#for some reason I like coming up with song titles first and then lyrics

[alullinchaos]

sometimes I think I’m just a writer and then I randomly plan out the concept for an entire musical album/record and then just like. forget about it. anyway guess what I’ve done

[pushingdaisies1]

Its never too late baby . . . ♡

(✧ ˚.) PAIRING-> James "Logan" Howlett {A.K.A} Wolverine x Mutant Reader >_<

(✧ ˚.) SUMMARY -> You were always someone who utilized your strengths. Physical and mental, you were a jack of all trades. You were a true hero to the students you taught within the school. Amongst the other X-men, you would always be one of them. But you had this little tick, that always annoyed Logan no doubt. You were a secretive person, too secretive for even his "standards." For others, you were a pillar of nurture and guidance. He saw your well-meaning nature from miles away. It was almost sickening to him how you would stretch your capabilities out to no end. He would never deny that he could be selfish. Sometimes it's more worth it to save your spine, than risk it for someone else. Though with the problems being thrown the team's way as of recent, he always saw you spinning your wheels. You wouldn't reason with him even when he of all people would lend you a shoulder to cry on. Even the students at the school could see it. With their childish snickers and big-eyed looks at your comfortable banter with Mr. Howlett whenever he helped with class. You were in love with the Wolverine. Again, out of all the Canadians - him? It wasn't something like a schoolgirl crush. It was an infatuation sort of deal. You burned for him mind body and soul. You would pretty much follow this scoundrel to the ends of the earth, even the end of your life if prompted. Which causes something to break between you two after you risk your livelihood for your family. The people that made up your heart, including Logan.

(✧ ˚.) AUTHORS NOTE -> hi party people!! I saw so much of the sweet reception for my first ever logan piece , so tysm!! Genuinely from the bottom of my heart the love means so much. As I’m currently going through my x-men marathon time if you will , I’ve had this idea brewing for a while. Thankfully the resurgence of logan content has given me the push needed to formulate this yk! This isn’t a part two to my previous logan post. That will be coming very shortly, but this is its own thing. Timeline wise... erm.... idrk a good place to put this SIGH. I'm thinking like in between x2 and the last stand. also one last final note , the title I took from Chemtrails over the country club. specifically the one lyric - "it's never too late baby so don't give up." felt like an appropriate whimsy title, nd I have been hearing that song everywhere lolz. Anyways, toodles!!! ᐢᗜᐢ (✧ ˚.) CWS (?) -> Descriptions of blood and graphic injury , they/them pronouns for reader !! , mentions of major character deal , Logan cares too much ... which could mean nothing , ur comatose for like the good first chunk of this , Jean and u have LORE!!!!! (not rlly but u and her have backstory beefers/her "passing" affect reader 100%) , mourning/grief, And that's on having no healing powers!! Buh-dun-csh!!

Your fall from grace was quick on the battlefield. This was supposed to just be any regular mission. You were using it as a way to clear your head after all. But you took a leap too far and now here you were, plummeting. The issue at hand was apprehended, sure. But you didn't leave the fight unscathed. Your vision grew too spotty for you to even make out your surroundings. Your hearing too even started to fog. Looking down, somehow or some way a large-sized piece of shrapnel metal had made it into your torso. Right in the sweet spot that was not in the lungs. Your legs began to wobble, losing your footing slowly but surely. You didn't realize your body was falling to the ground. The warm feeling rushing through you was the blood exiting from your hefty wound. It was ironic the last thing your eyes met before collapsing. Logan turned back around immediately once he noticed you weren't clamoring to the jet. His heart sunk to his stomach as he immediately sprung over to you. By the time your head had smacked against the ground, you went out. Your fingertips began to buzz, your fatigue lifting all of a sudden. All of the hurt and weight on your shoulders lifted? You felt freer than before, with a piece of debree stuck inside of your body no more. Even if some people regarded mutants as the next step in human evolution, a majority were still stuck with fleshy bodies. If only you were made out of steel. In this momentary unconsciousness, you thought about everything that went wrong. Your existence as a whole, joining the school. Moving up from student to teacher at Professor Xavier's school, like Scott and Ororo you were one of the first. Regarded as maybe one of the most useful of the bunch. No one could ever compete with Storm, the literal incarnate of a goddess. You thought of her as your eyes closed, embraced with the warm memories of your early days within the school.

The professor was never one to play favorites among his students. But when he searched you out and arrived with a less conniving Magneto at your door, it was clear you were special to him and his cause. From that day forward you were seen as a pillar of hope to a lot of the students. To some, you were like a mother, to others a guardian who would save them no matter the risk. To Logan Howlett - "The Wolverine", you were a coward. A coward that he admired. A coward he respected due to the ways you handled... stress in the simplest of terms. From the day he met you, he wandered around the halls of the mansion bewildered and confused. Something about you stuck out. He would've done something with this urge sooner if his eyes weren't honed in on another.

From day one you were not surprised how fast he fell and yearned for Jean. The woman you saw as your confidant, your best friend, she was magnificent. Smart and poised all in one with a strong set of mutant abilities. She was on the same power level as the professor, which made sense for their connection.

For living in Jean's shadow, you didn’t hate it. You were her right-hand man. Your balance was comforting, she was like your sister. The professor in small quiet moments of honesty to you liked to compare you to him and Magnus. When times were simpler they weren’t at opposing ends of the mutant kind spectrum. Yours and Jean's dynamic made you feel at ease with yourself. How could you worry? Your identity became a part of hers a long time ago. Logan saw more to that with you. Sure you could nag a lot of the time, and you always barked up his tree whenever he found ways to smoke on school grounds. But you just had this pull for him. He'd always find his way to see you first whenever entering a room. His brash and gritty attitude always got all mushy around you. He over time grew a lot more fond of the smallest details when it came to you. He was an amnesiac, his past only bits and pieces. But you made him feel grounded. You cherished his growth in ways no one else had. You were the reason why he was so drawn to the "now" of life. He needed that in times like this. He couldn't keep up for long after the realization that Jean was gone finally sunk in. Drowning at his one-sided attraction, the longing that he could've done more, you pulled him right out from that rut. Thank god that the two of you combined had horrible sleep schedules. His nightmares still stirred while you were suddenly afflicted with these with the memories of being on that jet when it wouldn't take off. That same pain rocketed through you every night as you were haunted by the sight of Jean finally swept into the oncoming flood. The feeling of grief ricocheted throughout the entire school. But you found your way to stay afloat. It was Logan, which you never thought of yourself admitting. But truth be told it was him. He was the most anchoring thing around you. Ororo distanced herself for the first month, while Scott cracked under the pressure of grief. Late nights dashing around the campus halls to the kitchen, out to the court where you two just talked. You had never seen him talk so much until you two became each other's support. It made you feel better seeing him smile more. Especially when it was at you. Again, you would never utter that truth EVER. At least that's what you thought. But his smile was a nice reminder of all of the light he held inside of him. As much as he despised ... everything, he was still so nurturing in his own ways. Nightmares were an excuse for him to be next to you. Nightmares were his excuse to hold you tight to his chest. The pain of loss was a collective "excuse" between the two of you to just .. be close.

Soon though, this ideal predicament between you both started to crack. Because even though she was dead, you still knew you would always be inferior. It may be all in your head but the hate kept you driven. It kept you driven but also mad. Small things would set you off soon enough. You knew deep down whenever he'd look into your eyes, it was a nice reminder of Jean. Even with how much he denied it when you came to him in tears, your bitter pain and grief clouded your judgment.

Logan saw that even with his help you were still hurting. He didn't want to get involved in it entirely as some of it was your own demon. But he saw how bad your spiraling was and still wouldn't accept his help. Not even from Ororo or Scott, not even the professor. Neither of you would admit who started the argument. It was late, and you were tired from pushing yourself to grade papers. Logan couldn't sleep and wandered his way to your classroom of course. The conversation was fine until he mentioned the problem. Your problem which you didn't want to deal with right now. As you were only running on a few hours of sleep. But even with Logan's usual "take and give no fucks" attitude, he knew he needed to push. You were slowly shutting yourself off this time, and he didn't expect himself to be a part of that mix. It was all a misunderstanding, but the two of you were angry and fire was thrown.

Your shared feelings were complicated. This whole ordeal with him brought out the "worst parts" of your love for him. He too was dealing with his internal dilemma. How could he move on from Jean and you were still latched onto the idea of her? It was a stupid question that was brought up in a Logan way, which of course caused the spat to escalate. His poor mistake was what he shouted. Already with the fear of waking one or even all of the students, you hated what he even dared to utter. "We're friends, you need to calm down about this whole obsession thing bub!" Originally you were thinking of just heading to bed. You were too tired to continue on with this constant bickering. But that's when you exploded on him. You regretted every last word you said to his face. Because it was you speaking your honest truth. About what you felt for him, about your hurt and your pain. How Jean was practically your lifeline. Losing her was like losing a piece of yourself. Especially since you rubbed it in about the kiss he and her shared. That you had seen and that made you sick to your stomach. A couple hours later she was dead. Your heightened emotions make you feel almost dizzy. The more you talked the more you realized his expressions distinct shift. As he was reaching out for you, you immediately swatted his arm askew. He didn't realize he hated to see you cry as much as he did until now. With broken sobs, you ran out of your classroom. The papers once stacked neatly were now laid messily all over your desk. You made sure to keep quiet. What broke your heart even more was a half-awake Rogue you ran into. She looked even more awake seeing your distraught state. Her feet tip-toed against the wooden floors of the hall before she looked at you. A big reason you and Logan were so close too, was because of Rogue. She was a good kid, he always rubbed off on her. He told you everything about how he and Rogue met. You were so enamored hearing him recount even the foggiest of memories. It could even be arguments with Scott he had, you'd just sit there with wide eyes as you listened. His word became your gospel. It warmed you to your core hearing him almost sound like a dad. He had looked out for her from the beginning. You always tried to do the same even when he left for Alklai Lake for answers.

It was so silly when she had practically pushed you and Logan to talk. She was just a kid and you two took up the almost suto role of her protectors. Friend or parent, she too found two trusted people to confide in. So you immediately went into "teacher mode" as soon as she saw you with watery eyes. She looked puzzled when her face met yours. You calmed down her storm of questions as she sputtered on and on. What's wrong? , is something happening? Are you okay? The hug you shared was one of the last meaningful hugs you had with another living being. You practically cradled her in your arms as you helped her calm down. She looked up at you, her larger brown eyes almost like the ones of a puppy. "Please don't be lying to me... y'know ah don't like liars." She whispered softly, her bubbly southern accent quiet. Your heart broke into a couple more pieces as you lied through your teeth. With a content nod, you bidded her a goodnight. Turning back to your room to drown your sorrow in god knows what. It had only been a good couple of months after Jeans' death that a mission arose. The X-men were laying low after everything at the base. For the school's and students' sake. But it was always on time when something bad happened for the team to fix. Old enemies came a-knocking and this time it wasn't Magneto. It was all supposed to be an in-and-out operation. You immediately clamored to get your hands dirty once again. You and Logan hadn't been talking for the last couple of days. Not even meeting in the dead of night to speak to another. You longed to hear about his afternoons subbing with Storm. This was your chance to regain some well-needed level-headedness. The thrill of doing what's right for a better tomorrow always made you feel better The mission even got Scott to come out of his puddle of mourning. Making you feel even better seeing your good friend so triumphant as he quickly clamored for his uniform. You and Logan didn't even brush shoulders as Storm and Scott dashed off to prepare the jet for takeoff. Everything should have gone fine. You should have all made it out alive. Every single one of you, that's what you had planned. Your lapse in judgment will always be your curse. Because now here you were, in the lap of the man that made your stomach churn. That made you feel LIKE that silly schoolgirl feeling you despised. Snapping back to reality, you realize where you are currently laid. Logan's eyes eased from his previous panicked look of fear as he saw you conscious. You were still bleeding but it seems that with quick medical attention either one of them got it to lessen. Your heart raced as you felt the warmness of his hands as they pressed against your cheeks. "Come on, there you go. Just focus on me." He cooed to your heaving chest. In the far back of the jet, you couldn't see Ororo or Scott. What you could see though was the remnants of blood on Logan's suit. He must have carried you off of the rubble and into the X-jet. Your smile was nothing compared to the horrid wince that left you. Finally, after this long moment of ease, the pain set in.

Going down to hold your gut, you shuddered as your vision all of a sudden wavered. You took in a sharp breath as finally, you noticed how in bad shape you were. Red filled your palm as you shuddered. Thankfully Logan noticed you and your shaky breath and immediately gripped your hand. Even in this state, you were currently in, you would always be able to focus on him. "I know, I know it's scary. You got hit pretty bad, but it's okay. Just focus on me and you'll be okay? I have you." He encouraged softly with that comforting rasp in his throat. His eyes were shaken and his lip was firm. Though his mood lightened somewhat because at least now you were awake.

You tried to speak but you were so weak. That same fatigue stung you as you stumbled over your words. He cradled you in his arms as he kept his eyes only on you. Your weary mind still around belittling you, another one of your eerily humane curses. He saw your chest quicken and lip quiver as your eyes began to lull, you were struggling. "Hey .. don't strain yourself - what is it?" He too began to worry as you saw his vulnerability bloom. Finally your chest steady as you took in one big breath of air. You let out the one thing keeping you from slipping back into rest in one huff. "Don't let me die, asshole." The asshole part came out more garbled from you after you coughed out your last words. Your last words before your eyes fell closed. For some reason, your hearing stayed for just a while longer. In and out, you could hear him cursing under his breath. The last thing you hear is Logan's panicked shouting at Scott, "Can this hunk of metal go any faster?!"

Finally, after so much pain, there was quiet. Peace and quiet after your constant heartache. You felt freed from the chains of reality. From birth to now, now seemed like your death. You left your current reality with a bitter-sweet smile as you felt consciousness swarm over you.

You couldn't feel how long you were out. Oh, but Logan could. Six weeks you lay in the infirmary. With some sort of miracle and hope, Ororo was barely able to stabilize you. The team rushed back into the mansion in panic as your wounds were assessed. But no, you couldn't feel the panic that coursed through your loved ones as you lay so peacefully. You didn't know your heart rate was being tracked. You were stable but anyone could guess it'd take you a while to re-reach consciousness. That your accident broke the barely well Scott Summers. But most of all it affected Logan to the core. He felt his world shake under him as he finally realized what had just happened. Something snapped in a man so stuck in his ways. Those words you said to him before you went back down. They were short but in the moment meant so much. Not to mention the fact that even Logan, so careless and free, was guilty. Every time he came back just to see you, he wanted to curl over and into you. Just like how he mourned Jean, he mourned you. Though .. he couldn't because you were technically still here. He may have not noticed it but everyone else could. The lack of your presence hindered him the worst. He missed the way you'd bother him out of the blue during the quiet time around the school. He missed you telling him about your life. He missed the shitty snort you did when you laughed too hard at one of his bad jokes. He missed seeing you happy. He missed seeing you move around. Pestering students for turning in assignments late or cheating. He missed the feel of your lips against his forehead when his nightmares of Jean flared up. He missed the way you looked at him. The way you saw him not only as a man but as himself. He didn't know how to admit it but he.. missed you. He missed you so bad and it was eating away at him. He spent hours out of his day visiting you. Like what you two always did when you were alone, he talked. About his day, what he ate, and even the lessons he overheard. The school got even quieter with you gone and he hated it. He felt bitter and broken, he didn't want to feel like that. He especially missed the way he felt with you. Almost like being on cloud nine. He finally understood the pain you felt when Jean died. This time on a more intimate level than he'd like to admit. He felt like the moon was ripped away from him after the sun. Now he was just the lonely tide, washing away against the shore until you returned. Ororo did all she could to help. All she could do was maintain your physical well-being as your body healed with rest. Logan hated the wait. The time you spent not walking around the halls of the school was maybe one of the worst times in his life. Since it hit him so deep on a real level. In this array of pain and even more guilt, he felt something dawn on him as you were still comatose. He was in love with you, Logan was in love with you. He felt like an idiot but the realization would always stay true. No matter how stupid he felt. As much as he wanted to deny it, he knew. In the middle of his thought process, he heard the swift slide open of the infirmary doors.

Right now he was standing over you. The one thing that kept his spirits high about your recovery was the gentle rise and lower of your chest. He didn't have to look behind him to know it was Storm. She too had taken her time checking in on your unconscious form. He sighed as she walked up right beside him. She gently cupped the examination table where your body would lay. She looked down at her hands with a bitter-sweet smile on her lips. She looked over to Logan, who was at a pause with himself. She decided to finally break the long silence. "You know they'll be fine, right?" She hummed as she glanced up to look over you. He chuckled softly as his brow pinched. His chuckle came out more like a rugged scoff. "I know, this just feels weird." He sucked in a breath of stale air. "It was funny the first night you arrived at the mansion.." Storm drew up a memory of that fateful night. "As soon as I and Scott brought you in, they immediately volunteered to help Jean down here with your examination. They were always enamored with your set of abilities. You were one of a kind to them especially, I suppose." Now his hands gripped into the sides of the examination table. He looked down, in pity of you and himself. How could he be so blind? Storm butted in once more as she noticed his demeanor shift. "All I'm saying is, they'd be happy to know how much you worried." He nodded in response, reminiscing when things were good. From your first encounter to now, his heart warmed. "I'd do it for anyone else." He gritted out as he bit back a smile. The truth was he was still in agony about Jean's loss. It felt wrong to love you as he had longed for her after all of this time. But you felt like a whole different story. He didn't have to sit in agony knowing that no matter what his love would always be with another. You always gave him the time and day, hell even down to the minute to just be honest. He needed you at his side no matter what you were to him. Maybe you were more than a friend, maybe he was crazy about you, but you understood him. In a way maybe Jean never had. Ororo knew he needed more time so she complied with the awkwardness in the air. "I'll give you some more time. Rest easy Logan, they'd want that." She insisted before making her way out of the infirmary. He immediately looked down back at you, before looking back at the monitor tracking your heart. He sighed, biting into his lip. He stuttered the only thing that had been keeping him sane since he last felt your eyes open. "Don't fail me now dimples... I need you." He gritted as his teeth were practically ground into his gums. It has become a regular part of his routine now. Once the students were back in their dorms for the night, down to the infirmary he goes. He could never be tired of seeing you at rest. Seeing you okay and not in pain. He just wished he could hear you speak. He hoped that you could hear his pleas for you to wake.

