” You collected all of your items and stood up. You moved across the room and gave Finn a quick hug. “Thank you for letting me stay here!”

“No problem, see you tonight at the house show?”

“I’ll make a time slot for my favorite Irishman.”

“Sheamus wouldn’t be happy if he heard that.” Finn smirked, knowing quite well that your friendship with the previously mentioned wrestler was practically nonexistent.

“Bye, Finn.” You laughed before ducking out of the room and entering the hallway.

* * *

You blinked in confusion when Seth had opened the door to your hotel and not Roman. Seth seemed to be equally confused, but stepped backwards to allow you in nonetheless. Your perplexity only grew when you realized he and Dean were the only two in the room.

“Where have you been?” Dean asked, standing up from his seated position in the office chair.

“I locked myself out of the hotel room last night so I went to Finn’s until Roman got back but I fell asleep.” You answered, not liking the thick tension that coated the room.

Seth was standing behind you with his arms crossed and a small smile on his lips.

“Finn? As in Finn Balor? Since when are you close to him?”

Like most things Seth said, you decided to ignore his comment and put your focus on Dean.

“Where’s Roman?”

“Out looking for you. He came back last night and got worried because you weren’t here. Tried calling, texting-the whole shebang. Eventually he decided to just go out and find you. He thought that someone like the Wyatt’s took you.” He responded coldly.

Your eyes darted to the floor as your thoughts jumbled. It took you a second to recompose yourself, the presence of both Seth and Dean making you revert back to your previous expression.

“My phone died,” You said. “I didn’t mean to worry him.”

“Yeah, well. You did. I guess I’ll go find him now and tell him you’re alright.” Dean pushed past you and left the hotel room. You let out a deep sigh and ran a hand through your hair.

“Dean was worried more than he lets on.”

You visibly jumped at the sound of Seth’s voice. You had honestly forgot that he was still in the room. You turned around to face him with a ‘yeah right’ look on your face.

“What? It’s true,” Seth’s half-smile transformed into a look of innocence. “he wanted to go out there and bash some skulls in to find you. But, Roman decided it would be the best for him to stay here so we could avoid any unneeded brawls.”

You tried to reflect upon his words, but another thought popped into your head before you could fully process them.

This was your first time completely alone with Seth since that night.

You instinctively took a step away from the male and wrapped your arms around yourself. Your breathing started to become shallower, but you tried your best to hide it. You debated on kicking him out of the room, but a questioned replayed in the back of your brain.

“And you, Rollins? Why did you wait around for me?”

Seth shrugged, taken back from the question.

“Someone needed to keep Dean in line and make sure he didn’t kill anyone.” He paused for a split second. “Plus, I care about you.”

Your breath caught in your lungs and you quickly gestured towards the door.

“Well, as you can see...I’m alive and well. So you can leave now. This probably interfered with your morning workout and we don’t want you pulling anything tonight at the house show.”

Seth casted you a weird look but made his way to the exit.

You had heard enough lies within the last twenty-four hours.

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the-magnus-archives-archiver · 6 years ago

Text

Thrown Away

Case: 0092302

Name: Kieran Woodward Subject: Items recovered from the refuse of 98 Lancaster Road, Walthamstow Date: February 23rd, 2009 Recorded by: Jonathan Sims, Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute, London

I work as a bin man for Waltham Forest Council. It’s not a bad job, really, as long as you can handle the smell and the early mornings, not to mention that when winter really gets going it can be pretty unpleasant. I’ve had to chip ice off more than a few bins in my time, just to get them open. Still, the pay’s pretty decent; at least it is once you throw in the overtime and the bonuses, and once you’ve done the rounds you’re usually off for the day, so you’re working fewer hours than your average office monkey; it’s just that those hours tend to be a lot less pleasant than anything you’re likely to find staring at some accounting spreadsheet. But I didn’t come here to talk about the benefits and problems of working in waste collection. At least, I guess I came to talk about one very specific problem that I encountered last year, when doing the rubbish collection for 93 Lancaster Road.

Now, you encounter weird things in this job all the time. People have an odd mental block – this idea that as soon as they put something in the bin it’s gone. It’s officially been made rubbish and no-one will ever see it again. The fact that someone had to take it from your bin to the landfill or the recycling centre doesn’t really enter their heads, and nobody ever seems to realise that up to a dozen people might be seeing what you throw away before it finally disappears forever. But no, as far as the rest of the world thinks about it, once it’s been thrown away, it’s gone, far beyond all human understanding. This leaves those of us who work in waste collection seeing kind of a strange side to humanity, but an honest one at that. If you’re a bit of a boozer, there’s every chance that your bin men know how much you drink better than you do because we empty all the bottles. And yes, we do remember, and we also get quite judgemental at times, although not about the things you might think – you can throw away a mountain of grotesque porn and, as long as you’ve tied it into neat bundles, we’re fine with it, but if you throw away cat litter without properly bagging that, you’d better believe that you’ve earned the hatred of every bin man that ever slung a sack. Still, I’m getting off topic.

