#fed up tirade here and there -- tells him he has no reason to respect him the way he is now. if that's the way with izzy -- then fuck!

[leatherbookmark]

a thing i have JUST realized, isn't the human brain amazing lol -- is that we talk about izzy's thoughts and feelings on ed, on blackbeard, about how he serves one but not the other, etc, etc, and how it means he never loved or even respected the True Man Underneath It All but rather the bloodthirsty legend of a pirate--

e x c e p t izzy is not the first person who makes the distinction between edward and blackbeard. it's ed himself, when he says "actually, i want to be called edward from now on".

before, when he was with stede, it didn't bother him at all that the crew called him blackbeard. that was his name! he was blackbeard, what else would they call him. only stede and izzy got to "ed" or "edward" him, because they were closer -- stede was his first close friend, izzy was his friend and first mate for decades. (note that fang was with ed the longest, but he doesn't call him by his name! you gotta deserve it.)

izzy doesn't do anything inappropriate or out of proportion when he snaps at the crew to call him blackbeard or captain -- that's who ed is, is supposed to be, to them. they're not friends! they even call stede captain, and have you seen that guy?

it's ed that makes the connection between his current state: draped in fuchsia robes, singing sad songs about how sad he is, showing his vulnerable and emotional state in front of people who are supposed to respect and trust his authority. and by that he splendidly loses that authority, to the point that wee john calls him ed, and when izzy snaps at him for disrespecting his captain, ed goes no, actually, yknow what, do call me edward! and then he goes on to encourage the crew to sing as well and hey, actually, why are we being pirates! we should do a talent show!

the distinction is clear here. before all that, in izzy's eyes, his boss was blackbeard, captain, ed/edward -- different names for different occasions, but one and the same guy. but now? this guy singing songs in a pink bathrobe doesn't want to be called blackbeard, he's edward! ed time now! we're going to eat marmalade and express our feelings in front of everyone! and hold talent shows! Ya Hoo !

yeah, it's no wonder izzy doesn't want that. he wants his competent captain back, and this current dude, edward? he's not him. so, uh,

[skeletonscribbles]

1 with Richie and Eddie for the writing prompts!

Got you covered, friend! Hope the Tumblr crowd is feeling a Stan POV on Reddie, because I sure as hell was. This is straight comedy, too, so those of you who are here because of Wildflowers…here’s proof that it’s not sad around here ALL the time.

#1, by the way, is “Yes, I did say that, but I didn’t think you were going to be a dumbass!”

And here we have:

Sugar, Spice, and Bad AdviceT-ish for language and reference to Richie’s dick (deep sigh)2500 words

Summary: Stan has absolutely no idea why Richie comes to him for romantic advice...so, like any respectable businessman, he outsources.

Stanley Uris did not consider himself a romantic person by any means.

He appreciated romance, certainly. From a very young age, he was poring through books with clever heroines and rooting for them to end up living happily with attractive, intelligent partners. (More often than not, said heroines never encountered anyone as smart as they were, and so they had to settle. Stan thought that was a shame. If he were writing books, he would write romance very differently.) That said, in real life, he tended to be more realistic and less dreamy about matters of the heart.

All of this being the case, it really didn’t make any sense at all that Richie Tozier was coming to him for romantic advice…but then, Stan had long since come to terms with the fact that nothing about Richie made any sense.

“You’ve gotta help me out here, buddy,” Richie was saying, pacing back and forth as Stan watched him disinterestedly from the couch. “I don’t know what to do, I don’t know what to say to him…do I say anything to him? Fuck, Stan, I’m gonna fuck this up, I’m such a piece of shit and he’s so….so….”

“Paranoid?” Stan offered, thinking of Eddie and smiling thinly. “Shrill?”

That was another baffling thing about the situation: Richie was pining over Eddie. Eddie, who they’d known since kindergarten; Eddie, who cried in sixth grade because Greta Bowie wrote the word ‘cancer’ on one of his papers in Social Studies. Dirty, lewd Richie Tozier was having feelings for nervous, naive Eddie Kaspbrak. It was highly illogical, and Stan usually hated things that were illogical….but for whatever reason, his brain was somewhat settled with the idea of this particular pair of friends getting together, which was bizarre in and of itself.