As much as he longed for you he just bided his time. Like the fool he was, like the idiot he felt like when you made him so weak. You made him feel the most human he ever could feel.

That day was supposed to be a normal day. Classes had been more and more brief. After the loss of Jean and you being "put out." But he did not expect to see what he did next. Going into the elevator to head downstairs, to of course see you as always. He was ready to talk about what you missed away and so on. His chest tightened once he saw what was right in front of him. It was you, you were walking? You were awake and on your own two feet. Your midsection was still bandaged but at least you were standing up straight. But then it finally clicked. Wait, you shouldn't even be walking around right now?!

He immediately ran to steady you once your expression went more absent. "Welcome back to the land of the living." He roughly inquired with a small, pleased grin. "I feel like shit, so don't start with me Wolvie." You gritted out with that smile that made him too feel all good on the inside. Quickly, his arms calmly wrapped around you. He longed for your embrace for too long. It wasn't like you were fighting him when he enacted this. You wrapped your arms around him too. He made sure not to squeeze too tight with your bandages and all. A gentleman must stay mindful, he could recall you poking at him as he had a beer bottle half hidden in his jacket.

Your head gently rested in the crook of his neck. That quiet he hated so much before when seeing you in the infirmary was warmer now. He liked the peace and quiet between the two of you when you were there WITH him. After some minutes passed, you met him back face to face. You eyes lingered as you watched the way he swallowed in with composure. You had longed for him to see you. Finally, all the puzzle pieces were clicking, and with your luck all at once. You knew before this would have never happened. It felt wrong and almost hurtful for you to be doing this. But go big or go home I guess. It was you who initiated it, and he gratefully complied. Still keeping you steady, once your lips met his hand immediately went to cup your cheek. In the bliss shared, all of a sudden it felt right. The tender embrace of your lips with his felt good. It was hungry and it was liberating. You could feel his heart beating out of his chest as quick gasps for air were taken. "I'm sorry." He uttered out, forehead against yours. "I know." You said with a sanguine look in your eye. "I love you." He uttered again at a rapid pace. "I know." You purred, your eyes looking back into his hazy ones. Things would always be complicated between the both of you. But deep down you had hope. Maybe not now, someday things could just be normal between you and The Wolverine. That's all you wanted and that's all you dreamed of. Yours and his timing by all means was horrible. So it wasn't surprising this delightful moment got interrupted by Scott of all people. You and Logan looked back, hands immediately darting off of one another. Time to address THAT later.

Scott's mouth fell agape as he began to regret coming down here in the first place. He readjusted his glasses with a small scowl. "Well hello to you too, and Logan." He turned his head to give him that same look. "Wanted to check on you but clearly -" He made sure to put a specific emphasis on 'clearly.' "That job has been overtaken by him.. I'll get Ororo." Before either you or Logan could interrupt him, Scott was already pressing buttons up to the main floor. Now that it was just the two of you bubbling laughs were shared. You felt finally okay. You felt like yourself after those months of nothing but remembrance. You and The Wolverine wormed back into conversation as you could finally talk BACK to him. Another thing you wouldn't ever admit was that yes, you did hear him. His gentle words would always be your favorite secret. After that display of affection though, your and Logan's bond never stayed just a little secret after that. Even after all the trial and error, and the more soon to come, you finally had another moment. Another moment that you could look at when you are older and with more grays on your head. Logan Howlett was yours, no matter how much the universe wanted to throw you around a loop. You'd always have him by your side, till the end of time. Nothing would stop you from cherishing this connection. Not even the burning phoenix crackling over the horizon. You and Logan against time baby.

ꔫ✉ reblogs/interaction is appreciated <3

[ohnoitstbskyen]

100 songs to get to know me

I posted this image over on the bluesky, and it got like 100 likes, so now here we are. I was going to write them all up here, but Tumblr imposes a 10 video limit on embeds per post which I find infuriating.

So! You can read the first ten entries here, but you can read the entire list here: https://tbskyen.bearblog.dev/100-songs-to-get-to-know-me/

1. ABBA - Lay All Your Love On Me

I genuinely don't quite know if my enjoyment of ABBA is something I came by honestly, or something which is simply genetically engineered into my Scandinavian soul. I remember hearing my mom blasting their songs on the home stereo in my childhood, and the association has put permanent nostalgia blinders on me for all of ABBA's greatest hits. Still, I think the beat is undeniable and the mournful tone of the chorus adds some real melancholy to the dramatic plea at the core of the song.

2. Afenginn - Oestrogenmanipuleret Basilisk

Afenginn describe themselves as "bastard etno-punk" which is probably as good a description as you're going to get. There's a lot of klezmer and eastern European folk influences here, but what is more important about Afenginn's best songs is that they go hard as f*ck and it's an absolute blast to dance to them at a show. They played this the first time I saw them live, and the rhythm comes back every time I hear it again. Good times!

3. Afenginn - Ralli in D Minor

With 100 slots to fill, I am giving myself permission to allocate two slots to Afenginn, and for the same reason. Ralli in D Minor is less of a dance tune to me, and more of a headbanger, but with a sufficiently loud subwoofer and a game crowd, you could f*ing mosh to this.

4. Anamanaguchi - Prom Night

I discovered Anamanaguchi as the composers of the title track to the Nerdist podcast back in the day, and being unfamiliar with the concept of chiptunes, I was drawn in initially by the sheer novelty of hearing the squeaks and bloops of my gaming childhood employed towards rock tunes and combined with "real" instruments.

Beyond the gimmick, though, Anamanaguchi won me over fully with the Scott Pilgrim game soundtrack, and then 2013's Endless Fantasy, where the gimmick of chiptune nostalgia noise (at least for me) finally coalesced into something that felt entirely like its own thing. Plus I'm a sucker for exactly this kind of bright dance pop, and Bianca Raquel's vocals here are a perfect match for the tone of the music.

5. Jennifer Hudson - Memory

2019s Cats is a fascinating fucking disaster. Tom Hooper is the worst director of musicals in my living memory, the abuse of the VFX staff extended beyond brutal crunch and absurd challenge imposed by a director who had no idea what the hell he was asking them to do all the way into an astonishingly arrogant and condescending joke from Rebel Wilson and James Corden at the expense of workers who were the last people at fault for the disaster that the movie became (look in the fucking mirror, Wilson and Corden, your performances were rancid).

Still, the silver lining of Cats is we got to hear Jennifer Hudson shake the world on its foundations with her rendition of Memory. I don't give a shit what anyone says, this performance is transcendent and no amount of institutional failure can dim its quality.

6. Annette Bjergfeldt - Min Bærende Bjælke

Annette is one of my mother's oldest friends, and a prolific singer-songwriter now turned author. I've been going to her concerts since I was a little child, and while I am absolutely not the target audience for any of it, it has stuck with me as part of my musical vocabulary deep into adulthood.

She has experimented with brass band accompaniment a few times, but for my money, nothing quite comes close to the floating, optimistic vibe of Min Bærende Bjælke. It sounds like a very particular kind of lasting romance, which of course is also what the lyrics are about.

7. Hozier - Blood Upon the Snow

We'll get more than one Hozier song on this list, but Blood Upon the Snow stands out to me as a song which easily transcends the videogame soundtrack promotional tie-in nature of its conception. Bear McCreary's hurdy gurdy and lyrics about surviving through adversity by holding on to existence with your teeth and nails... yeah, it hits with me. There's something real in that.

"The trees deny themselves nothing that makes them grow, no rainfall, no sunshine, no blood upon the snow." Something about that feels real.

8. The Beatles - Something

idk if I really need to write anything about George Harrison's most famous love song that hasn't been written more extensively by a million dad-rock enthusiasts before me.

I will say, this is one of the few songs I listen to regularly that justify the expensive audiophile headphones I invest in. There's a LOT to hear on a good, lossless, original mix of this song, if you're the kind of pervert who gets off to listening to a song a hundred times to focus on different parts of the soundscape. (it's me, I am the pervert)

9. Blink-182 - Adam's Song

I discovered a lot of my music taste as a young man from extremely low-resolution AMVs that my friend used to download off sketchy file-sharing sites. Blink-182 entered my musical lexicon through the one above, specifically, piggybacking off of my teenage love of Dragon Ball.

I never really grokked what the lyrics were actually about, until relistening to the song years later, but something about the minor-key wail of the thing really sat with my angsty teenage soul and has stuck with me ever since. I cannot listen to this song without that music video playing in my head, the song will forever belong to Vegeta.

There's remastered versions of this AMV out there, apparently, but if it's not 144p with tinny audio, it's just not right. That's not what the song is supposed to sound like, not to me.

10. Blink-182 - Miss You

Blink-182 is one of those bands I discovered via anime AMVs and listened to obsessively for a period as a teenager (The Offspring will show up later on this list), and then fell entirely out of touch with for years until discovering much later in life that they did, in fact, keep releasing music. I Miss You from their self-titled 2003 album felt, when I discovered it sometime in the early 2010s, like a much more mature and interesting sound from a band which had gotten stuck associated with my adolescent superpower kung-fu fantasies which I was, at the time, feeling a bit embarrassed about.

The song had a resurgence on TikTok a little while ago as a meme template, which made me listen to the albums again, and rediscover yet again that Blink-182 is, in fact, still putting out albums.

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The rest of the list is here: https://tbskyen.bearblog.dev/100-songs-to-get-to-know-me/

[thewanderingmask]

my submission for the hermitcraft season 10 fan art gallery: Xisuma Eternal! (actual size on left, embiggened version on right)

there are a ton of little thoughts that went into this and i will now go off about them at length (ramble under the cut)

let's start with the image layout and composition! my first idea was to do an homage to the original doom box art because of X's skin, but ultimately I decided on referencing this Eternal cover (hence the title of the piece) because it sparked some stronger ideas in my brain.

i still wanted to keep that link to the original though, so i did my very best to emulate the original logo with X's name - replacing the original texture with binary as one of many references to X's role supporting the technical side of the server.

(for no reason other than my own amusement, the binary in the letters is translated lyrics from X's verse in the hermit gang song. i don't even know how much of that is still visible after lining the letters, but i liked putting it there)

i've only been watching hermitcraft for a few months, and there's an awful lot of history i don't know about. so i focused on doing my best celebrating builds X has worked on here in season 10! i would have loved to include his base as well, but ultimately i ran out of room.

(there are still a few nods to other seasons based on knowledge i've acquired through osmosis. evil X is the most obvious, but i was also able to sneak in a couple small carvings next to the X in the title text!)

coming back around to xisuma's work on the technical side, that's why Evil X is backed by error windows. it's also why xisuma is holding a toolbox! it was the best visual metaphor i could come up with for the digital job of maintenance and repair.

(and of course he has a lovely cup of tea as well)

the allays (holding redstone) are partially in reference to farms X has been making, partially bringing back in that angelic/demonic vibe of Doom, and mostly because their intended role of supporters and helpers feels very thematically appropriate for X.

the lines in the sky are of course meant to evoke the shapes of mace race, and the black cube is a minecraft-ified version of the Soulside Eclipse logo.

(if you're not familiar, that's xisuma's music! it's good!! give it a listen sometime! it's on youtube!)

the silverfish at the very bottom are visual reference to the demon hordes of Doom - and of course they're also much more directly referencing X's very clever prank in impulse's city.

finally, on the walls of spawn we have the carved symbols - one for every other hermit. i remember X mentioning in a stream once something about fulfillment from supporting others. (i apologise if i'm remembering less than clearly.) it just felt like if i wanted to represent X, it felt important to include them as well.

and of course it made me happy to do something for Every hermit, since all of them

(smallishbeans/joel was actually the one i got most stuck on! there wasn't really a single item or symbol i could think of to narrow him down to. ultimately i decided on a torii gate and a little letter J, but i'm honestly still thinking about it)

ah right, and the Actual last thing: this turner out to be totally unnecessary, but i absolutely did draw this in the minecraft map hex code colours. it's a tricky palette to work with, and i learned a LOT about pixel art while trying to get the sky to look nice!

this piece took about 10 days to complete, maybe the longest i've ever spent on a single illustration like this - and honestly, i'm really happy and pretty proud of how it turned out!!

[friendofbetty]

2025 - The end of the re-record era?

I spoke to my friend yesterday that I went to the Eras tour with last summer and she said to me “Now that the tour is over, do you think we’ll get the last two Taylor’s versions soon?” And not sure what or if the swifties are currently clowning for a new release date for rep tv, but I know Blondie loves a pattern and by that we’re due the last two re-records this year.

Sure, everyone is dying for reputation tv and they’re probably right in thinking it’ll be the next one. But here’s my hot take: for the overall journey we’ve been on since 2019 with these re-releases, and Taylor reclaiming her story with each album and the Eras tour, I’m actually more excited for Taylor Swift (Taylor’s version) than rep tv. And that’s for two reasons, hear me out.

1. The title. Everyone is calling this album debut which chronologically it was, but it was actually self-titled (Taylor Swift). As such, the correct title of the re-record would be Taylor Swift (Taylor’s version). And come on, you can’t tell me that doesn’t sound significant in the light of all the observations and theories we’ve had over the last two years regarding the two versions of Taylor. The two Taylors in the anti hero mv, all the mirror images and the Taylors in glass cages on the eras tour. Then she showed up in Paris for the Red set in a THIS IS NOT TAYLORS VERSION shirt. So, if it still isn’t, will rep tv kill off the current brand and when old Taylor can’t come to the phone anymore , we get Taylor’s (authentic) version of Taylor Swift? Reclaiming her coming out with the same process that’s reclaiming her art and completing that process by going back to the beginning and showing us what she always could have been if it had been her choice? That would be truly iconic.

2. Shock factor. Let’s be honest, everyone who is even vaguely familiar with Taylor lore already knows what the deal is with reputation. There’s a whole ppt presentation about it and it’s really made the rounds online since 2018. It’s not news and it’s actually pretty well accepted that this is the karlie album regardless of where you stand on it. She got away with ‘wear you like a necklace’ on this album… so yeah it’s a pretty gay album and it wouldn’t shock anyone to find some even gayer vault tracks on it. Even she/her pronouns. It was her gay villain era. But the sweet innocent fairytale princess from the debut album? SHE can’t possibly have been gay, right??? 😏 See what I mean, this revelation has the potential to shock people and make them see Taylor Swift in a whole new light. All these years, the boy crazy image, the red lips and A line dresses, everything that screamed straight and all this time she was singing about girls. It’s also a way of saying, hey I didn’t mean to lie to you, this is what I’ve always been and if you look back at these, my earliest songs you can already see that. Tim McGraw with original lyrics making it crystal clear that even her first ever song was written about a girl? That line from picture to burn?! The Outside?? Invisible?!?? It would change her entire story from the beginning. Yeah I’d be really excited about that and imagine how vindicating that would be for Taylor. Finally and actually Taylor’s version.

[keepingsecretstokeepyoutk]

This is going to be very long and sound a little crazy at first, and maybe a little mean but please hear me out…

I’m convinced that Taylor sometimes purposefully includes one line or multiple lines of poorly written or clunky lyrics in specific songs to make a point.

We all have seen some version of this with bearding songs like London Boy, a simple bop whose lyrics were immediately detected as sounding disingenuous, even with the general population (the locations she was signing about were the most touristy and too far away from each other to visit on the same day, etc, basically implying that she doesn’t actually have a long term local bf there that she spends a bunch of time with exploring the city with, etc).

But just like everything else on the album, I think she’s doing maybe a more in your face version of that. No holds barred.

So High School is an obvious example of this, with all of the early 2000’s hs imagery, she seems pretty blatantly to be mocking the idea the public has of her “living out every American girl’s high school fantasy” of dating the tall popular football player. With lyrics like “touch me while your friends play grand theft auto” (barf), etc, shes being clear enough that this is not a serious song.

This is the possibly controversial part, but I’m so curious to see what others think about this - I think another iteration of this on this album is the title track, The Tortured Poets Department. Hear me out.

(First, I want to reassure you that there are lines in this song that I really like and think are well written, like: “you’re in self-sabotage mode/throwing spikes down on the road” and “but you awaken with dread/pounding nails in your head/but I’ve read this one/where you come undone/I chose this cyclone with you”. And I fully agree with the idea that these sentiments are from Karlie’s perspective. Basically, when you take out the chunks I’m about to talk about this song makes way more sense and has a beautiful sentiment of undying love behind it - which makes the following parts stick out that much more!)

The first time I listened through the album, and this was the second song, I got terrified because I didn’t understand its place in the whole narrative and when I heard the first clunky line “scratch your head like a tattooed golden retriever” I got the ick. Then the bridge with no structure and no wit and no clever turns of phrase, no metaphor, just “you put my ring on the finger people put wedding rings on” and “that was the closest I’ve ever been to my heart exploding”. So over simplified and cheesy, and doesn’t sound anything like her writing, especially the caliber of her recent lyrics

I know art is largely subjective, but I insist there is no way that the same person who wrote Cowboy Like Me wrote these lines into her title track if she didn’t have a reason and a point to make. To make it clear that this isn’t a matter of genre personal taste, because I know CLM is a very specific sound and a style that music snobs often take more seriously - I love SO many of her candy pop bangers, they are infinitely more clever, articulate, and overall works of art by a true wordsmith than this. Karma, The Very First Night, etc are all a master classes in clever words and tight writing being tucked into an “unserious” pop song.

The lyrics I cited above to me sound like what haters believe her writing sounds like, even fans who make little jokey TikTok’s about her and make up a spoofy something to sing while in character - that’s what these lyrics sound like.

Im worried im being too harsh, but please stay with me because the more I think about the more genius I think it actually is.

In the context of the themes of rest of the album, (her being trapped, miserable, manipulated, ready to burn it all down, screaming to be seen) this theory became clear to me. I think she’s leaning into her public persona (in more ways than one, we’ve already seen it with the stunting), in a way setting a “trap” for her fans and the public, that will essentially call them all out on how they ignored the real her in favor of her pr narrative, making the album about paternity tests, etc, all of which I’m guessing will become very clear in retrospect, possibly after she comes out? (Of course it’s already clear to us now, which is another purpose of the beard songs including clunky writing - to signal to us that these are not serious and that she knows that we know that she knows (like Phoebe on friends lol))

Ultimately, this is (along with So Highschool) a classic beard song. When she writes in this voice, she embodies the most extreme versions of her public persona, not just the one she has cultivated on purpose, but also the one that people have of her that don’t know her (as she did in Blank Space), including those that don’t take her seriously - because her identity as a boy crazy psycho ex girlfriend is directly tied to people dismissing her art as vapid because, they’ve only ever heard her singles, they don’t know the full her.