Point is, the bag of dolls heads didn’t bother me. I mean, it was freaky, don’t get me wrong – hundreds of small plastic heads, staring out of the refuse sack at me, but aside from a slight rip on the side of the black bag, they were thrown away very neatly, and were easy enough to toss into the truck. The bag was full of them, mind. It was placed next to the green recycling bin and at first I thought that it was just a single doll with its head positioned near the tear, but when I tossed the bag into the truck the rip split, spilling forth a whole bunch of the things. At a guess I’d say there were over a hundred in there. They were made of hard, rigid plastic with that infant doll face that you seem to find on every toy like that. Several of them had different hair moulded or painted on, so it was clear that they weren’t simply from a hundred or so of the same doll. Someone had spent time acquiring a whole variety of different dolls, which they then beheaded and stuffed into the sack. They were very battered, but not with age – it looked as though someone had taken the brand new heads and dragged them over rough concrete, though I couldn’t say whether they’d have been attached to the rest of the doll at the time. It was creepy, sure, but the sun was shining and there were four of us working the truck that day, so it was easy enough to laugh it off. It was the old crew – me, David Atayah, Matthew Wilkinson, and Alan Parfitt, who drives - drove - the truck.

What it did do, though, was mark out 93 Lancaster Road in our minds as “the Doll House”, since we spent the rest of the day making off-colour jokes about the sort of people who must live there. I said before that your bin man knows a lot about you. Now that’s probably not actually true for most people – we service hundreds of homes each day and who can keep track of that many people? Who wants to? You do have houses, though, that you learn to keep an eye on; the sort of places that throw out strange or sometimes even dangerous things. Like I said, we probably know if you’re an alcoholic, but it’s not because we watch you obsessively or care about your health. It’s because smashed bottles and broken glass are dangerous and you learn to keep an eye out around houses where you’re likely to find them. I read once that waste collection is the second most dangerous profession in England. Not sure I believe it - they said the first was farming - but you do see your fair share of injuries, so you learn to keep your eyes peeled and mark out in your mind which houses you want to stay wary of.

Now after that the Doll House became one of those houses for our crew. Not so much for any known danger, but when someone throws out a bin full of weird stuff like that, you never know what else they might decide to toss. Also, Alan, well, he had kind of a twisted sense of humour, and he loved the doll heads. When we told him he insisted on stopping the truck and getting out to have a look, so after that he always made a point to ask us to keep an eye on 93. And we did. The next couple of weeks, when we pulled up to 93, I took an extra second or two just to check for anything strange in the bins, but nothing seemed out of the ordinary. Alan especially was disappointed by this but it was hardly something to dwell on, so we put is out of our minds and pressed on with the day’s work. This continued for what must have been a few months and the whole doll heads incident hadn’t come up, except for a few interesting conversations at the recycling plant where, to be honest, I don’t think anyone believed us, or if they did they’d immediately try to top it with their own story of bizarre finds.

It was the start of spring when we got the next strange bag from 93 Lancaster Road. Again, it was an unmarked black refuse bag placed next to the recycling bin. As soon as I saw it, I knew it was another one. The shape of it was too regular to be full of the normal assortment of rubbish. As I picked it up, I realised it was far too light as well. It seemed to weigh almost nothing, but was bulging with what sounded like a whole load of paper inside. I gave the others a look and told them I thought we had another odd bag. David and Matt started discussing whether we should open it, as this one didn’t seem to have a rip like the last one, and we were still talking it over when Alan came back to see what was taking us so long. He knew where we were and you could see it in his eyes that he’d been hoping this was the reason for the delay. One look at his face and I knew that if we didn’t open it, he would.

I looked up towards the house, checking for anyone watching, but 93 was right near the start of our route, so it was still very early in the morning and all the lights were off. There was no sign of movement so, very carefully, I opened the bag. Inside was paper, as I expected. It seemed to be a single strip of thick white writing paper, maybe an inch wide. The paper was long, so long that it seemed like the whole bag was filled solely with this one piece of it, wrapped and curled and crumpled to fit inside. There was writing on it in another language, I think Latin. Matt, who was raised Catholic and never shut up about it, said he recognised it and claimed that it was the Lord’s Prayer, the Our Father, written over and over again. He seemed pretty rattled about it, especially at the fact that at certain points the edges of the paper seemed to be slightly singed, as though it had been passed over a candle or a lighter. He even seemed hesitant about throwing it in with the rest of the garbage, but we didn’t have anything else we could actually do with it, so into the truck it went. Alan was smiling the rest of the shift, and there was a delight there that, quite frankly, had started to unsettle me a bit. As far as I was concerned this was a bit of a let- down after the dolls’ heads, but the way the others had reacted put me on edge.