Richie threw himself on to the couch with a groan, sprawling across Stan’s legs. Stan tried to kick at him, but he was pinned under Richie’s lanky frame. “I was going to say perfect,” Richie sighed wistfully, blowing a strand of hair out of his eyes.

Stan made an exaggerated whipping sound and gesture, and Richie responded by pulling himself over and blowing a raspberry onto Stan’s knee.

“Disgusting.” Stan shoved Richie off of the couch, and Richie hit the floor with a hard thud. “Have you asked anyone else for advice about this? Perhaps they’d be able to do a little more for you than roll their eyes.”

Richie raised his head, peeking at Stan over the side of the couch. “You think they’d be okay with it? I keep thinking that Big Bill’s gonna kill me immediately upon hearing that I have designs on Eds’ virtue.”

“Don’t say that thing about virtue again. It was awful.” Stan shook his head, shuddering. “And trust me when I say that Bill is all for you and Eddie finally getting your fucking shit together.”

That much, at least, was true. Stan’s entire last conversation with Bill, much to his dismay, had been centered around getting Richie and Eddie to stop pining for each other. In fact, Stan’s recent conversations with most of the other Losers had been centered around getting Richie and Eddie to stop pining for each other. The situation was pretty universally annoying.

“Wait, but why would Bill’s love advice be better than yours?” Richie was looking at him curiously. “Or Bev’s or Ben’s or Mike’s, for that matter?”

Stan looked back at him flatly. “Richie. You know me.”

Richie thought about that, and then nodded. “Fair point. So…”

“Try Mike first,” Stan advised, thinking of Mike’s warm smile and feeling a little hot. “He’s got game.”

—-

The next day at school, Richie approached Eddie with a small bouquet of flowers.

It was, without a doubt, the worst bouquet that Stan had ever seen.

Richie had obviously picked it himself. Half of the flowers still had roots attached, and the bouquet was pretty much only made up of dandelions and violets, with the odd daisy or tulip that he’d probably taken illegally from someone’s garden. Richie had been clutching them tightly for quite a while, and they were starting to go limp in his grip.

In short, there was no fucking way that Eddie was going to touch that, and sure enough, when Eddie showed up, he recoiled.

“Richie, did you go through Mrs. Conway’s garden again? I TOLD you, she doesn’t grow marijuana! Not that you’d even know what marijuana looks like anyway, Went would fucking end you if he smelled smoke on your–”

Richie cut off Eddie’s tirade by shoving the flowers towards him. “They’re for you, Eds! And only a few of them are from Mrs. Conway’s.”

Eddie stared at him, horrified. “You expect me to touch those? First of all, you’ve been sweating all over them for probably twenty minutes now. Second, poison ivy–”

“Okay, if I don’t know what marijuana looks like, you definitely don’t know what poison ivy looks like,” Richie interjected hotly.

“I know what poison ivy looks like,” Stan informed them, unable to help himself.

“No you fucking don’t, jackass. Not every plant is poison ivy,” Richie all but yelled, face crimson with either frustration or embarrassment (Stan couldn’t tell).

“Anyways, asshat, bad fucking joke. Do better next time.” Eddie stomped towards the high school in a huff, and Richie looked helplessly over at Mike, who had been watching the whole escapade unfold with a grim expression.

“So, flowers are out,” Mike finally said, shrugging. “Sorry, Rich.”

“Shit.” Richie dropped the “bouquet” and sighed. “It’s okay, Mikey, you meant well.”

“That’s pretty much the extent of my flirting expertise, unless you want to bring Eddie a chicken.” Mike wrinkled his nose at the thought. “And that’s a terrible idea, by the way. He’d flip.”

“I’d pay to see that,” Bev muttered, obviously visualizing Eddie’s inevitable chicken meltdown.