That voice is the straightest, the most boy crazy, the most one note, and sometimes the most unsophisticated writer version of her that people have in their minds, including her fans - the fans that refuse to see her as a whole person, the real, that believe she is head over heals for big football boy, that believe “he knows how to ball, I know Aristotle” is a romantic line about how opposites attract, the fans that say they don’t “get” some of her most beautiful and well-written songs, the fans that don’t see her and haven’t been seeing her.

They didn’t see giant Taylor on the eras tour, they refuse to see all of her queer signaling, etc, and I think she’s making the bearding songs obvious to underscore the difference between her Taylor(TM) and Taylor(person) personas.

She knows that despite the fact that the lyrics don’t even come close to measuring up to the rest of the album, the public, and many of her fans, will make this song one of the most listened to simply because they are looking for evidence of her relationships from the past year. We’ve all commented on how insane it is that this layered, complex, devastating album is being reduced to the usual paternity tests. This is currently one of the top songs precisely because it is “about Matty”. And of course, So High School is one of the tops songs along with it because it’s “about Travis”.

The juxtaposition of the bearding songs alongside her beautifully written poetry of Prophecy, Peter, Whose Afraid of Little Old Me, Cassandra, How did it end, The Albatross, etc mirrors the juxtaposition of her two selves during the Midnights era.

She has proven the point that if they think she wrote every line of this song completely in earnest, then they see her largely no differently than her haters do, as a subpar writer who writes absurdly cheesy love songs praising trashy to mediocre, problematic men. By eating it up they tell her that’s what she’s good for, for being the subject of tabloids and warring fans who make this entire album about two (purposefully) mediocre songs and the men who “inspired” them.

She has proven her point - that a subset of her fans will be distracted by a lesser song simply because they think it’s about one of the greasy men that’s she been seen holding hands with. That they will ignore once again all of her pleas to be seen, that she’s in pain and caged, and has been driven insane by their willful ignorance. That they don’t appreciate her full potential and talent, that they don’t even see it, and just want to be confirmed in their ideation of her.

This song is essentially the “forget him(her)” pill at the beginning of the fortnight mv, but it’s a sedative for the fans, who are addicted to her straight narrative. Similar to Willow’s 13 chants of “that’s my man” that started off evermore, casting a spell of heteronormativity over everyone who wanted it, so that they could choose to just completely ignore the following 14 gayest songs ever written. Don’t pay no mind to her singing directly about women with zero male perspective - she said “that’s my man!” We’re good! She’s still straight!

Taylor in the fortnight mv had to a take a sedative to be able to go into the next room and write her bearding songs - ie she self medicates to deal with keeping up the straight persona and to get through having to release dumbed down songs to feed the masses. (I also see the pill as something forced on her, I think it represents both layers)

From the first time I watched the music video I thought the writing Taylor looked so miserable and the bearding songs are why.

In this room she’s trapped, churning out the songs that her fans expect of her, the songs that make her team money, the songs that make her money, but that she has to compromise her truth to create.

But when she frees herself she’ll burn the stories that weren’t true, the filler that doesn’t represent her.

I’m curious to hear other’s thoughts on this - have you ever felt like Taylor purposefully inserts off-sounding lyrics that are written in a different voice to make a point?

I want to reiterate that it’s not the entirety of either song that I think is terrible, I genuinely love bopping along to both So High School and TTPD (track). Like I said above, when you remove the clunky lines from ttpd (track), the song has another layer and likely gives voice to some Karlie insight that is beautiful and tragically profound. It’s the red herrings, the pieces specifically meant to tie this song to a bearding narrative, that I’m dissing, and the only reason they are suspicious in the first place is because I know how gifted Taylor is with the written word.

Taylor is such a skilled writer that she can embody the voice of the bad writer that dismissive ignorant idiots believe her to be, just to make a point!

I even wonder if maybe there is a second version of this song locked away in one of those drawers in the fortnight writing room that leaves out the red herrings and is a thousand times better than the bearding version we got.

I hope one day we get to hear it.

[aakaneeee]

well people. . It's time, aka Akane's monthly revival because there's Luka content. And gosh do I have a lot to say about this. Except.. I'm not going to market these as theories, but as predictions. I think as an og fan I've seen enough to be this confident in my abilities LOL

Quickly, I'd like to address the lyrics and the title, because I will reference it later and I don't want to have to explain mid-prediction.

Wiege has two meanings, and both are so fitting:

1. Cradle. It feels.. perfect, for me. It makes so much sense. Luka was a cold child.. but I'd like to say only physically. I feel like he genuinely warmed up towards Hyuna and Hyunwoo as a child. And I'm going to bring an idea that might get me a bit of backlash but.. I've gotten worse, and that is, that Hyuna is at fault for Luka's approach on his feelings. (Audience boos) From the little we know about Hyunwoo, I feel like Hyuna treated both him and Luka.. at least a little bit similarly. Or at least, Luka couldn't discern a difference, if there was any. Luka is a tube baby, he probably doesn't know (and I am not babying him here, I'd like to add!) what "siblings" he has. For him, affection might just be all and the same. Yes, it wasn't Hyuna's responsibility to teach him, but I feel like a hint was there "Your life is mine", and she could've explained, in a way. But, back to our discussion, Hyuna was Luka's cradle. She burns as bright as the sun, while he's colder. But most importantly, she was his only true friend (Considering I don't think his relationship with Hyunwoo was extremely close, even though they were 'friends'), someone he thought truly cared about him. Hyuna was Luka's cradle, holding him close, comfortable... until at one point, he outgrows that cradle (Hyunwoo's death).

And the second meaning, beginning. In the picture we got, Luka is centered, he's in the middle.. but he's so small, and overshadowed by the tree. Luka is the best performer of the ANAKT, always first, but has no friends. But perhaps, he was better that way. Then, Hyuna comes, and it's a new beginning. He's finally not alone. What I've noticed in the new banner, Luka is missing, but across the tree trunk, in his place, is a taller shadow. Perhaps, a shadow of who Luka was, hopefully still left in there. Or, the other way around, it symbolizes his real self being left there.

And the lyrics:

When I close my eyes,

Play in paradise.

These, to me, remind me of the interview where Luka said his favorite game was hide and seek. In a way, his whole ANAKT life was a game of hide and seek: hiding all the time, but no one trying to seek him. Until Hyuna did, and found him. Something that intrigues me is the "paradise", which to me sounds like what Mizi once said: Dying in competition means returning to the Great Anakt, which I suppose is to them like Heaven.. or Paradise. This will be important later, so remember it.

And now, my predictions for the HyuLuka episode

! First of all, I think the song will be lullaby-like. When I first saw this teaser, with the lyrics, as weird as it sounds, it reminded me of Richard's song in The Hero in TAWOG, a song that always gets me to cry for some reason, and I've been really stuck on that . It would be interesting, because it would fit Luka's voice (as does everything else), but probably not Hyuna's, even though 6FU; would eat it.. which to me, sounds like their "love", where Luka loves her, but it isn't returned. I'd love to see more German in it than just in the title. And considering the nostalgic, pastel, very cutesy artstyle (that reminds me of the memory part from Jordan River animation!), it seems very viable. But the art style is also noisy, which gives an unsettling vibe. It feels like a 2020's dreamcore wallpaper.

I might be crazy, but the hand holding the flower (with only 3 stamens, like the 3 friends) looks dark-skinned, like it would be Hyuna's or Hyunwoo's, but I doubt it would be his, considering it's the account's profile picture. If this is some kind of reference to.. perhaps, an unrequited Hyuluka but the other way around, with Hyuna still not over Luka.. probably won't happen, but God, would that be awesome.

So, how do I think the round will go?

First of all, I have to say, I'm not sure if this will be a round or a Mizisua type episode.😭 I'd say "oh the wait time is way too small" but also... do you guys remember the production announcement of Round 7? Yeah. You can never be sure.

This isn't necessarily a prediction, but more of a suggestion of what could be: It would be SO cool if it would be both.. in a way, merged. This idea just appeared in my mind and I was like OH. MY. GOD. Imagine if almost the whole thing was just them, as children, having fun, a whole backstory.. but then, when Hyunwoo dies, it pans on his face, and then it's back on stage, the loser's face instead of his. It would be so heartwarming, and then DEEPLY DISTURBING and traumatizing. I also really want some Luka and Heperu backstory so I can hate Heperu even more.

On the topic of the loser... It's going to be Luka. I'm an insane Luka lover and it was hard to get accommodated to this idea, but there is no way that he will survive. First of all, the shadow in the account's banner, in place of Luka. It's implications... are quite obvious. Second, the pattern of characters shown in Sweet Dream, and he is next. Third: "In my arms, you would be protected." I feel like Luka would consider the competition "In his arms". I don't think he would break his promise: hear me out for a second. He wouldn't let Hyuna die this way, because I feel like his sense of possession over her also comes with responsibility and protectiveness. And fourth, the Paradise lyric, to me, is a foreshadowing of his death.

I also think he will die by self sacrifice. First of all, there's no way Hyuna could defeat Luka by pure odds. Yes, her stats are better, but lets be honest, her mental power would NOT be as good infront of Luka, and also, the aliens wouldn't vote her. She's a rebel, wanted for so much time, with technically no guardian: they wouldn't want her to defeat their prince, probably. And second, I have made two categories:

The "perfects": Sua, Ivan, Luka

The "rebels": Mizi, Till, Hyuna

See something similar? Both the perfects that are dead, have died by self-sacrifice. The only other dead character, Till, has been shot while reaching for his freedom, so you can't say this is for all characters. And let's be honest.. Patterns are usually being followed in this series. Id also like to add, even though it's a reach, that in a tier of how 'perfect' they are, it'd be:

1. Luka

2. Sua - not so obvious self sacrifice

3. Ivan - obvious self sacrifice

So, I'd say that Luka's might be even more backstage, as if to sabotage himself in a way that seems viable. It also kind of goes in line with his character, he's not one to break facade on stage.

I think this episode will be quite a deep-dive into their true selves. We know the least about them, so this will be GREAT. I'd love to see a more morally gray Hyuna in this. (Since I'm genuinely kind of tired of only Luka being villainized in the ship, which honestly..  is kind of in line with the other perfects. Let's let Mizi, Till and Hyuna be little freaks too) I also want to see atleast a little bit of Hyunwoo, like a little snippet of his mind, what he saw in Luka.

In conclusion, I'm SO happy and hyped about this HyuLuka episode, they're so mysterious and I really really want to see more of L- I mean, more of them. Getting 2 episodes where Luka is present one after another is literally THE dream to me. Basically, Wiege is killing me and I'm gladly letting it.

@4listr Since you asked to be tagged and also, @rockwgooglyeyes I REALLY want your opinion on this

[accio-victuuri]

for some reason this second section of songs are making cpfs go wild 👀

unlike the first set, which i think could have their cpns of their own but was really more of social/life commentary on xz’s side. these next ones, are superior. atleast to me. we don’t have the 3rd set yet so i can still be wrong. and i mean sweets aside, the 3 songs released today are instant favorites. i expect people to make bjyx fanvids with lighthouse as the bgm please do not disappoint me. lol.

what we first noticed was xz posting the qq links to the songs using a photo (p1). in it, you clearly see the hands of the watch point to 10 and 5 which is his bday. it made us remember all those times they showed off their watch with questionable numbers visible ( p3 and p4 because xz is not subtle at all ) . coincidentally, a 10:05 timed watch (p2) was also seen in wyb’s most recent NYE performance.

shut up you two. please. 😬

the title track of this section — DRIFTING’s concept sounds like it’s someone exploring an unfamiliar environment. which made is think of wyb’s recent show exploring the unknown. the choice of words and imagery he wants to show is also interesting. take note that xz wrote this song.

Lying on an island and waking up

The top of the cliff, tear it off and go with the flow.

while it’s pretty obvious that this means more than going out in the wilderness in the literal sense when you take the song as a whole — the fact that it fits what wyb has recently done is 😏. can someone please make a video too of ETU with drifting as the background. it would be perfect. thank you. to me, this is xz drawing inspiration from wyb’s experience and combining that to his own “exploration” and drifting in this world.

NOW TIME TO TALK ABOUT THE TRACK LIGHTHOUSE. Personally, it’s my fave and i think it’s the most romantic and bjyx-y of them all. 💕

first of all the imagery of a lighthouse and the sense of it being that only light you see amidst the storm. that no matter what happens, he can look at that. the timing of yibo posing with a light for GRA is making me overthink too. lol. also wyb’s album cover for twenty was a light bulb thing. that kind of symbolism really speaks to them.

and as for the lyrics lemme just leave this select lines for us to all cry about ok?

For whom to move forward? Even if there are thorns under my feet, I'll stay with you till the end.

Where is the storm now? I go against the wind I'm barefoot and go through the crowd…. An island in the dark, We must also go against the tide.

Run towards the lighthouse in the darkness. Even if it rains heavily, Let's go, let's go, we have to go home. Just live hard like this. I only see the lighthouse

The lighthouse in my heart. It will never go out.

songs can be interpreted in different ways and can go in a totally different direction from what the lyricist intended but i am understanding this in a romantic sense. not the cutesy kind of romance, but the one that has hardships, is not easy, but you know that you have each other. the lighthouse in his heart will never go out. in reality, their life is not easy. but they are stronger together. even if there are thorns under my feet i’ll stay with you till the end.

I CAN’T EVEN. AHHHHHHH 😭😭😭😭

and oh, talking about the rain and going home. more on the going home part, people are bringing back favorite line among cpfs from an LRLG contribution. supposedly said by yibo.

When I called, I said it was fine, but as I talked, it became like

🟢 : I want to go home. Come and take me home.

I was kinda nervous for track 8 cause that Bo. LOL. the song is also good but i don’t see much CPN from it. or maybe not yet. lol. i just hope they get to have time where they can have night walks together 🌙

-END.

[daynascullys]

LISTEN THROUGH SILENCE: An MSR Playlist ⤷ Part Two: Scully

It feels close to you, somehow, to say your name out loud.

playlist / songs ↘

SIX by Sleeping at Last / Similar to with Mulder, I haven't really thought about what enneagram I think Scully might be, but the lyrics of this song are so her. Plus: "I want to believe—no, I choose to believe—that I was made to become a sanctuary." I constantly think about "I want to believe" in the context of Scully because that's very much Mulder's thing, but it takes on so much significance when you think about it relating to Scully (just like Mulder choosing not to believe things takes on special significance as well). Mulder wants to believe in so many things, but Scully wants to believe in Mulder—and she chooses to believe.

RENEGADE by Big Red Machine & Taylor Swift / Very very Scully to Mulder. I mean— "there was nowhere for me to stay, but I stayed anyway" and "you fire off missiles 'cause you hate yourself, but do you know you're demolishing me? And then you squeeze my hand as I'm about to leave" and "it's time, you've come a long way / open the blinds, let me see your face / you wouldn't be the first renegade to need somebody" and "is it insensitive for me to say / get your shit together / so I can love you." But "open the blinds, let me see your face" really gets me because Scully truly does see Mulder, she sees him better than anyone ever has.

BETWEEN THE LINES by Sara Bareilles / Oof, this one huuuurts. I chose the title of this playlist from this song ("listen through silence") because I feel like it goes pretty well with Mulder's playlist ("amidst the chaos," also from a Sara Bareilles song) and because it's so much of what Scully does while Mulder learns—she listens through silence and reads between the lines. ALSO: "I'm queen of attention to details, defending intentions if he fails." Scully is forever the first to defend Mulder no matter what he does, always from a place of love.

BREATHE by Lauv / There are so many songs that could be applied to both of them, but for some reason or another I choose it for one of their individual playlists (this being one of them). I think one of my favorite parts fits Mulder better—"I should leave 'cause you deserve better"—but overall this song made me think of Scully, especially during I Want to Believe. "You're my all and more, but I need room to breathe."

WATER WORSHIP PRAY by Grace Power / This song also makes me think of I Want to Believe, and I especially love this song for Scully because of all the religious imagery. "How can two people fall apart when they both want the same thing? How can my happiness be you, but I'm not happy at all?" OW. And also: "First peace I ever knew / Can't love you well enough to keep you or enough to let you go / I'd rather stay in purgatory with you than in heaven alone."

IF PATIENCE DOESN'T KILL ME by Alison Sudol / I'm very aware that this is a pretty specific sound that not everyone will love, but I love Alison Sudol and I feel like this song is perfect for Scully so I kept it anyway. I just feel like the lyrics fit her perfectly—"if patience is a virtue, I abound / ... / if patience doesn't kill me, I'm yours." And it's where the description comes from—"it feels close to you, somehow, to say your name out loud." It feels like they constantly are calling for each other both because they want them there and trust they will be there, but also because the simple act of calling for each other makes them feel less alone.

GIVE UP THE GHOST by Rosi Golan & Johnny McDaid / Another song I love (I would've titled this "Quiet the Noise" if I hadn't already used that as a playlist title) that takes on new meaning when you think about it in an MSR context. Ghosts take on a different significance when thinking about Mulder (also, @leiascully just KILLED me with her fic and "I don't love anything more than I love you, Scully. Not even ghosts." Literally what the fuck). Even the very beginning of this song—"come here, it's all worth the fight when it's you, dear." And "slow down, we're losing the meaning of words now / quiet the noise 'cause we made a mountain of minuscule things." And Scully really does quiet his noise.

THE BEACON by A Fine Frenzy / The lyrics in the gifset are from this song and if I could write out the entire song without it being ridiculous, I would. I swear this could truly be a song written by Scully about Mulder. I mean, just starting with the first verse: "You say your time has come / you're tired of waking up / don't be obscene, I can't conceive of living without you / You say you drag me down, no one should want you now / I start to cry, you kiss my eyes and say I'm not allowed to." And then, AND THEN the second verse: "you were a child forgot / lessons of love untaught / now no embrace can quite replace the one that never found you / I was raised tenderly / all that was taught to me / I will apply / Your parents tried, but they didn't know how to." Like. Okay. Sure. That's fine.