The third bag was the one that really changed things. It was a fortnight after the one with the prayer paper in it. As we approached 93, I noticed there was another bag sitting next to the bin. The others clearly noticed as well, as everyone went very quiet. The first two had been the only times there had been rubbish bags at the house that weren’t in the actual bin itself, so there was little doubt in my mind that this was going to be more creepy trash. Alan turned the engine off as we pulled level with the house, and got out. Whatever was in this one, he was going to see it. The bag bulged, just like the others, but had a bumpy sort of look to its surface. We all stared at it for several seconds, before I realised that the others were waiting for me to pick it up – I’d picked up the others, and apparently this was how it was done now. It almost felt like a ritual.

I walked over and lifted it off the ground. It was heavier than the last one, and as it moved it made a sound, like shifting sand or gravel, or maybe more of a rattle. I started to carry it towards my colleagues to open it, when I accidentally caught the bottom of it on the low brick wall at the end of the small front garden. Already filled almost to bursting, the bag tore open easily.

From the newly ripped hole, poured teeth. Hundreds, thousands of teeth; they came streaming down it a waterfall of white, cream and yellow, bouncing as they hit the pavement, and gradually forming a pile of astounding size. When the bag was finally empty, we just stood there in silence, staring at the mountain of teeth that now lay on ground before us. They looked like human teeth to me, but I wasn’t exactly an expert and I sure as hell didn’t want to check closer. Finally, David broke the silence by vomiting loudly into a nearby drain and I backed away from the grisly mound. Even Alan looked shaken by this – I suppose some things are disconcerting however grim your interests. We phoned the police.

That’s something else that people always forget about garbage men – we’re perfectly capable of calling the police if we see obviously illegal stuff being thrown away. Usually we don’t bother if it’s just something small, but this... for this we phoned the police. They came in surprisingly good time and I reckon they were even more freaked out than we were. One of them took our statements, while the other went up to the house itself to check on the occupants, and see if they knew anything about the teeth. As the officer knocked on the door, we all strained to get a better look at what greeted her. There was no way after all this we were going to pass up a chance to actually get a look at the residents of 93 Lancaster Road. Eventually the door opened, and an old woman stood there, blinking in the early morning sunlight and clearly slightly alarmed to see the police. Needless to say, the old lady and her husband had no idea about any of the weird bags that had been appearing in their rubbish and seemed properly upset when they were given the details. The police spent a good ten minutes doing their best to collect up all the teeth, and we were sent on our way. I have no idea what, if anything, the investigation turned up. Certainly I was never contacted by them again, and if any of the rest were, they didn’t mention it.

And for a while, that was it. We kept an eye out whenever we were heading down Lancaster Road, but didn’t encounter any further ominous garbage bags. I thought maybe the involvement of the police had scared off whoever was leaving them. Maybe the police had caught the culprit and just hadn’t told us.

I did start to notice, though, that Alan wasn’t doing well. He was often late to his shift, and when he finally got there he’d be exhausted and grumpy, snapping at everyone and rudely brushing of anyone asking about his health or how he was doing. He seemed even worse whenever we approached the end of Lancaster Road, sometimes speeding up the truck slightly so that we had to run to keep up. Eventually, after I tripped over the curb while hurrying and twisted my ankle, I confronted him, told him that whatever was going on with him, he could talk about it or get over it, but that he clearly needed to deal with something. He got very quiet, and said he’d been watching number 93 some nights. Said he wanted to see whoever was dropping this stuff off. That he had to know.

I don’t know what I expected. Trouble at home, maybe, or depression, but this took me by surprise. I told him it was a really bad idea, that if the police were still investigating they were more than likely to pick him up as the culprit, and even if they didn’t the old couple at 93 could just as easily get him arrested for harassment or stalking. Alan nodded along and agreed with me as I spoke, but I could see he wasn’t listening. He just said again that he needed to know, told me he’d be careful, as though that was meant to reassure me. It didn’t, but I could see I wasn’t going to talk him out of it and we ended in an uncomfortable silence.