Richie turned to look at Beverly after she spoke, cogs obviously turning in his head. “What about you, Bevvy? Any grand ideas for what is now apparently my crowdsourced seduction of Eds Kaspbrak?”

“Bevvy has nothing,” Bev said solemnly, opening her arms and closing her eyes. “Bevvy was clever enough to land the perfect guy without having to resort to cheap tactics.”

Richie flipped her off with both hands, and Ben crossed to her to hug her from behind, beaming.

“I have a thought,” Ben said, smiling into Bev’s hair.

“Yes?” Richie crossed his arms.

“Beverly doesn’t have a suggestion…” Ben trailed off, eyes glinting, “…but Benverly does.”

“I’m listening,” said Richie, narrowing his eyes.

—-

Ben had wooed Beverly by way of a little haiku-esque poem, and so his advice to Richie was, predictably, to put together some sort of piece of writing for Eddie.

Stan knew right away that this plan was destined to fail, but he kept his mouth shut and let Richie try, not wanting to become the advice-giver again. The strategy was good, all in all, but for it to be effective Richie would have to be…less Richie, which was impossible.

A week after the bouquet, Richie joined the Losers in their before-school spot wearing a nice, collared shirt (buttoned all the way up, so no one could see the graphic tee underneath) and a pair of khakis that was slightly less wrinkled than Stan expected from him. He had obviously attempted to comb down his wild curls - attempted being the keyword. It wasn’t a look that suited Richie at all, but he was almost endearing, Stan thought, just by virtue of his obvious effort. (Almost.)

When Eddie arrived a minute later, he just about tripped over his own two feet gawking at Richie.

“Did Stan let you borrow clothes, or what?” he asked, staring unabashedly at the buttons on Richie’s shirt.

Stan resented that, and was about to tell Eddie so, but Richie was pulling a crumpled piece of paper out of his pocket, so he held himself back.

“Eds,” he began, pulling at the collar of his shirt. “Spaghetti-o.”

Eddie buried his hands in his hair, pulling nervously. “What is happening.”

“Your freckles are like constellations,” Richie began. He was playing it off like he wasn’t nervous, but there was a telltale shakiness to his voice. “They trail up to the galaxies of your eyes….”

Stan couldn’t help but be impressed. Almost a whole line in, and Richie hadn’t mentioned Eddie’s mom once.

Eddie was less enthused. “I’m really fucking tired of being the butt of your jokes, Richie.”

“It’s not a joke,” Richie explained exasperatedly.

“And my mom isn’t the biggest bitch in Derry,” Eddie jeered, fed up. “Let’s just go to class, okay? Mike, did you understand the statistics homework?”

Mike looked defeatedly around at the other Losers, and then joined Eddie in walking back towards the school building. Once they were far enough away, Richie threw his poem in the air in frustration.

“If it helps, I thought you were off to a good start,” Stan offered.

“It doesn’t help,” Richie grumbled.

Ben looked perturbed. “I really thought he’d go for that. We took all references to Richie’s dick out of it and everything.”

Ah. So Ben had a hand in the creation of the poem. The sweetness of it suddenly made sense.

“Looks like it’s on you, now, Denbrough,” Bev said, looking expectantly at Bill. Bill swallowed hard, and Stan rolled his eyes. If Bill couldn’t figure out that Stan had been flirting with him for the past three years, he wouldn’t be able to help Richie.

“I could p-probably suggest something,” Bill said meekly, and it was all Stan could do not to bang his head into the nearby telephone pole.

—-

“I’ve said it once, I’ll say it again,” Stan hissed, “Bill’s advice is garbage, and this is a disaster.”

Bill Denbrough, literary genius that he was, was absolutely horrible at romantic suggestions. He had reminded Richie that Eddie had a sweet tooth, and had advised him to make cookies for Eddie as a gift (and as a kind-of apology for the last two disastrous attempts at flirting).

So far, Richie had burnt two batches, and the batter consistency of the third was…alarming, to say the least. He’d called Stan in a panic some twenty minutes ago, and Stan had pedaled over in a huff, cursing Bill Denbrough’s name.