SATURN by Sleeping at Last / I know I'm not alone with this one because I've seen multiple videos of them set to this song, but I chose to put it on Scully's playlist because it really makes me think of Mulder's abduction arc/when he wakes up in "Deadalive." Just imagine her listening to this song sitting by his side, holding his hand, willing him to wake up. GAH.

YOU MATTER TO ME by Jessie Mueller & Drew Gehling / This is another song I was debating for both of them, but the first verse especially makes me think of Scully: "I could find the whole meaning of life in those sad eyes / they've seen things you never quite say, but I hear / come out of hiding, I'm right here beside you / and I'll stay there as long as you'll let me."

SOMEONE WHO LOVES ME by Sara Bareilles / This song wrecks me and has some of the most beautiful lyrics I've ever heard. One reason I love it for Scully is because of the hug at the end of "Irresistable." This is another song I would have considered for a playlist title ("my home, my heart") if I hadn't already used it before. But the way it's sung always gets to me—"my home, my heart, thank god you are someone who loves me," like she's exhaling into the safety of his arms.

I F*CKING LOVE YOU by Zolita / The song pretty much says it all: "what if I let it slip, tell you that oh my god, I fucking love you."

WHO WOULD'VE THOUGHT by Emily James / I absolutely love the first part of this song when she says "I just wanna say that I'm not going anywhere anytime soon unless it's with you." What really made me think of MSR was this, though: "'cause we've been busy lying to ourselves, swearing it would never work / promising that we were just friends / it's funny how it doesn't make sense / and then it does." And I love the idea of Scully thinking again about how different her life is, how this is so far from where she thought she'd be, but with a little bit of wonder: "who would've thought that it would've been you?"

[xeilon]

Heyyy, do you want to read Party Of Your Lifetime lyric analysis / speculation / vibe check that would make any sensible literature teacher weep (not necessarily for good reasons)? Hi :)

"Party of your lifetime" -> So title, obviously menacing, you WILL die after this. Very cool 10/10.

"We're On-Lyne" -> Not just announcing the bands name but also alluding to the fact that they have the technology based Techrot. Also, infested, hivemind, online, got it? Gotta love it.

Bit of a theory, if the Techrot was a thing before Y2K but Y2K is still a threat, it could be argued that the Techrot would/will become more powerful once the clock hits 0:00, especially if the computers are not turned off. We know how fans are, if your faves name is On-Lyne you will keep your PC on going into the new year, as every true On-Lyne fan should. So their name's also a tactic to make sure they spread as far as they can.

"Step into the night, where all the stars are bright" -> Stars, celebrities aka. On-Lyne, also stars make up the night sky, they are a 'unity' could allude to the infested hivemind, also also, manipulation, "You can become a bright star just like us, you just have to 'step into the night' / become infested."

"We're back again to do this, and we're gonna do it right" -> This song is On-Lynes big return, but also could mean that the infestation is here. Also could mean that the Techrot isn't just 'infestation that started in 1999' but the infestation we know and love from the game, that Albrecht brought back from the future to make proto-frames that is now spreading far and wild in 1999. This would also explain why the Techrot / Coda Technocyte managed to evolve into Liches while our 'basic' infestation couldn't. Because they are the basic infestation that had ages to evolve.

"Something wild's in the air, I just know it" -> Infestation obviously. I'm also gonna say that this line has a double meaning, and is a warning to the listeners.

I think this song, other than being a catchy indoctrination 'hymn' of the infested is also a warning by the original On-Lyne members. Throughout the song the heat as motif pops up multiple times usually followed by / following references to fighting / winning. There are also some lines that makes the song feel like a bit of a tug war between consciousnesses, a fight for control, I believe between the Techrot and the band members, which is actually a pretty common theme in Warframe, see Umbra, all the Warframes, Ordis, Narmer, the Holdfast, even to some extent Drifter in Duviri and Stalker in his recent quest.

"Now we're moving quicker [...] there's no turning back" -> Again, obvious infested reference, the "Once we hit the scene, there's no turning back" being another double meaning warning, that once the concert happens something will change forever. I believe this would be the Techrot taking complete control over On-Lyne.

[Chorus starts]

"Gonna bring that feeling, gonna feel the heat, On-Lyne is in town and we can't be beat" -> This is again the Techrot spreading, little shout out to heat damage that is effective against them except, no.

If my reading of this song being sang by 2 opposing forces is right this is probably one of the coolest lines here. So if this is On-Lynes big return this could also be the first time they're preforming this song live. Now the Infestation and most likely Techrot too, are weak to heat, so it could be that it's influence gets weaker the higher the temperature is. And this will be a concert. Do you see the vision?

"We come alive moving under the neon glow" -> And what a follow up, someones "coming alive" moving (generating body heat) under the neon glow (lamps probably also generating a lot of heat).

"Everybody rock!" -> Again as reminder that this would be a stadium filled to the brim with people. Also a call to make people move, sing, etc. which is also could and probably is a tactic of the Techrot to get people more in sync.

"It's the party of your lifetime" -> Love the title.

"The signal's strong can you feel it in the floor?" -> This line gives me the vibes of both a cover up, like the Techrot moving under the crowds feet and so giving a reason for it, "Yeah that's how loud we are!" but also as a warning again "Can't you feel the floor moving???"

"It's the party of your lifetime"

[Chorus ends]

"Now that you can see there ain't no stopping me, The city's on 11 it's two thousand degrees" -> Again with the heat motif and fighting, this line to me has the double meaning, the infestation can't be stopped, it's 11, almost midnight, and shit is soon hitting the fan, but also could be a call out OF the infestation, "Here we have some control, it's HOT in here, like 2000 degrees"

"Something big is coming, but it's just the beginning (this is just the beginning, just the beginning)" -> This is one of the 2 lines that made me believe this theory, because while this could just be the infested cheekily telling us "Hey hihi shit is gonna happen soon, lol" it's right after the line that can be read as 'going against the infestation' and while this line could be read as a warning, we can't forget about the background vocals. Let's consider the difference between the lines 'It's just the beginning' and 'This is just the beginning' the first can be said by someone who has nothing to do with something, very general, while the second says THIS, THIS thing that I'm doing, THIS thing that is happening. The way I read it the front vocals are sang by the actual humans that the Techrot is controlling, and the background is the Techrot.

"Neon lights flicker, DJ spins the track, the boys are in sync and there's no turning back" -> Notice how right after the last line we get a sharp switch to 3rd person story telling, as if the Techrot just managed to get control back? This is obviously telling someone that these people are now under control and this is something that can't be undone. But whom? This sounds just like "There's no reason to fight now, everything is lost anyway." Also the line "Neon lights flicker" is painting a scene that usually alludes to something changing / bad happening.

"Now that you're invested, we're turning up the heat, Everybody sing together on the one, two, three" -> This is the line that is being called out as famously mishear for 'Now that you're infested', for good reason, but again, notice how heat and fighting (albeit well hidden) come up again in the song, 'You're in(f/v)ested so we're turning up the heat, and everybody should sing along now, (which is again something that would make the stadium hotter from moving -> body heat.

[Chorus]

"Floating higher as the stars align, here on the edge of 1999" -> This could be meaning that as Y2K approaches they are getting stronger 'floating higher', just as it could mean out of body experience, aka. losing control.

"All systems go in this moment like you've never known (you've never known)" -> This is the line I'm gonna cling to as the biggest clue to the Techrot going crazy at the New Year. Also why I think On-Lyne encouraged their fans to not turn their computers off before midnight. I'm not sure I really believe this but this line could be the reverse of 'Something big is coming' with the boys singing in parenthesizes 'You've never known what's happening' to the crowd.

"Join us embrace us, don't ever erase us (On-Lyne's in the house)" -> So subtlety is out the window, we're bringing in the chanting until-

"Stop" -> And this is the line that made me write this whole post. Just. Why? Why would the Techrot put a stop to the chanting? Except if this isn't the Techrot but there is some humanity, something, anything remaining from the people they infested, that is for one last time fighting back?

"On-Lyne's in the house to bring the party of your lifetime" -> So this is purely speculation but I do believe that from this line forward it is the actual On-Lyne singing right until the end. Why?

Right after this line the music stops, like a moment of clarity, that could be so much. It could be the infestation wrestling back control once and for all, but I don't believe that that would be the case, from the lyrics that follow.

[Chorus] -> So I already explained that everything in the chorus could be interpreted as either the Techrot or On-lyne singing it, but after it comes

"We come to life, we come to life on the floor, This feeling's what we came for, The beat is strong, we can feel it in the floor" -> 'We come to life on the floor' can be interpreted as the Techrots control loosening which is the 'feeling that [they] came here for' and it's not the infested moving underfoot, but the beat they will feel in their last moments as the song ends.

"Party of your lifetime"

"[distorted] Party of your lifetime" -> The Techrot singing, trying to imitate human sound probably.

"Party of your life. Time." -> The moment I think the Techrot won was right after 'life' but it couldn't stop the 'time', because Warframe is at the end of the day about love, and hope and all that good stuff and so I refuse to look at this in any other way.

So anyway, this is just a random theory / analysis that I thought of after listening to this song too many times. I think the themes of battling for control over our lives fits Warframe perfectly, with the quests that we had in the past few years, and so I wouldn't be surprised if our new fan favorite boy band had a similar story to tell.

[reiniesainyo]

IN BETWEEN. charlie bushnell x reader – 05

05 | LOGICAL previous | next | masterfile

SYNPOSIS. when a girl's co-star is good to her and now she wants it more than everything in between. (smau)

A/N. not feeling too well but... here's the episode

HOST "What's up, everyone! Welcome back to the Fangirlpedia Podcast, where we fangirls get to live out our dreams and fill out a Wikipedia for all the fangirls out there!"

HOST "I've been a fan of PJO since i was a kid, I was 15 when the first books came out and now, my daughter, who's 12 gets to watch the TV show. So it really is a dream come true and such a pleasure to be here today with the cast of Disney+'s Percy Jackson and the Olympians!"

HOST "With that, I think it's the proper time to introduce our dear guests for today."

WALKER "I'm Walker Scobell, I play Percy Jackson."

LEAH "I'm Leah Sava Jeffries and I play Annabeth Chase."

CHARLIE "I'm Charlie Bushnell and I'm the actor for Luke Castellan."

YN "And I'm YN LN and I'm the actress for Rina Velasco."

HOST "What song would you associate with your character?"

YN "For me, I Bet on Losing Dogs by Mitski"

YN "Rina is a very calculated character, she's not like Annabeth in the sense that it's just logic and facts. I think she's calculated in the fact that she's a very thoughtful person, and so I think it's interesting that her fatal flaw would be her faith and her trust— which, from face value completely contrasts her as a character. Like why does this person who thinks everything through have such childlike trust? Well, she is a child."

YN "The reason I chose this really lies in Luke, her first love, and the fact that her oblivious trust is most blatant in her relationship with him. Luke is the losing dog that all her logic tells her is losing but she still bets on him every time. He proves to her time and time again that he's put himself on this path and yet she foolishly believes every time that he can come back. I think in a way, she's aware of the fact that it's a foolish endeavor and yet pursues it anyway because she still believes there's some goodness in Luke despite him proving to her otherwise."

HOST "If YN's song for Rina is I Bet on Losing Dogs by Mitski, what would your song be, Charlie?"

CHARLIE "I think I've mentioned somewhere else that the song I used to really like use as my go-to was Swan Lake, Op. 20, Act 2? Yeah I think that's the right title. It really got me in the mood. But there's a different song that I think represents Luke."

HOST "Oh and what would that song be?"

CHARLIE "Probably.... Silver Springs yeah Silver Springs - Fleetwood Mac. It's a popular song with editors. But like, I see Luke in it because it's kind of like... that's his relationship with all the people he loves. 'Time casts it spell on you, but you won't forget me. I know I could've loved you, but you would not let me.' Those lyrics for me are really what Luke's relationship with people are like, especially post-betrayal. I think the people he love stays on his mind constantly."

CHARLIE "There's this one line 'You'll never get away from the sound of a woman that loves you'. And I think every woman in his life is the same, Annabeth, his mom, Tahlia, and Rina especially. They all love him in their own way and the fact that like you know, they love him will haunt him with every decision he makes."

HOST "Even before filming, what were the vibes from everyone?"

CHARLIE "A lot of people assume that the hardest thing is filming- which is hard but like the stuff that happens before like table reads and chemistry tests were so nerve-wracking too."

YN "You'll hear from Leah and Walker that the chemistry read was so happy and fun— Leah just got to flirt with Walker for like an hour. Good for the younger kids, meanwhile me and Charlie were out here sobbing and fighting."

WALKER "Huh? What?!"

LEAH "You never told us this."

CHARLIE "Really? We didn't"

YN "Well, for Charlie and I's chemistry read, yeah it started off with playful banter then not even two scenes later, I was arguing with Luke in a forest about him stealing the master bolt."

CHARLIE "I mean I was like begging her to stay and everything— Did I get on my knees? I remember getting on my knees."

YN "Oh my gosh yeah... he got on his knees while begging to Rina it was crazy. The chemistry they wanted from us was ... definitely passionate. It was a very specific type of chemistry."

CHARLIE "Didn't they have us— Oh spoilers if you haven't seen the last book, anyways Luke dies and they were like 'So I want you to pretend like you're dying and now you see him and you're mourning his death'"

YN "Yeah and it was like 'I'm not sure if I'll make it to Elesium...' 'I don't think anyone else would be more worthy.' and then bro just straight up died!"

WALKER "WHAT TYPE OF CHEMISTRY READ IS THIS???"

CHARLIE "Deadly chemistry. I think one of us started crying."

YN "We were giving... Shakespeare."

HOST "What were your guys' reaction after getting the role? I think most have heard about the rest of you guys but YN's casting has been a matter of secret for a little bit."

YN "Oh my god I was elated, I was finally employed!"

CHARLIE "Biggest TV show of the year and your reaction is 'I'm employed'?"

YN "Hey don't judge! I love PJO and I love the series so so so much but honestly, after doing Miss Saigon's revival and then going into first year of college in NYU I was kind of panicking because 1) I wanted to do something and 2) I had no idea what to do. Like I knew I wanted to act but I wanted to try something different and honestly, I haven't gotten any good callbacks in a long time. So I mean when I sent it in, I didn't think anything would happen but it did and I was like 'Oh my god, I'm employed, I can earn money'."

CHARLIE "A bit weird but wouldn't have it any other way."

YN "You know, Charlie, next time you can just say something nice."

CHARLIE "Then our rela- friendship wouldn't be as fun."

CHARLIE "YN at first was pretty secretive about her background so every thing she revealed herself was like a new lore drop."

YN "Lore drop???"

WALKER "Every few days on set, we'd be talking and one day you'd just drop 'Oh when I was in highschool, I was in the national debate championships and in the finals–' and you talked like it was so normal but then all of us just found out you did competitive debate."

YN "It wasn't that big of a deal–"

LEAH "You told us you won the championships?"

YN "I won best speaker but I technically-"

CHARLIE "Don't even bother."

[skzdust]

Happy Father's Day, or:

7 times Chan took care of SKZ and 1 time they took care of him

This fic was a request from @bangchans-peach! I wrote it super fast but I loved the idea and I thought it would be a perfect little fic since it's Father's Day! I hope you enjoy it and I hope you all have had lovely Father's Days, whatever that looks like for you <3

Summary: Pretty much exactly the title :)

Pairing: None, platonic skz

Includes: Fatherly(ish) Chan and tooth-rotting fluff!

Word Count: 900

Taglist: @weirdowithaphone, @caught-in-the-afterglow, @palindrome969, @skzstan12345

Reblogs, likes, comments all appreciated!!! Thank you!!!

Masterlist

----

One:

Jisung lays in bed, messing with his hands and trying to keep his mind on anything but the performance they have coming up. His phone dings with Chan’s tone.

Hey, everything alright? If you need to talk I’m here!

He hums in confusion.

What?

Chan responds in matter of seconds.

Was just listening through a couple of your demos and some of the lyrics were kinda intense, thought I’d check in

Yeah, if you have a minute, I would actually really like to talk

He smiles softly as a notification for Chan’s incoming call pops up on screen. The other members are there for him, too, but Chan can always tell when something’s up.

Two:

“No.” Hyunjin groans, resting his head on the table. “It’s bad.”

“It is not bad, Hyunjin.” Chan pauses the track. “I do think it needs some work, but I don’t think it’s bad.”

“There’s a reason I’m not a part of 3Racha, I’m not good at writing.” Hyunjin forces a laugh for his non-joke.

“That’s not true. Look at me.”

Hyunjin tilts his head sideways. Chan’s horizontal face looks reassuring.

“We’re gonna get this song, alright? We’ll kill it. We always do.”

“Mhm.”

Chan can tell it’s not helping. “Wanna take a break? I’ll get us ice cream.”

Hyunjin perks up. “Ice cream?”

Three:

“Go away.” Minho mumbles into his pillow.

The knock at his door gets louder.

“Go away!”

“I’m coming in.” He can hear the door opening, and feels the mattress dip under the weight of someone sitting by his feet.

He peeks out to see who it is.

Chan is looking at him.

“Was it something with that girl?”

Minho buries his face. “No.”

Chan sighs. “For some strange reason, I don’t believe you.”

“Believe me.”

“C’mon, Minho. Don’t be obstinate.”

Minho loosens his grip on his pillow. “You won’t make fun of me, will you?”

“Only if you deserve it.” He teases.

Minho groans, pushing his head down.

“I’m kidding, I’m kidding. What’s wrong?”

Four:

Seungmin places his chin on Bang Chan’s shoulder. “Channie, can we do something interesting?”

“We’re learning choreography.” Chan shrugs him off. “That’s interesting!”

“No, it’s not.”

“Shh, Minho might kill you.” He looks at Minho, who’s fixing Jisung’s pose for what might be the thousandth time, judging from the slightly murderous look on his face.

“I wanna do something else.”

Chan somehow always knows just what he means. “You want to play baseball.”

Seungmin nods. “I want to play baseball.”

Chan looks across the room to where Jeongin and Changbin are against the wall, looking entirely too bored, and Seungmin can see the cogs turning in his head. “I think we can recruit a team.”

Five:

“Old man?” Chan raises an eyebrow. “Oh, yes, of course, old man Bang Chan, on his deathbed.”

“Yeah.” Changbin laughs. “Ancient, decrepit Chan.”