What I didn’t say, is that I’d almost done the same thing myself once or twice. There was something about this, beyond anything else I’d encountered, that... I don’t know. It drew me in almost as much as it disgusted me. Almost, but not enough to do anything, and if I needed any further convincing that leaving it alone was the right decision, I only needed to look at Alan. As time went on, the bags under his eyes deepened, and I’d watch him down half a dozen energy drinks over the course of a morning, just to get through his shift. I could have said something to our manager, but even then Alan was still my friend and I didn’t want to be the one to get him in any sort of trouble. Eventually, though, it came to a head anyway. Alan fell asleep at the wheel of the truck and drove it into a parked car. No-one was hurt and the truck was going too slowly to do any real damage but, at that point, it was enough to get him fired. We were sad to see him go, but to be honest, by the end of it he’d become quite unpleasant to be around and no-one shed any real tears over it. We got a new member on our crew, a kid named Guy Wardman, and life continued in relative peace. For a while, anyway.

Then, on the 8th of August last year, at nine minutes past two in the morning, I was woken up by a text message from Alan. It said “FOUND HIM”. I texted him back immediately – What had he found? Was it whoever was leaving the bags? Had he brought another one? No response. I texted Alan again to ask if he was ok. I sent that text a lot of times, but never heard back. I tried phoning him but nobody answered. As the minutes stretched to hours, the worry that had been growing in my gut settled into a grim certainty, and I knew that Alan was gone. I also knew that I had to go to 93 Lancaster Road and see for myself. I got my coat and headed out into the night.

I walked slowly, with a kind of reluctance, so the sky was starting to get light by the time I arrived. I knew what I’d find when I got there, and I was right. There was no sign of Alan, or of whoever he might have seen. There was, however, a new rubbish bag sitting there in its usual place. It was full, and this time the top of it had been tied off with a dark green ribbon, arranged in a bow like an old-fashioned Christmas present. It bulged in much the same way as the last one.

I picked up the bag, which turned out to be quite light, and I took off the bow. Opening it, I saw shifting white and, for a second, I was sure it was more teeth. Looking closer, though, I saw the truth: packing peanuts. Polystyrene packing peanuts. Enough to fill the bag to capacity. I almost felt relieved until I realised there was something else in there, something making it heavier than a bag of polystyrene should be. I closed my eyes and reached in, expecting to find something horrible inside. My hand closed instead around cold metal, and I drew out a fist-sized lump of... I think it must have been copper or bronze, and had been roughly carved into the shape of a heart, but like a real heart, not like a Valentine's one. It was cold to the touch, like it had just come out of a freezer, and it almost stuck to my skin. Engraved on the side was the name “Alan Parfitt”, the letters carved in with machine-like precision. That was the last sign of Alan I ever found. As far as I’m aware he’s never been seen since.

I gave the lump of metal to a friend of mine who works the medical waste run and owes me a favour. I asked him to throw it in with a shipment, as the medical incinerators burn hotter than any I have access to, and I figured that was my best shot at getting rid of it properly. I still work the Lancaster Road route, but since then there haven’t been any more weird bags turning up at 93. Mostly I’ve just tried to forget about it.

Archivist Notes:

It’s nice to have a statement where most of the particulars are easily verifiable. It comes with shorter supporting statements from David Atayah and Matthew Wilkinson confirming the contents of the first three bags, as well as the details of Alan Parfitt’s behaviour prior to his termination from the employment of local government. In an uncharacteristic example of actually dealing with modern technology, my predecessor had the good sense to make a copy of the final text conversation between Alan Parfitt and Mr. Woodward.

I had Martin conduct a follow-up interview with Mr. Woodward last week, but it was unenlightening. Apparently there have been no further bags at number 93 and in the intervening years he has largely discounted many of the stranger aspects of his experience. I wasn’t expecting much, as time generally makes people inclined to forget what they would rather not believe, but at least it got Martin out of the Institute for an afternoon, which is always a welcome relief.

Sasha had more luck following up with the old police reports. Alan Parfitt was reported as a missing person by his brother Michael on the 20th of August 2008*, and his location remains unknown. The bag of teeth is also corroborated by the police reports of Police Constables Suresh and Altman, though they can provide no further details, as they never made an arrest or even located any suspects. The medical report on the teeth themselves does give one puzzling detail: the teeth were confirmed to be human, but more than that, as far as the examiner was able to determine... they were all in different stages of decay and didn’t match any available dental records, but all two thousand seven hundred and eighty of them were the exact same tooth.

*corrected from 2009 to 2008, confirmed by Jon Sims (writer) as misspoken on the podcast

Source: Official Transcript and Podcast (MAG 5 Thrown Away)

#the magnus archives #magnus archives #MAG #MAG5 #MAG 5 #ThrownAway #Thrown Away #Statement #The Stranger #Not-Them

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