“You’re the one that said it would be a good idea to ask the other Losers how to go about doing this!” Richie retorted, gesticulating wildly with a cup of flour and then groaning as most of the flour flew out of the cup and on to the floor.

“Yes, I did say that, but I didn’t think you were going to be a dumbass!” Stan went for the broom and dustpan, feeling the beginnings of a headache coming on.

“You didn’t?! Come on, dude.” Richie leaned on the counter, took off his glasses, and rubbed at his eyes. “You call me a dumbass, like, every day.”

“Yes, and I mean it, and this time I mean it about the rest of our friends, too. And Eddie. Dumbasses, all.” Stan swept the flour neatly into the dustbin, scowling. “Just tell him how you feel. The hokey tactics that everyone is suggesting are terrible. Ask each other out pointblank, for fuck’s sake.”

“Ask who out?” A high-pitched, familiar voice sounded from the doorway, and Richie whipped around so fast Stan was a little worried that he’d break something (probably himself).

“Eds?” Richie panicked and headed for the trash can, seemingly to try and block Eddie from seeing its contents. “Uh, what?”

“Bev said she thought she could see smoke coming from your house, so she sent me over to check,” Eddie said, and Stan silently thanked Bev for trying to be proactive about shutting down Bill’s stupid cookie plot. “Who are you asking out, Richie?”

Stan could all but see the ‘your mom’ that was racing to make its way out of Richie’s mouth. Fortunately, he was standing close enough to remedy it. He kicked at Richie’s ankle, and when Richie looked over at him, he gave him a significant look, hoping that that would be enough for Richie to remember what they had just been talking about.

Richie nodded, and took a deep breath. “I, um, have something to tell you, Eds, and, uh, you might not like it–”

“Is it that you like me?” Eddie asked nonchalantly. “Because I know that.”

Richie gaped. “Say what now?”

“I’m not stupid.” Eddie shrugged and peered past Richie, trying to discern what was in the trash can. “You’ve been acting weird for a while, and then you started dressing differently and bringing in weird stuff for me. It wasn’t hard to put two and two together.”

“And you’re not mad?” Richie asked weakly.

“Nah.” Eddie stuck his hands in his pockets. “With the poem, I was just mad you were trying to pull that shit in public.”

“And the flowers?”

Eddie fixed Richie with a look. “If you can call them that, you mean.”

“All right, all right, fine.” Richie’s ears went red. “But…Christ, Eddie, why didn’t you tell me?”

Eddie smiled. “I kind of wanted to see what you’d do.” He paused, examining Richie’s face. “I like you too, by the way…even if you did burn a fuckton of cookies today.”

“Oh,” Richie blurted, grabbing his glasses from off of the counter. “Um. Can I kiss you?”

“Wait until I leave, for the love of God,” Stan begged, jolting up from where he had been leaning on the counter.

Richie and Eddie both jumped. They’d obviously forgotten that Stan was still there.

“Looks like your advice was the best after all, Stanny Boy,” Richie grinned after a moment, sliding closer to Eddie and throwing his arm around Eddie’s shoulders. “I was right the first time about which Loser to listen to.”

“Was Stan’s advice to just cut the crap and go for it?” Eddie asked. Richie nodded, and Stan rolled his eyes. They made him sound so ineloquent.

“He always tells it like it is,” Richie said fondly.

“He is truly the best of us,” Eddie agreed. “Now if you don’t mind, Stanley, you absolute gem of a human…get out of here so I can make out with Richie against this disaster zone of a counter.”

“With pleasure,” Stan said, all but bolting out of the door.

He was smiling, though, in spite of everything.

Maybe he was a little romantic, after all.

—-

(And even though he still thought that the other Losers had hokey romantic tactics, when he received a bouquet of flowers from one anonymous admirer and a batch of cookies from another, he couldn’t help but feel warm inside.)

[therunawayscamp]

Mr Casethar has an Interview with Captain R’khan Concerning the Author, Mr Vilayn.