“I may be an old man, but I’m your old man.” Chan points to each of them in turn. “And I say video game rights revoked.”

Everyone groans, and Jisung dissolves into giggles.

“But tonight is Mario Kart night!” Changbin whines.

“Nope, you’re the reason I’ve made this rule in the first place, my son.” Chan claps him on the shoulder. “Your brothers only have you to thank.”

“Uh oh, I’d better find a police station, I think I have six assassins on my tail now.”

Six:

“Chaaaaan!” Jeongin slides into the kitchen in sock feet, where Chan is cutting vegetables.

“What?” Chan glances over his shoulder.

“Felix beat me at Mario Kart and now he says he gets to sing my solo at the awards show next week.”

Felix runs into the room, skidding to a stop beside Jeongin. “I won! I do!”

“And you’re coming to me with this… why?” Chan finishes chopping a carrot, scraping it off the cutting board into a pot.

“Because you’re good at talking Felix into sense!”

“Felix… you know you can’t sing the solo.”

“I can!” Felix clears his throat, getting out only the first note of the part before Jeongin elbows him in the stomach and he doubles over with an “oof!”

Chan ignores this. “Besides, you know the publicists would get mad.”

“They would.” Felix grumbles as Jeongin cackles.

Seven:

“Felix!”

Felix turns around, pulling out an earbud. “Hm?”

Chan holds up his phone. “Here, I have a song I need you to listen to. It’s by this American group, The Flaming Lips.”

Felix queues it up. “Okay, this is cool.”

“I thought you might like it. It seemed like a sound you’d like.” Chan returns his phone to his pocket. “And they have more music too, but that one stuck out to me.”

Felix smiles. “I’ll check ‘em out!”

Plus one time they took care of him:

“Can I open my eyes?” Chan asks, holding his arms in front of him like Frankenstein’s creature, feeling around for anything in front of him.

Felix removes the blindfold. “Now.”

Chan opens his eyes as everyone shouts, “Happy Father’s Day!” The dining room has been transformed with streamers, balloons, and a handmade banner, and a cake on the table reads “For Our Old Man Chan!” in messy icing.

It’s all Chan can do to keep from tearing up. “You guys shouldn’t’ve!”

“It’s really the least we can do!” Jeongin smiles from behind the cake. “You’re so good to us, Chan, we’re very lucky to have you!”

Chan smiles, a big, real smile. “I’m the lucky one.”

[mothergold]

| I Wanna Make My Murder Look Like A Suicide | 

Pairing: Diluc x Fem!Reader

Warnings: Dark content, Yandere, Yan!Diluc, Fem!Reader, Reader wears a dress, Diluc is your husband, Abuse, Manipulation, Reader is disabled, Reader uses a cane, Reader is referred to as Diluc’s ‘Wife’, Mentions of past forced feeding, Arranged Marriage, It is implied that reader’s family was abusive, Scratching (Reader), Diluc is very cruel in this, Kaeya appears towards the end, Dissociation, Reader has a mental breakdown, Stockholm Syndrome (? I’m unsure about this one ?), 4.6k Words. 

A/n: Reupload because I deleted this foasijfasodi but yeah idk I really just think yandere!Diluc is neat. Also, the title are lyrics from the song Cotard’s Solution by Will Wood and The Tapeworms.

Summary: When your family arranges a marriage with the wealthy owner of Dawn Winery, you jump at the first chance you can to escape your cruel family, but what new hell awaits you on the other side?

“Where do you think you’re going?” He asked in a cold tone. 

It threw you off for a moment but only briefly, because if there’s one thing you could promise yourself it’s that your husband, Diluc, would never harm you. But somehow you couldn’t help but clutch onto the fabric of your dress, the same one he gave you on your first wedding anniversary, hands shaking for some unknown reason.

“I was just going for a walk. Would you like to j-” He cut you off mid sentence, snapping at you in response.

“No, I don’t want to go anywhere and neither should you. It’s”— He checked his pocket watch before quickly tucking it back into his pocket— “Three in the morning and both of us should be heading to bed.” 

“But-” Before you could get another word in he’d grabbed your wrist and pulled you forward.

That was your cue that it was indeed time to end the night, in bed… with your husband. Your beloved husband who would never steer you astray. So, then why did you have this feeling in the pit of your stomach that something was terribly and unmistakably wrong? 

Soon the sun rose and pierced through the window of your bedroom, waking you up with its warm rays and urging you to get ready for the day. You didn’t have anywhere to go or anything to do exactly—to be fair you never did—but that never stopped you from looking your very best. So, you quickly put on a decent looking outfit, brushed your hair, and grabbed your cane. And just as you were about to descend down the stairs you saw the flower embroidered basket out of the corner of your eye. It always tempted you, or maybe taunted is the more appropriate word, and you decided against fighting your desires and instead hooked it over your free arm. 

You checked both ways before tip-toeing downstairs, hoping your walk was closer than it was last night. Closer and closer you came to the front door, you knew it was silly but you really wanted to take a walk and you couldn’t understand your husband’s rejections towards it. Your hand was on the bronze knob and you were just about to turn it when a hand placed itself on your shoulder. You jumped and looked to see who it was and to your surprise and relief, it was Adelinde. It made getting caught a little less scary and a lot more tedious, because you knew there was nothing you could do to keep her watchful eyes off of you. 

She smiled fondly, too fondly, and finally spoke. “You’re supposed to be resting. Come on, let’s get you some breakfast. Master Diluc is expecting you.” She led you into the dining area.

Pulling back an open seat, Adelinde helped you into your seat, pushing your chair closer to the table while the both of you waited for Diluc to arrive. And once he did she did the same for him and walked outside as he dismissed her. Not once did she look back and it made you nervous for reasons you weren’t sure of. The both of you waited in thick silence for the food to arrive, and once it had he took a few bites before he ordered everyone in the house to give you two some privacy.

It was that moment, that moment right then and there that made you question just what exactly your husband would say or do. Maybe an answer to last night’s little event, or something truly dreadful instead. It was the very minute you happened to look at him that he set down his utensils and spoke at last.

“Are you unhappy?” he said casually, as if he hadn’t just questioned the very existence of you in his life. 

You were stunned, but not too much that you couldn’t speak. 

“Of course I am! What kind of question is that?” you replied defensively. 

Your heart began to pound harshly against your chest, and you could feel the sudden drop of your stomach. Clenching the fork in your right hand you tried grounding yourself, controlling your emotions, but the feeling was so strong you started to cry. 

Diluc reached over and gingerly wiped away the stray tear on your cheek. “Please, don’t cry.” You were silent aside from the hurtful whimpers you let out. “I’m not mad.” 

Diluc slowly made his way out of his chair and knelt beside yours in an effort to comfort you, but that did quite the opposite. He gently held onto your left hand and looked at you with softened eyes, except for the fact that they were grey and empty. You tried to stop crying but your tears became uncontrollable, and soon you were sobbing into the crook of your right arm’s elbow. It felt like your world was caving, as if your heart stopped and the air was stripped straight from your lungs. The worst part was how you had no clue what was the real problem, that was until you said that loathsome phrase you always did end up blurting out.

“Are.. Are you leaving me?” you asked timidly.

The fear in your voice was evident but you couldn’t find the strength or courage to pretend otherwise. Sometimes when you blurted it out you hoped he wouldn’t answer, just so that there was no choice for rejection. It was better that way you told yourself, even though he had never rejected you. To be frank, if he hadn’t put that worry in your head in the first place, then you wouldn't have reacted this way. But if there’s one thing you learned from this marriage it was that Diluc would show you only what he wanted you to see. So, to the world he was an honest man, a doting husband, and above all, kind, but that was not the reality you lived. 

Diluc took both of your hands now and gave them a tight grip, looking you deep in your eyes. “I will never leave you. Okay, sweetheart?” 

His words felt less like a promise and more like a threat. You used to have so much more fight in you, but these days you barely had any left. So, you nodded and allowed him to give you a hug before the both of you finished up your breakfast. The remainder of the day was spent watching out the windows of your regal prison, dreaming of the day you could finally feel the sun on your face again. This was the pattern of your every day, from the moment the sun went up and till the very time it fell below the ground; wishing and praying that someday your fate would change. Perhaps that day was closer than you presumed, but you were doubtful. 

The pattern continued for weeks, you had constant flare ups and Diluc would consistently refuse to let you leave the house. Until, one day ,the pain had lessened enough to the point where you didn’t need your cane or wheelchair, and instead could truly stretch your legs for once. It was by no means a permanent thing but you wanted to celebrate this small relief, and with what you might ask? A nice walk through the outside breeze of course. Today was the day you were so sure that Diluc would let you outside, or at the very least walk with you. 

So, you found a comfortable outfit to wear, looked at your aid with a triumphant smile, and carefully descended down the stairs. You were proud to be able to have a day free of your mobility aid, it was liberating, but you knew once you saw Diluc at the bottom of the steps that something was wrong. Something was very wrong, indeed. Slowly you walked down the staircase and once you were face to face with your husband, you could see his face was that of a truly frustrated and fed up man. 

He knows, you thought to yourself. 

“You’re late,” he said in a cold tone as he pulled out a chair at the table for you, and helped you into your seat. 

You kept your sights on your food as much as you could, because you knew damn well that Diluc could sniff out your true feelings with ease. Making sure to hold eye contact with Diluc as much as you could stomach, you took deep breaths as you readied yourself to ask the question you’d been dying to ask. This all depended on how healthy you appeared, if he caught even a whiff of pain or weakness it was all over for you. 

“Sorry,” you said weakly. 

Already your heart was banging hard in your ear drums, causing chaos before the eruption had occurred. You both waited patiently, and you, silently, for the remainder of the food to be served to you. Once you had been served the usual meal you were given, you stared at it for a good moment while Master Diluc began digging in almost immediately. Maybe he was in a better mood today, you thought to yourself. Maybe, or maybe not. He soon noticed you hadn’t touched your food and ushered for you to eat. 

“Eat,” he demanded, a hint of urgency lingering in his voice, but the overall tone was still harsh. 

It was when your teary eyes were long focused on the meal with no urgency to touch it that he raised his brow in suspicion and watched you with an angered expression. It was one thing to try to run away from his hot and cold exterior, but it was another to avoid his good deeds entirely. He set down his utensils with a loud clank and looked straight forward at you, trying his best to contain his rage. 

“I said, eat.” He demanded through grit teeth. 

This was the side of him that many– no, everyone missed completely. Those close to him didn’t see how cruel and unforgiving he was behind closed doors. They didn’t know that if all your food was not eaten how Diluc would sit there to make sure you ate even just a little more than you could stomach, against your begging wishes, of course. No one, and I mean no one except those that resided in the home, knew about his harsh tendencies. And that meant that not a single soul knew just how horribly he treated his sweet angel of a wife, but maybe it was better that way. After all, if someone like you was stupid enough to stay then maybe you really did deserve all the torture he’d constantly put you through. And you’d think that after his hardened voice demanding you to eat that your fear would kick in and force you to shovel down your food, but you’d be wrong. 

“Is there something wrong with the food, my dear?” He asked through grit teeth, again. 

You shook your head and tears fell into your food. 

Diluc stood up from his seat and stared you down. “Then what is wrong?”

You said nothing. Instead, you continued to cry into your food as Diluc stared down at you like a troublesome child. You just couldn’t stop, no matter how hard Diluc told you to calm down, relax, or ease yourself, it was all to no avail. It only furthered your pathetic tears. Diluc wanted to know the truth, just for you to tell him why you refused to eat, but if you told him the truth he’d only become more angry and you weren't sure you could handle that at the moment. You weren’t sure you could handle this life a moment longer, but unfortunately you didn’t and never had a choice. It was tragic really, but that was life for you. 

It wasn’t that you hadn’t tried to leave him before, trust me, you tried, but it was all to no avail. You could hardly make it downstairs without some help, so what made you think you could escape all on your own unscathed. When your family arranged the marriage you blindly accepted, thinking escaping your heartless family must be a better life than if you were to stay, but boy were you wrong. Diluc was sweet at first, kind and gentle just as he is in the public eye, but it wasn’t till the honeymoon that you realized something was terribly wrong. And by time you realized your mistake it was far too late. 

“I-” You started to speak, but were quickly cut off by your choking tears. 

You tried your best to speak up, say something, anything, but each time you were silenced by gut wrenching cries. The one time you attempted to look up to address the situation you were met with cold, unfeeling eyes and averted your gaze with hiccuping sobs. 

“Ugh, will you just spit it out already?” Diluc groaned in frustration. 

That only furthered your sobs and worsened it. Your hands tangled into your hair and began to scratch at your scalp for relief, but you only ended up with a sore scalp and traces of blood underneath your fingernails. Your tears grew bigger, your cries louder, and all sense of rationale left your body. The atmosphere was foggy and unclear, like looking into a cloudy looking glass for reasoning and coming up with absolutely nothing in return. You swore you heard a voice through the thickness of it all, but even as you were dragged from your seat in the dining room and led back into the privacy of your own room, you held no grasp on reality. It must’ve been hours, maybe days, or so it felt like, before you started to come to. A strong grip held you close to something, something warm, and rocked you comfortingly as small shushes could be heard near your ears. 

It was only moments later that you began to recognize the world around you, and the familiar figure holding you close. Too close. It was none other than Master Diluc. Why he was holding you in such a tender and intimate position, you weren’t sure you knew, but you one thing was for sure, it felt extremely uncomfortable. You writhed in his holding, trying your damnedest to squirm out of his hold, but he was much stronger than you. A pins and needles sensation spread from your hips to the tip of your toes, and you could barely move from your position. Your hands were free aside  from the vice grip Diluc had on your arms, almost crushing them as he held you closely. You felt the need to cry all over again, but suppressed it as hard as you could. Thankfully, your attempts worked and this time you remained strong.

You tried to remain quiet and confident, but your confidence was shattered the moment you heard his sweet yet poisonous voice ring through your ears. “You’re awake.”

Unfortunately

“Y-Yes. What happened?” You asked, trying to put the pieces together. 

Diluc shifted into an upright position and prepared to tell you some of the truth. He couldn’t have you trying to run off, again. Unfortunately, what Master DIluc didn’t know was that your determination far outweighed any punishment he could potentially give to you. After he explained it to you in his own version, you nodded in agreement and expressed your exhaustion. You wanted to go to bed and forget all about this day., even though it felt like it had just begun. Sure, Diluc had his suspicions as to why you so suddenly wanted to sleep after such a conversation, but he brushed it off as his own paranoia. After all, he’d curated a life that he made damn sure you could never run away from. At least, not without some help. 

That night was spent with eyes vigilantly open, wide and observant as you rested your head on the pillow, keeping out for when Diluc would come to bed. If he caught you in bed awake right now he was sure to have a few words, but you’d simply lie and say the pain kept you awake, which wouldn’t exactly be far from the truth, but it wasn’t the truth. You watched out the only window you had in your room, gazing at the open sky full of stars and the full moon and wondered what was taking Diluc so long. What was taking him so long? He should’ve long been in bed by now. So, why was he still hard at work in his study? Regardless of the reasoning you calmed yourself down, trying your best to satiate your impatience, because if you weren’t careful it could very well be the thing that led to your downfall. 

It must’ve been about an hour or so later when you heard the heavy footsteps of your husband head up the stairs and then quietly trail into your shared room. You could vividly hear him discard his clothes and climb into what you guessed were more comfortable ones. He kissed you softly on the forehead, foolishly believing you were asleep, and climbed into bed with you. Feeling his hot breath against your neck sent shivers down your spine, you couldn’t remember the last time you slept without him breathing down your neck, literally. It was awful. Although you were thankful that tonight his vice grip wasn’t holding you in place —making it perfect for your little escape plan— there was still a heavy feeling of discomfort floating throughout the bedroom. 

You were patient, and all that patience of yours finally paid off when you heard the light to heavy snores of Diluc behind you. It was time, time to make your escape. It would be tricky getting out of the bed with him in it, but thankfully Diluc was a heavy sleeper. Slowly and very very carefully you removed the blankets from your body and started to slide down to the edge of the bed. Closer.. Closer.. Closer.. Until finally, your legs hung off the edge of the bed. Diluc shifted in his sleep and let out a loud snore which caused you to jump in your own skin, but looking back you saw he was still fast asleep. Letting out a silent sigh of relief you steadied yourself with both hands as you placed both of your wobbly feet to the ground. Now, the next part would prove one of the most difficult tasks, getting your cane. It currently sat in a cage with other canes and umbrellas you owned (not that you ever actually left the house) and could potentially make a lot of noise if you weren’t careful. 

Cautiously you tiptoed to the cage and took a slow, deep breath before reaching inside and slowly pulled it out. It was a wooden cane so if hit at just the right amount of speed it could make quite enough noise, not as much as it would if it were metal, but it would be just enough to awaken the young master. With extreme caution you began to pull it out, further and further, until it was almost fully out, but in an unfortunate turn of events your hand began to grow weak and numb and you dropped it. Thankfully, you were able to grab it with your other hand before it could wake up Diluc, but not before it banged against the cage in a painfully loud manner. You froze in place, not moving a single muscle until you heard the light snores of Diluc once again. Carefully pulling out the entire cane you then positioned it as you usually would for the day and used it to help you hold your weight upright, as you gradually turned the doorknob and opened the bedroom door. 

Peeking out the door you could so no one and nothing except for the moonlight illuminating the hallway. Now was as good a chance as any to make a run for it, and so you quickly tiptoed down the stairs with the help of your cane to steady you, eagerly walking towards the door the moment your feet touched the first floor. Your hand hovered above the knob as you stopped in shock. Was this it? Were you finally going to leave this miserable and pitiful life to live one full of joy and freedom? It is what you deserved after all, you thought. It’s what you had always wanted and needed. Without wasting a moment sooner you turned the knob and braced yourself for whatever waited for you outside those doors, and stepped outside for the first time in a long time. 

It must’ve been summertime because the heat was thick and the air was muggy. If you had been out on a daily or constant basis you were sure you would’ve hated it, but in that moment you loved nothing more than to feel the heat and thick, muggy air. You never realized how beautiful the Dawn Winery was from the outside until just now. Crystalflies flew through the air and around the grape vines. The moon was full and the stars shone brightly in the nighttime sky. It was beautiful, everything you’d always dreamt of and more. The flowers were even more beautiful than you had remembered and they smelt even better than you could’ve ever dreamt of. Everything was perfect, absolutely perfect. That is until you saw the mansion lit up with lights and realized that he and possibly everyone else was awake. 

You tried to make a run for it as best as you could but you were stopped by a hand on your wrist pulling you backwards and down onto the ground. You fell into a puddle of mudd, soaking your nightgown as you looked up in horror at the man that was supposed to be your husband. His face was cold and full of fury, you’d never seen him look like this before. This wasn’t like those other times when you tried to take walks, because this time you had actually tried to leave him. Leave him all alone with only his wounded pride and broken heart for comfort. He was seething with rage and all you could do in reply was cry, cry like a child that had been caught with their hands in a cookie jar. You didn’t know what exactly prompted you to cry so much, so hard, and so pathetically, but you continued to do so anyway. 

“Come inside, now.” Diluc demanded.

But now that you had a taste of the outside world after such a long time of being deprived of it you wanted more, so you shook your head and rejected his commands. This only further angered Diluc, because he then pulled you up by your forearms and dragged you back inside. You clawed at the door frame trying to stay outside, but he was much stronger than you. He threw you onto the floor and slammed the door shut, proceeding to lock it tightly with a key you’d never seen before. Immediately Diluc started cursing at you, a bright fire in his eyes that consumed his very being began to spread as you realized you had royally fucked up. You couldn’t even focus on a word he was saying because all you could imagine was whatever hell he was about to put you through.

One Week Later…

“Come on, let’s get you all nice and pretty.” Adelinde said, tightening your brand new dress that Diluc had bought you.

It was an apology, a present, but you knew the true nature of the young master, and nothing could fix this marriage, not even your own freedom. You stood there and looked in the mirror as Adelinde fixed your hair with a smile. You too would’ve smiled if it weren’t for the grim reality you faced. Especially on days where Diluc invited over his brother for dinner. Kaeya had no clue of anything that went on in the mansion, not a damn idea, but that didn’t mean he had no suspicions. Kaeya was smart like that, could catch onto things quickly especially being the cavalry captain, and this sort of thing was no different. 

After Adelinde had gotten you all nice and ready the two of you descended down the staircase where you ran into Diluc and his brother, Kaeya. Kaeya looked towards you and smiled, helping you down the rest of the way. Kaeya always was a helpful and kind man like that, constantly helping those in need. Sometimes, just sometimes, you wished he’d help you escape this place, but that was a childish dream. The two of you exchanged pleasantries as you all sat at the dining room table and awaited your food. Everything was going well until the events of a week ago started to come flooding in. You tried your best to hide it but with how brightly the sun started to shine through the windows you couldn’t help but miss the heat and the thick air you once touched. 

“Are you alright?” Kaeya asked, but you playfully brushed off your odd behavior with laughter and a joke, but he was not convinced.

No, Kaeya was not so easily swayed by the same type of joking behavior he too would use to cover his own emotions. So, he watched you the entire dinner all the way till the end. He noticed how flinched against his brother’s touch and noticed how your gaze always seemed to find itself lined up with the open windows. Something was wrong, something was not right about this and he was determined to get to the bottom of it. He would not let you suffer a moment longer, no matter how impossible the mission seemed. Kaeya wanted to tell you this, he wanted to reassure you that he was going to help you escape, but he could never find the right time with Diluc and Adelinde breathing down his neck as he was sure they did the same, and much worse to  you. 

It soon came time to say his goodbyes and as he did he locked eyes with you, saying things with them that he would never dare to say out loud in front of the young master. Even though it was just a dinner, and a revealing one at that, he planned to have many more dinners with Diluc in the future, warm up to you, get closer to you, and hopefully gain your trust enough to help you escape this awful, awful place. That is if he didn’t get killed in the process of it all… 

[bunnwich]

I just found out a Prince of Egypt Musical exists, and one of the addition songs— 'footprints on the sand'— really gives me Leona vibes

(Spotify link to the song)

https://open.spotify.com/track/40PqpFQdrylghRZgY36W8G?si=wATkespmQyar931PNnNc8A&context=spotify%3Aalbum%3A7MOGTYjo3ifwHDBf0EBE71

(Genius lyrics)

https://genius.com/Original-west-end-cast-of-the-prince-of-egypt-footprints-on-the-sand-lyrics

So since you're— at least in my view— one of the Leona experts, I was wondering what your thoughts would be on it!

Not that it fits perfectly; no song ever really fits 100%, after all. But I think it has strong Leona vibes

Leona VS The Weight of Insignificance

(Ahhh sorry I am just getting around to this.;-; BTW DFGHJK I’m flattered that you consider me a Leona expert??)

So this is pretty cool because I didn't realize there was a Prince of Egypt Musical? I’m a big fan of the animated movie and of musicals so I’ll have to listen to the rest someday!

So, I think in general the theme of “Footprints in The Sand” is about the idea of “trying to leave a mark” in life, but feeling like it won't matter in the long run and also exploring the insignificance that we all feel as people.

That being said, I can see why this song made you think of Leona! It brought up some feelings about what being second-born in a royal lineage means and how that can make someone feel insignificant just in concept. The spare heir if you will. 

It's interesting because it also made me think about how Leona has such complicated feelings about his title too?

Like on the one hand, he feels like he's “forever in the shadow of Falena” but at the same time, I DO think a small part of him secretly enjoys the mobility of not having the reasonability of king and therefore the first few lines of the song before it fades into him sounding more melancholic made me think of this.

(AND ALSO since we’ve seen how he would handle being king in his Chapter 7 Dream OOF.) My thoughts on that: X

The second son– My father's wrong (THIS LINE TOO) It's got to be the easiest role on Earth Just play around Just play along Enjoy the bounty of my birth So what's today's amusement For this second son? Which one shall I choose from so many kinds of fun?

I think it leads back to the age-old conclusion about Leona’s character (that his dream really hammered home), is that being king is NOT what he truly wants and it more comes to feeling worthy as a person as if he has to “justify” his own existence of feeling useless. It’s more about the kind of attention he craves. To be useful, respected, adored. 

The song mentions the fear of not leaving behind a legacy and feeling the weight of your own insignificance as a person. I can see how both the characters of Moses and Leona both struggle with “finding their purpose” and not being able to see their own worth like others who care about them do. 

It made me think of the song (also in Prince of Egypt) “Through Heaven's Eyes” which I feel actually continues this theme. The idea that even if you can’t see your OWN value that everyone—has their own innate value as people—and that in itself is meaningful.

A single thread in a tapestry Though its color brightly shines Can never see its purpose In the pattern of the grand design And the stone that sits on the very top Of the mountains mighty face Does it think it's more important Than the stones that form the base?

For Leona—the people he acts as a mentor to like—Ruggie, Epel and Savanaclaw as a whole—have a pretty high opinion of him despite his flaws. And the fact that he can’t always see that and appreciate that value that he unconsciously and consciously brings to them reflects this. He has and will leave an impact even if it's not as “important” as a king. And he could do even more good if he actually tried to do so.

I think it’s a lesson we all struggle with TBH, the whole: seeing our inherent value as people and it’s def why I think Leona is a more relatable character than he first appears in twst. :3

Thank you for sharing with me though! I love finding stuff like this! I hope you have a wonderful day/night!💚

[jisokai]

You always thought the circus was where you yearned to be. At least, until it finally let you in—and introduced you to Hanta Sero.

[circus AU where seamstress!reader and acrobat!sero realize that their lives have been running parallel for a long time, and it’s up to you to weave them together]

part 6: & yet i’ll always choose you.

sero hanta x reader ch 6/6 | 15.8k words | masterlist | ao3 cw: violence between family members (a singular slap) notes: ready to run by one direction, shelter by porter robinson & madeon, all the stars by kendrick & sza (this is not a songfic; i forgot that song existed when i chose the title and then when i properly listened to the lyrics i realized it fit LOL)

you make a decision.

✰.

"How do you help a family miracle? You hug your sister."

- Bruno, in Encanto

Looking back, your life has primarily moved forward through a mixture of obligation and chance. There was never any sort of choosing or clinging, just an acceptance of what needed to be done. Things worked out on their own, oftentimes with you as the stagnant one and the events happening around you—through you. You lived as if life was predetermined, as if a wide length of silk has been wrapped around your chest and tugging you through life.

So it’s hard, when something—someone appears, and you want to choose him.

Silk is slippery. It’s woven water that slides against every surface including itself. With unpracticed hands, every knot will come undone, unraveling before you until it’s a puddle on the floor. You only ever learned how to sew and stitch, to bind fabric with a needle and thread. You’re the opposite of Hanta, who knows the raw silk itself—hanging for him to play an endless game of tangling and escaping. He knows the knots intricately, how to bind or set himself free in an instant.

Hanta is sad when he has to leave. You see it in his watery eyes and hear it in the crack of his voice. But he has some sort of unfathomable trust that things will work out in the end. You should too, given how your life has led so far, but you can’t.

You want him. You want him and Momo and Kendou. You want the circus and the costumes and to see the world together. You want to make beautiful things, impossible things, things that can only be forged in a place where everyone believes in magic with their full being. You want it all.

You don’t know how to chase it.

Maybe it was purposeful—choosing a dream you always thought was out of reach, one you never considered a real possibility. It’s safe here, where the choices are made for you, or never presented in the first place. But now that you finally want something… how do you start?

When the week passes and the circus is gone, in some ways it feels like it was never there. How could something that’s everything to you, everything you want, fizzle into nothing but faded memories in an instant? You cry and you hurt and you long for something that’s gone.

It feels like grieving.

Grieving, you realize, is another thing you haven’t done before.

Abuela is steeped into every detail of your life—her wrinkled hands the ones you always reached for first. She’s the one who taught you to sew, the one who called you her tucán. Abuela is the reason you and Hanta crossed paths for the first time in Quito, the reason you found yourself in Milan and by Midoriya, and ultimately Hoshi no Sākasu.

When you think about it, abuela is the thread that has been pulling you forwards.

But she’s gone—a fact you haven’t come to terms with.

The grief rolls through like a tsunami, a high wall of powerful water that roars forward with the intent to destroy and submerge. Maybe it should have been predictable, the week with the circus your earthquake, the shifting of plates radiating seismic energy through your foundation. But the water comes by surprise and at full force, knocking you off your feet and the breath from your lungs. 

You packed your schedule ahead of time with work, the following weeks filled with costumes and gowns and dresses. It distracts you, like you knew it would, your hands and your head focused on nothing but the bounce of a needle stitching fabrics. It keeps you from thinking about the circus in Switzerland, three hours away by train. Life has shifted with the absence of the circus, and you’ve found yourself back into the stagnant routine that existed before. 

Except, now you cry while you work.

It happens unknowingly at first, only noticing when dark blotches appear on the fabric between your hands. You pause, lifting the pad of your finger to trace the tears collecting on your waterline, the wetness taking you by surprise. But when it rains it pours, and you have to take a break to let the clouds of your irises clear before forcing yourself to resume sewing.

Normally there's a ghosted feeling of abuela’s hands hovering over yours. They're familiar and faint, kept at a distance and bringing just the twitch of a somber smile to your lips. But now they're firm and dense, like real skin and flesh and blood. The sensation makes you cry harder. Your crying makes them feel more real. Your hurt and your grief brings her closer, brings her to life.

You don't do anything but work and cry the first few days following Hoshi no Sakasu’s departure. You complete one dress through hours of tears. 

Your friends find you this way, sobbing with bunches of chiffon in your hands, wiping your eyes and nose with the sleeve of your shirt.

“Oh,” Chiara coos, immediately running a hand through your hair before holding your cheeks.

Davide grimaces behind her as his eyes sweep over you and your desk. “Nuh uh, we are not letting this continue.”

You clutch the fabric tightly when he tries to pry it from you. “I have orders to finish.”

Chiara scoffs. “They can wait.”

But they can't. You busied yourself strategically, so you wouldn't have time to do things like cry.

“You always manage somehow. You can take an hour break.”

It's a struggle, but you end up on your couch cocooned by a blanket and flanked by your friends. You grip the tea they made for you spitefully, the heat of the mug burning your palms. You bite your tongue, too annoyed to respond to their gentle questions, but they're Chia and Davide—eventually you cave.

You speak quietly and nonsensically, unsure how to explain everything that happened in the past couple weeks. Maybe they'll think you're crazy and chalk it up to delusions.

But they're Chia and Davide, so they don't.

“Dammit,” the latter answers. “This guy is stealing you away!”

“Davide,” the other scolds. “Be fair. From what Tucano says, he is not just a guy.”

“Neither of you are helpful,” you grumble.

“We're processing,” Chiara quips.

Davide nods. “Poorly.”

They sigh in unison, but with different tones. Davide's is whiny and tired. Chiara’s is thoughtful.

“Why didn't you say anything?” Davide eventually asks. “It's been days since they left.”

You groan, turning your head to bury into the blanket over your shoulders. Chiara watches you pitifully.

“She's been dead for months,” you eventually spit. You have to separate the words from their meanings to keep a sob at bay. Your eyes water. “I figured it was some weird delayed grief that would go away after a few days.”

Davide looks at you pitifully too now, though on his face it's more akin to disgust. “Babe…”

You avert your eyes.

“You know that's not how this works.”

All you manage is a grunt. You don't care if you're being stupid. You know you are, deep down, but it's easier to play into the ignorance.

Chiara sighs again and leans back against the couch, and then onto you. Her shoulder bumps yours, head tilting to rest in the crook of your padded neck. She speaks softly, “Haven't seen you cry since she first died.”

They're simple words, nothing incredibly deep or metaphorical, but they make your chest hurt. You purse your lips as fresh saltwater pools in your lashes, cascading down your cheeks. Your sob is a broken sound, jolting your body so harshly that Davide takes the mug from your hands at the near spill. Chiara scoots closer to you, body turning to face yours as her arm comes around your waist.

Davide keeps his distance, never the most physically affectionate, but he slides a hand up and down your arm, a soothing assurance that he's here too.

“I miss her,” you choke suddenly. The words spill out. “I think about her every day.”

Chiara hums affirmingly. “We know.”

“I—” you hiccup. “I loved her more than anyone else.”

And it's true. Abuela was your everything, the one you looked up to the most, the one you always wanted to be. You loved her more than you loved anyone. You loved her more than you loved yourself. You loved her… more than anyone else loved her.

The thought sits bitterly in your stomach, like a weight that keeps sinking and sinking and sinking. 

“What's that face for?” Davide interjects. 

You blink, neutralizing your expression when you realize you were scowling. You groan again. It's an ugly thought, no matter how true it is to you. Ugly thoughts are meant to be kept inside, not spread where they could hurt others or… be disproven.

He pats your leg quickly, a sign he won't let you escape answering. You wince at the thought of vocalizing that part of you: raw and possessive and self entitled. The part of you that justifies never going home, to keep abuela's remains to yourself. Here, in Italy—where she died in your care.

“Nobody else cared about her like I did,” you nearly whisper.

“Oh.” 

“Tucano…” Chiara trails off hesitantly. “You don’t know that.”

But you do. You’ve known it for years, eyes always taking in the room and the dynamics between your family members. You think of mamá when she raised her voice, speaking in an uncharacteristic irritation at abuela’s deteriorating mental state. Your sister was the avoidant type, feigning ignorance when she noticed something wrong or conveniently busy when help was needed. Tíos and primeros would chip in, but also hurried to pass abuela to the next person.

They cared when she was in Italy, when she was finally gone and they didn’t have to be the ones looking after her. 

They didn’t deserve her, you concluded.

You don’t answer, and your friends don’t press. Chiara stays leaning against your side while Davide rubs your arm. You know the skepticism sitting in their throats. You know Davide wants to ask why you’re only looking through a small lens, through your limited perspective. You know that Chiara wants to ask why they don’t even deserve to see her. You know that you want to ask yourself why you have the right to keep abuela from going home.

Nobody says a word. Instead you all sit there quietly, together.

“You’re going on holiday,” Chiara demands when you try to return to the studio an hour later.

“What? I was just on holiday for a week.”

Davide’s eyebrows nearly fly off his forehead. “You were literally working for the circus and you were in the studio while they were here.”

You try another angle. “I have deadlines! I can’t take time off—it’s unfair to my clients.”

“You always give them longer estimates than it actually takes. Just say you had a death in the family.”

“That happened months ago!”

“Then say you had some suppressed trauma come up in your grief counseling and you need to work through it!”

You stare blankly at Davide. He widens his eyes and flips his palms as if he’s waiting for you to accept the obvious answers he’s offering.

“I can’t do that Davide, they already paid.”

“Then it’s PTO?”

You rub your eyes in annoyance. You’re tempted to claw them out entirely.

Chiara pats your back. “We’ll figure something out. But you need a break, and you can’t deny that.”

Your stomach aches like you might be sick. Maybe you do need a break, for your mind and your heart and to finally get to the grief you’ve been ignoring for months. But you can feel your lips tightening at the thought, your stomach twisting in fear. The sewing helps take you from the real world, to give you something else to focus on.

You’re worried that if you take a break, you won’t be able to start again.

The next weekend you’re hugging Davide and Chiara at the train station. Their arms awkwardly come around the giant backpack latched around your hips.

“Let us know when you get to your hostel,” Chiara demands.

“And when you’re back in range,” Davide adds.

You nod.

The pink line takes you an hour closer to your destination, whizzing north along the industrial and suburban outskirts of the city. Fields and farmlands start to populate along your route, parallel roads of green. Eventually you’re humming along the beginnings of mountains, the forests close enough that you can make out the edges of individual trees. They’re brown trunks and naked branches, fans of grey poking from the earth. But between them are clusters of green—evergreen bunches. The further you go, the taller the peaks rise, dusted with white.

You exit the train in a city situated by a lake, a large pool of blue that lays calm—still. You only see flashes of the water before you’re parked in the station, scanning your ticket and walking out onto black tile streets. The buildings are smaller here than Milan, with more space between their exteriors. A looming mountain pokes through the alleyways, a slab of white limestone erupting from the ground, topped with sparse green and heavy snow. Your heart races at the sight while you speed walk towards the bus stop. 

Soon.

It takes the bus an hour to drop you off at your destination, despite covering less than a fourth of the train's mileage. You don’t mind. Instead you sit comfortably with your bag on your lap, staring out the window as the clunky vehicle winds through the mountains. You grin the entire time, already imagining the hot cocoa you’ll make yourself tonight, huddled by the window of your hostel with a scarf around your neck.