That sort of thing was the sum of my conversations with Casethar for the next few months. Whenever I heard him speak to anyone it got worse – he was professional, and intelligent, and efficient, and honest, and everything else which makes me feel the need for a swim in the coldest ocean I can find as soon as possible – so I avoided talking with him at all. In fact I wasn't brave enough to open my mouth around him except to give him orders, or to upbraid him for a fault, or to insult him on an imagined pretext, hoping to convince the captain – and maybe myself – that there could not possibly be any interest between us whatsoever. It was a sort of pre-emptive defence. I think I knew really that I would make a mistake eventually, but if Captain R'khan believed I found Casethar particularly irksome, he might not attach any meaning to it should I accidentally drop in a compliment, or smile at him, or get drunk as Sanguine during shore leave and deliver an embarrassingly long and rambling speech detailing all the intricacies of my feelings for him while he was carrying me back to bed. One of those three things happened and I'll give you a hint: it wasn't the first two.

Casethar has told me since that on the same day, before we left the brig, he went to visit the captain in his quarters. Obviously the ship's cook visiting the captain in his own cabin is not the done thing, by which I mean it goes against all naval etiquette and a lesser mer would have been strung up on the mainmast for his impertinence, but Casethar had earned himself a reputation. Unlike whoever our current cook is (the name escapes me),

who can take some old biscuits and seaweed and somehow make them worse, Casethar can take some old biscuits and seaweed and turn them into something you would be happy to serve the King of Morrowind. Samphire and crouton salad, with a Breton dressing distilled from Shein and seasalt – that sort of thing. It makes my mouth water thinking about it so I should probably remember what my point was and get back to it.

Casethar, the captain, yes. Right. So given Casethar's talents, the captain was prepared to entertain his request for a private conversation. It also helped that Casethar was one of the most formal and well-behaved sailors on board. He saluted when he walked into the captain's quarters, a salute so sharp you could win a sword fight with it.

'Captain.'

'Mr Casethar. Sit down.'

You will note that the captain remembered Casethar's name. I have nothing but praise for our captain, praise and admiration and respect. I merely mention this detail because normally, trivialities as unimportant as a cook's name would be beneath him, so this mark of recognition was high praise indeed, as was the invitation to sit in his presence. Casethar lowered himself into the chair which sits forrard of the captain's great desk and sat bolt upright.

'I wanted to apologise, captain.'

The captain, who had been expecting a request for a larger share of the voyage's profits and was almost prepared to grant it, didn't do anything so common as to look surprised, but he did stroke his moustache.

'What for?'

'My work is not up to the standard it should be.'

'What makes you think that? Meets all of my standards, and if anyone aboard has standards more important than mine I'd like to meet 'em so I can throw 'em to the slaughterfish. Can't think who that'd be, though. Not only is the crew fed, which is all I asks, but they're happy, which is a bonus.'

I'm going to assume Casethar had a conflicted pause here while he decided whether or not to mention my name. If he didn't we will need to have Words when I get home.

'It's... Mr Vilayn, captain.'

'What about him?'

'Not him personally, captain. But I'm afraid he isn't happy with my work.'

'Really? Said to me just yesterday he'd never eaten better.'

As it turns out, I may have been less subtle in my adoration of Casethar than I believed at the time, but at least I restricted it to his food rather than the mer himself. This announcement was not what Casethar expected, I can confirm that much. He ran a hand over the tattoos on his head.

'He did? Captain? He told me if I kept using our supplies so quickly he'd have me paying for them out of my share.'

'That's for Mr Azareth to decide, and Mr Azareth informs me he has never known somebody make so much out of so little.'

'It’s not just that, captain. I apologise for saying so, but I can't do anything right for Mr Vilayn. Perhaps it would be better if I left your service.'

Now that I think about it I believe I may have felt the ship rock from all the way up on the weather deck when the captain slammed his hand against his desk.