It’s exactly what you do, peering up the edge of the mountain the building resides on. You send a message to your friends to let them know you’re fine, a selfie with your drink. Just as your thumb hits send, your phone flashes with a call.

It’s from your sister.

For the first time since abuela died, you hesitate, before eventually turning off your ringer and setting it down to go to voicemail.

You spend one night in the hostel and five in the mountains. You hike up and down summits during the day and tend to fires in the warmth of small cabins at night. The peaks are jagged rocks, granite teeth wedged in the gums of the earth, at first overlooking the northern cities and lakes before you lose the buildings behind shrouds of rocks and trees and snow. 

You don’t speak to anyone for three days—in the thick of your hiking. Your only companions are the swifts that fly ahead and the occasional owl in the trees. You curse when one takes flight, spreading glorious spotted wings. You wish you knew more of the birds here. The only other animal you catch is an ibex standing precariously on a cliffside—suspended only by mere chips in the wall. It looks unfazed by the height and the minimal footing, instead at peace, giant horns proud atop its head and sure steps carrying it upwards. You wish you could call out and ask for advice: to ask how you can do the same.

In contrast, you spend your day treading through white crystals up to your knees. It’s exhausting, your body moving slowly and through the entire day to reach your next bed. But it’s good for you; it’s what you need.

Crying comes as natural as walking, tears clumping as ice in your lashes. You huddle your body further under layers of wool and down, face burying into the cloth of your scarf. Every few kilometers you pause, catching your breath and blinking through the sun to see where you stand: high above the rest of the world. The brown of wintery grass rolls beneath you with those spiky leafless trees and clumps of evergreen. The balds are tinted yellow with harsh edges of silver from scattered boulders. You breathe in crisp, cold air—the kind that burns your lungs.

When you turn to continue walking ahead, the snow around you glistens. Sunlight strikes the frozen dust, light refracting in a pile of white sparkles. Millions of sparkles, like every star in the sky was plucked and tossed atop this mountain range—for you to shuffle your boots through and sob while you wander through thoughts and memories of abuela. You’re walking north, in the direction of Switzerland. But by now it’s been over two weeks since Hoshi no Sākasu left. They must be in Austria now. East.

The nights are cold, infinitely colder than the city. The air bites at any exposed skin, rubbing it raw to bloom splotches of red. Even so, you leave the warmth of cabin fires for extended periods of time to stare above you, into that other world in the sky. Stars twinkle in response, shining and winking and falling. They’re abundant, like every grain of sand and every snowflake on earth was scattered into the night. 

Your eyes trace the constellations you know: simple ones like Ursa Major and Orion. When you run out, your mind starts to connect the stars on its own, searching for patterns from your life. You see Santi and you see Marco. You see your sister and your mother. You see abuela.

You see Hanta.

In this moment, in all the moments from these days in the mountains, you realize again that you are a speck. You are nothingness and everything, something painfully unknown while entirely familiar. The mountains and lakes and vastness of blue atmosphere remind you that everything you don’t know is waiting for you, patiently, sitting outside of your blood and flesh for you to start heading towards it. The tiny snowflakes and speckled sky and clumps of morning ashes remind you that everything you ever need to know has been within you all along.

By the time you’re back in a hostel, showering and running laundry and packing your bag to take a bus and then the train home, there’s a resolve in your chest. You don’t know what it is quite yet or what it’s pointed towards, but you are determined to do something.

Your phone charges overnight, but you don’t turn it on until you board the bus. Rows of notifications populate your screen when it flickers to life. You clear them all and open your messages.

The most recent one is from Hanta.

You haven’t spoken since he left, not sure what to say or if you want your relationship to unfurl over text. He must feel the same uncertainty, if it’s taken this long to reach out. His message is straightforward—a quick pleasantry followed by a check in, since apparently Momo tried to reach you just after you started your hike. You can sense his apprehension through the little grey bubbles.

You respond with a photo from your third day on the mountain, the endless layers of ridges settled beneath the sky, bluer and bluer as they get further away. There’s a moment of hesitation before you send another, this one a silly selfie you took the day before—sporting icy eyelashes and red cheeks. You quickly add a third message, a brief explanation that you were on holiday without service.

After replying to the other crucial messages you turn your phone off and stare out the window, watching as forests become farmland and farmlands become cities.

Settling back into your work routine comes naturally. Your hands glide through thread and fabric, not without hiccups, but with confidence and security. There’s an ease to your movements, an embodiment of patience and distance from your craft. Navigating the shift of deadlines and compromising with your clients was awkward, but it happened.

Hanta responds to you, a little message that says your trip looks fun—and cold. You give him a short reply, a simple It was. The phone is heavy in your hand as you stare at the screen. Eventually you cave and ask him how Switzerland was, and what he thinks about Austria.

Something opens between you two after the initial hurdle is cleared. You don’t message every day, but you talk often. Hanta sends photos of him at different restaurants and landmarks—mostly with Shouto—and you respond with pictures of your sewing projects. Seeing his face brings an urgency to your chest, one that makes you want to run to the station and board the first train North.

You send a picture of your most recent gown, sheer black fabric that twinkles, sewn with pearls and metal discs. This time you take the photo in your mirror, awkwardly giving the headless mannequin bunny ears with your free hand. You stare at the picture with a furrowed brow, retaking it a couple times before you get one that you look less stupid in. After sending it you grimace. 

Your phone pings nearly immediately, several times with messages from Hanta. He says ‘SO PRETTY’ followed by a string of heart emojis. You bite your lip, trying to suppress the idiotic grin you know you’re wearing.

The phone blares your ringtone, nearly making you drop it from surprise. Your heart races, thinking it’s Hanta, so you almost answer it before you check the contact. You freeze when it’s your sister’s name on the screen.

You don’t turn off your ringer and ignore it this time. Instead you stare at it, thumb hovering over the answer button until it eventually goes to voicemail.

You call her three days later.

It doesn’t go through, since you do it in the morning. Back home it must be the middle of the night. That choice may have been purposeful—easier, if you know she won’t pick up.

In the afternoon you get an assault of messages from her: all caps, swearing, littered with typos. She calls you again and again, but you don’t pick up.

You pick up for Hanta.

He calls when you’re settling into bed for the evening. You answer while yawning, drawing out the words of your greeting. 

“Sorry,” his voice murmurs through your speaker. “Is this not a good time?”

He sounds tired, the softness of his tone filling you with warmth. You could fall asleep like this, easily.

“It’s perfect,” you reply. A twinge of guilt runs through your stomach. You don’t pick up for your sister like this.

You talk until you fall asleep, mostly hushed conversation about what you two have been up to in the past weeks. He tells you stories about Switzerland and Austria and preparation for Germany. You talk about your current projects and your time in the mountains.

The turmoil you’ve faced regarding abuela and your sister remains unspoken.

You don’t remember falling asleep, but in the morning you find that the call has ended, a morning greeting from Hanta in its place.

You call your sister again. This time it’s at a reasonable hour, but still during her workday. After three rings you think she won’t answer. But she picks up.

“Dio, quiero estrangularte,” she immediately bites through the speaker. The sound of her voice makes your breath catch, her threat completely going over your head.

“Te extraño,” you answer. I miss you.

She yells at you through the phone while you sit and listen. Or, partially listen, mostly basking in the fact that she’s speaking to you at all. The words don’t fully process, but you assume they’re threats and complaints and demands that you come back with abuela and an explanation. The berating lasts several minutes, you biting the inside of your cheeks to keep from smiling the entire time. Her voice cracks towards the end, choked noises separating her words. She’s nearly panting when she finally finishes.

“Lo siento,” you manage to whisper.

“Just—” her breath hitches. “Just shut up.”

You nod, waiting for her to continue.

She doesn’t. It’s silent for minutes. You can imagine her face, her lips parting as if to speak before they close in apprehension, the mix of a pout and glare she wears when she doesn’t know what to say. Normally you would ask her questions to get her started, intuiting what she wants to talk about. You don’t know if that’s something you can still do anymore.

You know she wants answers from you: to ask why you did what you did, how you could stomach making such a decision. But you also know that she knows why you did it. She knows you, knows how you feel towards abuela and towards the rest of your family. She knows how you are, running away when things get hard—running away, but always caving and coming back. There’s no point in asking; you both know this.

“Tía abuela is so mad at you.”

Tía abuela—abuela’s sister and your great aunt. You nod, lips pursed. “I can imagine.”

The huff of your sister’s amusement crackles through the speaker and you feel a confidence that everything will be okay.

You call frequently, every few days at the minimum. It’s awkward for the first few minutes of every call, until someone breaks the ice and eventually you’re laughing and gossiping like you used to. One of your tías is getting a divorce, your primero is newly engaged but his mamá doesn’t like the girl, and a family friend just lost an absurd amount of money in recent investments. You listen intently, eagerly taking in everything you’ve missed these past months.

“You kidnapping abuela is the hottest drama though,” your sister states blankly. “Mamá can’t escape it. People still bring it up every chance they get.”

Your stomach twists with guilt. Mamá’s always been soft to you, a stark contrast to abuela’s quips. “How is she faring?”

“Fine.” You can visualize the roll of her eyes on the other end. “She was sweet on you, but you know she’s ruthless to the others. Tía abuela is giving her a lot of shit, but she’s still the new head of the family.”

There’s a pause. You know what she’s going to say.

“I told her we’ve been calling. You should talk to her.”

You exhale. You should, to at least apologize for stealing her mother and her child all at once.

“Maybe,” you hum, and that’s the end of it.

“I’m moving to Japan,” you blurt the next time you call. It takes you by surprise, not the words you meant to say. You almost drop your phone. Why did you say that? You never came to a decision about whether or not to work for Hoshi no Sākasu.

“What!?” your sister screeches on the other end.

“What?”

She whines, “Ay, Dios mío.” You nod. After a few minutes of silence she asks why.

“I got a job offer,” you explain quietly.

“For…?”

“… A circus.”

You hold your breath during the silence that follows. She laughs. The sound brings a wave of relief through you. You aren’t sure why you were anxious to tell her—why you assumed she wouldn’t understand what it means to you.

She understands; she always does. “How’d you land that?”

You smile. “A miracle.” 

The miracles being Hanta and Midoriya. Kendou and Momo. Abuela.

“You taking her with you?”

It’s a jab and you know it—feel it. It’s your sister pleading, Come home. 

Later when you hang up, you sit quietly with yourself, phone tucked in your palms. The little rectangle is heavy with the weight of your conversations. It should be heavier, also holding your messages with Hanta and Chiara and Davide, stored with photos of abuela and mamá.

It takes several calls with Kendou before you give her the official acceptance of the position. Despite your confident claims to your sister, a piece of you was anxious the opportunity was no longer available, even with Kendou’s assurance that they could wait. When you finally breathe the words out over the phone, they don’t feel real. You ask her to keep it a secret for a little while, at least until the news settles in your own heart. Right now it’s a riptide, a violent storm within you as you sift through the emails of contracts and information.

You let her tell Momo, so long as she keeps it to herself, and you’re greeted by a warm message welcoming you to the team. Your eyes water while you respond. Your time with Momo isn’t up—there’s no longer a maybe lingering around the thoughts of being able to work together again.

It takes two weeks to tell Hanta.

He’s brushing his teeth while you mumble about your day, his phone propped up against the sink. The circus just landed in France, this being his first night in Paris. You’re on the couch, swaddled in blankets while your eyes linger around the interior on his end—marble walls, white towels, a random photo in a black frame.

“Are you rooming alone?” you ask when you finish your debrief.

He shakes his head, leaning to rinse his mouth before he wipes the residue on the back of his hand. He reaches for you and your heart races, thinking he’ll touch your face—only to jostle the screen while he leads you out of the bathroom. It’s a funny angle, the underside of his chin. It reminds you of looking up towards his face while laying on his chest.

“Nah I’m with ‘Roki. That’s how it usually is,” he answers. The next second the camera falls as if he dropped it, shaking violently with smears of creamy white and black splotches before he bounces into frame, beaming as he lays on his stomach on one of the hotel beds. His grin blooms an ache in your chest. You wish you were there with him.

You hum, saying, “That’s too bad,” before you can stop yourself.

“Huh?”

You pause, realizing where your mind was going. Heat creeps up your cheeks while Hanta stares at you through the camera. “Just—” you stop yourself, not wanting to tell him this way.

But he’s looking at you so curiously.

“I… I was hoping we could room together.”

It’s silent.

Hanta blinks at you, face and body frozen otherwise. You try to read what he’s thinking, if he’s putting it together, but he looks scarily neutral.

Then his head shifts abruptly to look at you dead on. His hand comes to his mouth, fingertips lightly pressing his lips. His expression doesn’t change except the slight widening of his eyes. He speaks quietly. “Are you… Does that mean what I think it does?”

You nod, face carefully neutral to assess his reaction.

He yelps. The camera shakes before falling and going black, but you can hear him scrambling and the bumping of the phone as he tries to pick it back up. You can’t help your smile—the fondness stretching across your face when he finally comes back into view looking like a puppy.

“Is this real?” he asks meekly. It’s almost a whisper. You wish you could hold his face and kiss him.

“Yeah,” you whisper back. “It’s real.”

It’s a precious gift to watch Hanta take in the information, face shifting between emotions rapidly before finally landing on something like a pout. He’s tearing up, eyes like giant marbles as they shine with joy.

“You… you chose—” he pauses. Me, you think he wants to say. “You chose us? The circus?”

Your own eyes are glassy, you can see them glistening in the tiny square in the top corner of the screen. Your lips twitch as you nod. Yes, you’re about to say—that you chose Hoshi no Sākasu. That you chose everyone. But you pause. You’ve been scared to make decisions and declarations, scared to admit to yourself why you make the choices you do, why you pretend they aren’t choices so much as obligations you just fell into. That you had to.

You feel that way with Hanta right now. But choosing to follow what feels like a duty or obligation is still a choice. You smile.“I chose you, Hanta.”

For the next two months, you work and you pack and you say goodbye, your own life rapidly shifting as the weather warms. You decide your time in Italy will come to an end at the start of June, after all your orders are finished. You’ll spend the break period in Costa Rica, tending to the wounds long left behind. Momo offers to hire a moving service that can move your things to her house (or estate, she calls it), to give you peace of mind until it’s time to settle in Japan.

Your stomach twists in knots every time you think about it—about going home.

The moving process starts early with you purging yourself of furniture and decor and clothes you don’t want anymore. Every time you say goodbye to something, your heart feels a little lighter. You sell those costumes you know you’ll never wear again and you argue hotly with the landlady to wiggle out of the lease you signed for the next year. She caves with a scowl when you pull the dead nonna card.

Chiara and Davide assist you, preventing you from taking the decluttering too far.

(“Babe, you still have another month,” Davide protests when you take pictures of your dining table to post online for sale. “Are you planning to eat off the floor?”)

(“Tucano—” Chiara groans when she steps into your studio, feet disappearing under bundles of fabric. “How do you work in this mess?”)

You spend as much time as you can with them, soaking in the final days with your throuple—as Davide puts it. The three of you have weekly gatherings at your place, filled with pastries and fruit and wine. Some days your conversations are a time of laughter. Others, tears.

“I can’t believe I was right after all,” Davide sighs, nursing his third glass of a purplish cabernet.

You make a face. “When you said I would fall in love with one of the performers but then break up and have awkward tension?”

Chiara gasps loudly, nearly a cackle. “What?”

Davide scoffs. “When I said you would leave me for a man.”

You roll your eyes, but Chiara comes to your defense first. “They’re leaving us, first of all. And Italy, and opera dresses. Second, they’re leaving for the circus.”

Teeth scrape against the inside of your cheek as you consider her words. You recall what you told Hanta over the phone, when he asked if you chose Hoshi no Sākasu. Maybe the wine is loosening your tongue, but you find it easier to admit tonight.

“I’m leaving for the circus, but Hanta was a big part of that.”

Davide screeches an, “I knew it!” while Chiara’s face morphs into a frown.

“Hanta,” she repeats back in a mimicking voice. You slap her arm. Her head comes to rest on your shoulder. “You can’t forget about us, okay?”

“Of course I won’t.”

“We should visit! I’ve always wanted to go to Japan.”

Chiara nods quickly, hair brushing your neck. “We should go in the spring. I wanna see the sakura bloom.”

They escalate into making plans to visit, now entirely independent of whether or not you’re in Japan in the spring. You smile to yourself. Chiara was your first friend, who later introduced you to Davide as a client. A couple years passed and now they’re the people in Milan you hold closest. They were friends without you, but became more intertwined when you arrived. You hope they’ll be good friends even after you leave. 

Watching and listening to them now tells you that you have nothing to worry about.

They help you load boxes in the van at the end of June. Your last order is finished and the lease comes to its end. The remainder of your things go into a large suitcase and backpack for you to live out of at Chiara’s. You stay with her for one week, idling in your favorite places around Milan in her clothes. It’s a stretched out goodbye, one that has been happening in fragments since you first declared your departure. These days don’t feel real. You can’t fathom that you’ll soon be across the world, walking through familiar streets—ones that have certainly changed in your absence.

You and Hanta talk less as your move gets closer, primarily because the circus has landed in the Americas, the time change an increasing obstacle. Knowing that you’re following their footsteps, soon to be on the same land again, feels special. It feels like a confirmation that you’re making the right choice. 

You start listening to basic Japanese lessons and download an app to memorize hiragana. Your finger hesitantly draws the characters, lip jutting in a pout when you get one wrong. When you and Hanta do find pockets of time to talk, he gently corrects your pronunciation of basic phrases.

Chiara has to work the day that you leave, so you have a tearful goodbye at her front door before Davide drives you to the airport later in the afternoon. You wonder if this is the last time you’ll sit in his car, legs against dark leather. The thought triggers other sentimental musings, questions of the next time you’ll sleep over at Chiara’s, or the next time you’ll have a real Italian pasta.

Davide holds you at the terminal, one of the few hugs he’s ever offered. He cries easily—still reading you down, just with red-rimmed eyes and a runny nose. You’re forced to promise that you won’t forget him. When you finally leave him to roll your bag to the check in line and then to security, you turn back once and catch him scowling. 