'I don't bloody well think so. I'll tell Mr Vilayn to correct his behaviour first, and if he's insulted you that much I'll have him--'

'Permission to speak freely, captain?'

Interrupting the captain mid-tirade is another bit of risky business, the sort of thing usually only attempted by Mr Drasonval when we are actually in the process of capsizing. Once again, R'khan didn't notice something that would usually trigger one of his twisted, impatient smiles, and nodded.

'Go ahead.'

'I've nothing against the first mate. I'm sure if he criticises me it must be justified. I would like time to speak with him openly before any punishment is inflicted on him.'

Have I mentioned that in addition to being intelligent and efficient and all those other things, Casethar is patient and understanding and forgiving? The captain pinched his moustache and sighed through his nostrils.

'I'll send the two of you ashore early to pick up supplies. We'll meet at the cornerclub, or tavern or whatever they call it in whichever blasted province we're in, and if you haven't been able to make him see reason by the time I arrive, I will deal with the situation as I see fit.'

'Aye aye, captain.'

I took some convincing to leave the brig in the second mate's hands for the process of dropping anchor, I admit, but when the only reason the captain gives for asking you to leave your post at such a critical point is because I bloody said so you must admit a person has a right to be curious. Even so, I couldn't disobey a direct order, so I took Casethar ashore in the boat and that is how we came to have our first real time alone.

[where-ls-my-mlnd]

"Bullshit." The word is spat out so harshly and so suddenly that it shocks me out of whatever foggy, despondent daze I had fallen into, and I visibly jolt, turning my head to look at him with wide, panicked eyes as I feel something inside of me go cold and numb. Oh god, what? What's bullshit? Fuck, what did I do? Why'd he say it like that? Is he mad? Is he mad at me? Oh god, please, no, I didn't-- "This isn't all your fault." Oh. Wait...what? Before I can open up my mouth to argue that statement, he continues on; going on a whole, long, strangely impassioned rant, on my behalf, no less - a rant on my behalf, almost like he's defending me, against someone who isn't even here, full of weird, age-old clichè's flipped on their heads and impossibly intricate recounts of what went down, information that he has no reason to still know after all these hours unless maybe he remembered, information that he could never know unless he was fucking there himself, or unless he's just incredibly perceptive and amazingly smart -- how else would he know the situation better than even I do? And the whole time, that cold, numb feeling never goes away, if anything, it worsens, and I'm just sitting there with my eyes laser-focused on him and my mouth parted in shock, and I know, I know for a fact I'm listening to the words, but it's like I'm not hearing them, I can't fully absorb them or take them in. I can't even really comprehend what he's saying, I'm just in fucking shock, this bizarre, confusing, debilitating shock, and it isn't until he reaches the very end of his tirade that I'm able to at least try to decipher this weird ass, baffling ass code he's speaking. "You were just trying to let her out of the rain, man. You were just trying to be a decent friend and she got it all twisted..." Ha. Let her out of the rain. What a beautiful, twisted metaphor. Jesus. Fucking J and his words. He ought to be a poet or something, if the whole drug dealing thing doesn't work out. He really ought to. You were just trying to be a decent friend, she got it all twisted. Did he just call me decent? Wait, no - he said I was trying to be decent. Okay. Well, that's still a compliment to me, fuck it. I'm gonna take it. That's high fucking praise by J's standards. Or maybe it's not. Maybe I just don't meet his standards. Maybe he's like, really nice and adoring to all his other friends, and he just doesn't act that way with me 'cause he doesn't like me. God, I hate that I'm probably right. Whatever. I don't deserve to know what it's like to have his respect, anyway. Even though I do. Jesus, I'm feeling so mopey and sorry for myself that I didn't even register that he is being nice to me. Wow. Hold on, let me try that again. J is being nice to me. J is being nice to me. J is currently showing me niceness. J is not spitting in my face or telling me I'm the second coming of Hitler. J is taking...my side. J is taking my side? J is being nice. J is being nice to me. What...the...hell? Is this real? Did hell suddenly freeze over in the brief period where he was out working and I was out like a light? Is he really...does he like me? Does he not hate me anymore? Is he really being nice and understanding and maybe even supportive? Holy. Shit. It's official, J's perfect. That weird, broody, distant, impossible to understand kid is fucking perfect. He has no flaws. He has nothing wrong with him. I'm trying to find something wrong with him now, and I just...can't. He's being kind to me, of all people. Mr "I wasted half a decade of my life shooting up just for funsies". That makes him eligible for sainthood. Ha. Patron saint J. Protector of all the heartbroken assholes who got way in over their heads, cushioning their fall from grace and stitching their broken wings back together. Good god, I owe him my life. I can't even get into what he said, though... I mean, he did say it isn't all my fault, implying that some of it is, but...somehow I can't help but feel like he's placing all the blame on Lyd. Is his perception just unfairly colored because we're like, friends...ish? Is he biased? Would he still feel this way if he knew all the ways I've fucked her over before? Would I still be the hero? Or would I be the villain? Somebody has to be the villain. No story worth reading is ever devoid of a villain. I just can't figure out if it's me, or if it's her. And what the fuck would it even matter if he was placing the blame on her, anyway? So what? What am I gonna do, defend the woman who ripped out my fucking heart and then stomped on it with her stiletto 'till it was nothing but a pool of blood? What's with this dumbass, macho anger that quietly burns somewhere deep inside of me whenever it sounds like J is blaming her? She deserves the blame. She's not some innocent fucking fawn. She's not stupid. I've known Lyd to be a lot of things, but stupid has never been included in that list. She knew what she was doing. ...But then again, so did I. I'm the one who answered her call. I'm the one who opened the door. I'm the one who sat down next to her, listened to her tales, wiped away her tears, built her back up again. I'm the one who played with her hair, I'm the one who gripped the back of her neck, I'm the one who kissed her. I'm the one who let her into my bed. I'm the one who fucked her. Nobody took my dick and forced it inside of her, for fuck's sake, I put it there. There was no phantom or ghost who pulled all the strings without me knowing. It was me. I did all of it. When it comes down to it, I did all of it. I fell again. I closed my stupid eyes again because I wanted it to work so badly. I fed into my own delusions. I willingly ignored everything I've come to know over the past ten years; all her worst, ugliest traits, all her hurtful, seemingly, hopefully uncontrollable tendencies, all the times we tried to fix what we had broke and couldn't, all the disappointment and anger and fucking agony I went through. I ignored it. She tried to tell me...she tried to remind me of the past, but I just couldn't stop dreaming about the future. It was my fault. No one else's. I was supposed to be smarter this time. It was up to me to protect myself, and I failed. I'm always failing, aren't I? "You're really nice, J..." I tell him, sounding a little awestruck even to my own ears, offering a small smile of gratitude, "You're real nice...but...it is. It is kind of my fault. It's not like I'm totally blameless. It's not like I, you know, had totally pure intentions. I mean, yeah, all I really wanted was to make her feel better, and I guess I kind of did, even if she wants nothing to do with me now. I didn't create this mess on purpose...but still. What kind of guy gets into bed with a girl who just broke up with her boyfriend? Her slimy ass cheater boyfriend, no less. I don't even know how long they had been broken up for...probably not long! She had like, just gotten done crying when I kissed her. Her fucking tears hadn't even dried. Her mascara was still all over the place. This heartbroken, crying girl comes looking to me for comfort, and I immediately make a move on her. Fuck, J, what does that make me? That's so terrible. No wonder she's ghosting me. That wasn't even what she went to my place for. She was crazy for that asshole, for reasons unknown to me...it's like, what if she still felt a little something for him? And I was just disregarding that. Being selfish. I don't know. All I'm sayin' is, you're nice, but I'm not as innocent as you think. I'm really not. You don't even know how many times we've gone through this. You don't even know how many times I've fallen for her shit. I should've figured it out by now...but I never do. I just keep falling, again and again and again. God, it's embarrassing. You need to understand that, J. I'm not innocent. Not even close.”