You land in Spain before boarding the eleven hour flight to San José. Floating above the ocean—separated from your friends and soaring to your family—strikes something deep in your heart. It’s a mix of aches and pains and fears swirling together, making your body feel so heavy you think you might start plummeting into the Atlantic. Your feet shuffle to cradle your bag between them, tucked under the seat in front of you. You itch to pull it out and open it, to check that abuela is still resting in her wooden box.

San José is just as you remember. Stepping outside hits you full force with an assault of hot, humid air. Your skin begins to glisten, clothes already clinging to you in the few minutes it takes to walk to the buses. The next one comes in half an hour, so you park yourself on a bench and lean against the backrest. Palm trees tower over you, their grassy leaves fanning between the ground and the sky. A cluster of sparrows floats under their canopies, entering your vision only to leave moments later.

By the time you pull your bag along the sidewalk of your childhood street, the sun has sunk beneath the horizon. You slow your steps as you reach the driveway of your home. The house isn’t in view quiet yet, shrouded behind the trees that gate you from the neighbor. You pause at the corner of the fence, fighting the knots in your stomach and the thrumming in your hands. It should just be your sister and mamá inside. You can handle them.

Despite your incessant self-assurances, several minutes pass before you step down the sidewalk. They’re slow and hesitant. Your head tilts upwards, taking in the canopies of cecropia above. The street lamp illuminates the leaves from below, displaying faded green against the black of the sky. Their shapes are round but segmented, the webbed fingers of a frog. You catch scarring on the thin branches, knots and welts in the wood that take the shape of spiraled eyes, watching you. You can hear the rustling of palm trees, the scrape of leafy hairs as they blow above you—

In front of you.

You bring your chin down, looking ahead to the lemon tree in the yard. You nearly yelp in surprise at the sight of your sister. She blinks while you flinch, hand holding one of the branches so she can clip the fruit with her other.

No greeting passes between you. You demand, “Since when do you take care of the garden?” She’s the type to complain about dirtying her shoes while walking to the car. The dresses feel like a weight in your suitcase. Would she even like them?

She scowls at the accusation in your voice. “Ever since you kidnapped the person who used to.”

You don’t have an answer, still too stunned. Her eyes similarly trace over your form, mouth twisting when she takes in your clothes.

“And you still dress like that?”

You can’t hold back your laugh. You missed her.

You missed home.

Seeing mamá is harder. She’s quiet and soft, always a subdued presence, but now with a new touch of somberness. She looks sad—and easily shattered.

You meet her at the door unexpectedly. She’s waiting when you enter, immediately standing from the sofa to reach for you. Her touch is firm over your arm, hands turning white from the intensity of her grip, like she thinks you might disappear at any moment. Tears spring without warning. You try to blink them away, to keep your face from twisting in a sob, but you cry easily.

“I’m sorry,” is all you can think to say. You don’t add more, not sure how to eloquently apologize for stealing her own mother, for leaving, for making life at home and with the family excruciating.

Her dark eyes shine back at you, slightly curved from the twitch of her smile. She looks happy, though a quiet sort of happiness. Not one for words, her reassurance comes from how she reaches for you, pulling you into a hug. Your wet eyes land against her shoulder, steeping into the fabric of her shirt. One of her hands comes to your head, smoothing over your hair as she hums—a content sound, one she makes when things are finally coming together.

You take the box of ashes out shortly and offer them to mamá. Her face tightens when the realization strikes her, and you feel more guilt and regret swirling in your stomach. Should you have waited?

Delicate hands take the box, thumb tracing a band of dark brown towards the bottom of the lid. Her eyes soften before she stretches it back to you.

“Keep her with you,” she nearly whispers. “Until we have the ceremony.”

You swallow. Do you deserve that? To keep holding onto her after all this time? After all that you’ve deprived your family of? Mamá’s eyes don’t waver, holding a command you have never been able to disobey. You take the box.

Your mother fusses over you, helping you carry your bags to your room. She starts fluffing your pillows before offering to bring you some water, and you have to grab her by the arm to get her to stop and listen while you tell her I’m fine and Thank you. She leaves with an anxious expression, you think out of fear that you’ll vanish in the middle of the night. A quiet, “Buenas noches,” filters through just before the door shuts.

You flop onto the bed with a sigh. One of your newly fluffed pillows bounces off and lands on the ground. You sigh again.

Despite the exhaustion deep in your body, you can’t fall asleep. You lay in your childhood bed and stare at the ceiling, your vision no different than if you closed your eyes instead. Even though you’re blind to your surroundings, you can feel the relics of an earlier person littered on bookshelves and tucked into drawers—someone who had their grandmother.

You’re certain that hours pass, but you can’t bring yourself to check the time. An idea comes to mind and you act before thinking it through. You turn so you’re sitting upright on the bed, hand gently waving towards your bedside table until it lands on the wooden box you placed earlier. Once it’s safe in your hold, you rise and leave the room.

You know this journey through the hall to abuela’s room. As a toddler you walked this route nearly every night. You were frequented by nightmares, ones that disappeared as soon as you took refuge with your grandmother.

The floorboards creak under your weight, reminding you to keep to the left to minimize the noise. You take your time, hugging abuela to your chest while your other arm extends to feel for the doorknob. It makes contact immediately. You twist slowly so the latch opens quietly, then push through with your shoulder quickly so the squeak of the hinges aren’t drawn out.

Your feet shuffle forwards, soon pressing your shins against the mattress. There’s the faintest smell of lemons—a scent that tightens your chest. You crawl forwards, bringing the box to rest between the two pillows at the headboard. A wave of exhaustion rolls through you immediately. You don’t bother settling under the covers; as soon as your head touches the pillow, you’re asleep.

Closing your eyes transports you to another world, an older world that you are young within. You’re speaking a language you don’t recognize, but one you understand every word of, conversing back and forth with a boy you’ve never met. He has kind eyes and a soft voice that you want to always say yes to. He has rough hands, but they cradle yours gently. In the next moment you are both older, adults, and he is watching you sadly. You don’t have words to explain his expression, what it invokes in you, but you can tell that he is leaving—not by his own choice.

You are alone and angry and in constant fear, conjuring images in your head of what has happened to him. If you’ll ever see him again. You don’t know this man, but he is everything to you. He has left everything to you, too: a daughter. You look at her face until it becomes your own, staring at a man who is your father by name but not by blood.

The story repeats, this time with a man who gives you meaningful glances. His eyes aren’t as kind but they are entirely on you. He says he’ll give you everything. He takes it back when you learn you’re pregnant, with twins. He leaves without a word.

You’re woken by an assault of light flashing your vision. You squeeze your eyelids shut, trying to block out the blooms of painful red and white static. Turning your head offers some relief, angling yourself from the sun and instead pushing your face into a pillow.

“Get up,” a voice barks. Your sister, you realize, pulling back the curtains.

You groan, drawing it out as if asking a question.

“I’m not letting you sleep past noon,” she continues. “Come help me with the garden.”

You roll over to face her, eyes sticky while you work to hold them open. Your head has the heaviness of a stone. The warmth of the bed lulls your body back under, to whatever lives you were living in your subconscious.

“Kay,” you eventually mumble.

She looks at you skeptically before nodding and leaving, with a promise to return in a few minutes if you don’t appear downstairs.

In the fresh silence of the morning, you turn to lay on your back. Your head brushes something hard. You frown, tilting it back and forth. It scrapes against something with sharp edges. When you turn, you see abuela, her box of ashes still tucked between the pillows. You blink in surprise before going still. The dreams from last night run through your mind. You’ve never had one like that before. You stare at the box, attempting to recall the faces that passed by.

The garden work doesn’t last longer than a couple hours. You pull weeds and harvest the ripened crops—mostly peppers and bananas. The midday sun burns hot and bright and you immediately begin to sweat through the sleeves of your shirt. Your sister doesn’t let you complain, quipping back that it’s your fault for sleeping in.

When you bring the harvest inside, your mother graciously receives it in the kitchen. For the first time today you get a proper look at her face: it’s the older, wrinkled, and saddened features of that first baby in your dream. She looks like a young version of abuela. You halt while several fragmented thoughts abruptly click into place. 

Your dream, your abuela and mamá, your sister…

You.

Tears well in your eyes without warning, immediately sliding down your cheeks. Mamá doesn’t question it. She embraces you, rubbing your back carefully.

When you calm she switches topics, not probing what brought on your outburst. Instead she sifts through the vegetables carefully, picking ones to set on the counter for lunch.

“Hopefully we get a lot tomorrow, or else I’ll have to run to the store.”

You hum in question.

She stops rummaging, eyes lifting to you carefully. “Did your sister not tell you?”

You blink. “Tell me what?”

“We're having a big dinner tomorrow.”

You inhale sharply, heart racing. Big dinner is a synonym for family dinner. Tíos and primeros and amigos de la familia. Tía abuela. It was going to happen eventually, an event you can’t avoid. You knew this, you know this. But you didn’t expect it’d be this soon.

You aren’t ready, aren’t sure you’ll ever be ready. You could throw up.

“Who—” your voice cracks as you manage through the words. “Who’s coming?”

Mamá doesn’t answer.

“So everyone,” you respond to her silence. She doesn’t offer any confirmation or denial. You leave the room.

When you enter your bedroom you curl up beside the bed, shielding you from the door. Shaky hands reach for your phone, calling Hanta by instinct. You don’t know what he’s doing today, if he’ll pick up.

It only takes two rings before you hear him greeting you with a dramatic, “Konnichiwa!” before switching to Spanish. “How’s life back home?”

“Hanta,” you say flatly, urgently. He hums, the sound much lower and with a twinge of surprise. “My family’s coming over tomorrow and I only learned five minutes ago.”

There’s a drawn out sigh on the other end while he conjures a response. “How’s that feeling?”

You nearly laugh. “Like I’m going to throw up and then run away.”

He giggles on the other end. The sound makes your heart pang, but your stomach lightens with a sort of relief. “No way,” he insists. “You’ve come too far to run. And there’s no way I’m letting you put this off if it was your main hesitation for joining us.”

You smile, lips pulling tight against your teeth. “I can make my own choices,” you retort.

“Too bad, I know you already signed the contract.”

You sigh, nodding your head solemnly. You did.

He doesn’t say anything more, letting you take your time.

“I’m just…” you start, trying to find the words. You aren’t ready. You’re still processing being back home, in your old bedroom, with mamá and your sister. You’re— 

“Scared,” Hanta fills in for you. 

You fight the urge to scowl. You fail.

“Yeah,” you huff.

He giggles again, and you know it’s from the tone of your voice. “I’m afraid for you,” he admits. “But you have to do it, yeah? And you’ve already done the hard part of coming home, seeing your mom and sister. And you’re still alive and well after that, right?”

You nod at his words and hum in agreement.

“Was everything okay with them?” he asks. 

You explain what happened when you came home: finding your sister by the lemons and your mom waiting by the door, how neither of them properly yelled or expressed being upset with you.

“Woah… That’s incredible,” he says. “Maybe the rest of your family will move on once they see you too.”

“There’s no way. That was mamá and hermana. Tía abuela is an entirely different character, and I’ve already heard that she’s pissed.”

He huffs. “Sounds like my abuelo. Those people love the strongest though.”

Your call continues, you two catching up on the past few days. He speaks excitedly, but his voice lulls you to a calmer state. By the time you hang up, a piece of you thinks everything will be okay. The two of you exchange goodbyes, and then you’re left in the quiet solitude of your room. It only lasts for a minute, before the door slams open.

It’s your sister, standing with a giant grin across her face as she excitedly demands, “Who was that?”

Tía abuela slaps you the moment she enters the room. 

Your cheek stings from the contact, a sharp pain that tingles across your skin. It dulls quickly, but you wonder if there will be a bruise. The coppery taste of blood blooms against the side of your tongue. You must have cut the inside of your mouth against your teeth.

These thoughts distract you from the accompanying verbal assault: a string of insults and accusations that you’ve heard before, from yourself. You take it quietly and with a stoic expression. Your eyes trail to the floor, not wanting to meet hers as she berates you in front of your relatives. Nobody speaks when she finishes. The only remaining sound is her ragged breath.

A long pause follows. You don’t raise your eyes, too embarrassed to meet anyone’s gaze.

The silence is eventually broken by your nephew. He cries, yanking his hand from his mother in attempt to run out the door. The room unpauses, relatives rushing after him while loud commotion fills the space. A gentle touch on your cheek brings your attention to your mother. There’s a shine in her eyes, a quirk to her lips. Maybe she finds this funny. You think you would too.

Nobody speaks to you, not willing to take on any part of tía abuela’s wrath. You don’t mind, standing awkwardly to yourself in the corner, and shunning yourself in the kitchen when the others take their plates to the dining and living rooms to eat. Nobody invites you over.

Later there’s another commotion, in the living room with your nephew again. Tía abuela tries to feed him a spoonful of rice, but he refuses. She insists, and he slaps the fork from her hand. Gasps release throughout the room, your cousins immediately going to scold him, but he screams and runs. You can hear his footsteps approach the kitchen. You freeze, not sure what you should do.

He barrels straight for you, short arms coming around your hips while his face buries into your stomach. You grunt at the impact, but stand frozen and wide-eyed. His parents enter—your older cousin and her husband—with tía abuela trailing behind them. Your hands fly to your nephew’s to pull him from you and hand him over. He’s too young to understand, too young to get in trouble. But he fists your shirt tightly and yells, “No!”

You tug him again. 

“She hurt you!” he wails. The sentence is partially muffled by your shirt, wetting with his tears and snot, but everyone hears it. Your heart drops. All the adults in the doorway freeze.

You cast one careful glance to them before you make up your mind and grip your nephew by his underarms, hoisting him to your hip. His face is red, with teary eyes and black curls clinging to his temples. You watch him glance at you and then the door, laying his chest against yours as if to offer himself as a shield. Your eyes well with tears.

“I hurt her too,” you say quietly, running a hand over his hair. Your voice is firm, and loud enough that you know the others will hear.

He hiccups, head turning to look at you in shock. “You hit tía abuela?”

“No,” you say with a huff of laughter. “But something worse.”

His eyes widen impossibly, full moons against a dark night. Brown irises drift to your cheek. There must be a mark, still flared and angry. A small hand comes to touch it gently, a tingling sting radiating from the contact. You’re certain there will be a bruise tomorrow.

Tía abuela doesn’t speak to you, but others finally do. Your nephew’s outburst broke the invisible boundary, opening a gap for others to greet you. They don’t say much, eyes still cautiously flitting to tía abuela, but it’s a start. Nobody chides you, but nobody looks excited either.

Everyone but the kids. You watch your nephew whisper with his cousins, giggling as they look towards you and then dart their eyes away when you meet them. One of them approaches you during the goodbyes, gently tugging at your shirt to get your attention. He’s another nephew, this one from a family friend.

“Did you really punch tía abuela?” he asks, eyes wide with wonder.

Yours nearly pop out of your head. A stifled laugh sounds from behind you—your sister’s voice.

“Not…” you don’t know how to respond, what the appropriate explanation is for a seven year old. “Not exactly.”

His eyes stay glued to your face. You feel cornered here, wondering if you said the wrong thing. A voice calls his name. He grins wide before running off. You exhale in relief.

You get small waves and head nods from everyone else. Only when tía abuela is out the door does someone finally pull you for a clumsy, messy hug—your tía, the second eldest of abuela’s children after mamá. She holds you tightly, with the quiet promise that you’ll talk more soon. You feel her sincerity in the hand clutching your wrist.

When the door finally closes, your sister releases the longest breath you’ve ever heard. Mamá appears with an ice pack covered in cloth, motioning to hold it against your cheek. It’s long overdue, but you accept it graciously.

“That went better than I expected,” she says quietly. You agree.

“You totally could have dodged it,” your sister adds.

You agree. You could have, if you wanted to.

The bruise fades after a week, in time for the ceremony to scatter abuela’s ashes. Family members have come and gone by the house, warmed to catching up with you. You see tía abuela again, this time without the slapping and screaming. She ignores you, except for a fair amount of side eyes while conversing with mamá. When she says goodbye, her eyes meet yours for a moment right before slamming the door.

The ceremony takes place on the beach. The sight makes you think of Hanta and that beautiful tent—black sand glitters like the dust of diamonds under moonlight. No words are spoken; the only sounds being the lapping waves trying to reach your family on the shore. Tía abuela lights the candles of the vigil while mamá opens the ashes and pours them into the hands of your relatives. Tía abuela’s sharp eyes watch closely, lingering on you when mamá finally makes her way around.

Abuela’s remains are soft and light—grey ash spotted with clumps of black residue. Her body is the feathery weight of dry sand, and yet you feel like you are cupping the entire world and universe. This is not the dust that sweeps through the air after a fire; you are holding the dust of stars and planets and moons. You are holding the weight of your lineage, the connecting point between the bloodline that lives, and the blood that has passed. If you squint, you can make out shapes and images in abuela’s remains. They’re vague. Dreamlike.

One of your younger tíos begins the music with his Quijongo, the stick thumping steadily against the bowstring. You close your eyes at the sound, akin to the whistling of wind through trees. The airy notes of your cousin on the Ocarina join shortly, and then the gentle shake of Maracas. Their performance draws on for a few moments before tía abuela starts to hum. It fills your body with warmth, a feeling so intense you almost shiver in the summer heat. Her notes are clear and bodied, like her entire soul is unraveling into the air—settling above you like the salty humidity. 

She falls into a repeated chorus, the sign for everyone to join. You open your eyes when you begin to hum with her—with everyone. The sound sweeps through the circle around you, tía abuela illuminated in the center by candlelight, orange haze gently fanning to reveal the faces surrounding her in a warm glow. The humming changes when your mother shifts her intonation. Others follow her lead, adding their own twists and slides and delays to the song, pulling a deeper and richer sound through layers of complexity. You try to channel abuela’s energy with your own voice, sharpening the ends of each note and adding a roughness to your tone. 

You close your eyes again, letting a warm buzz sweep over you entirely. A charged energy has bloomed within, taken you completely, as if your body has more spirit than it can contain. Your arms burn.

When abuela has been scattered over the sands of your home, everyone falls silent. Your eyes again drift around the circle, taking in the many praying faces of your family, slowly dimming as the flaming wicks reach their end. You lift your gaze to the sky, soaking in the faint moon and sprinkled stars.

A figure flies above, the shape of a large bird. Your heart skips a beat before it races, catching the familiar outline of a macaw. They’re daytime birds, ones that sleep when the sun does.

You wonder what brought this one here, now.

The following month brings new grief. The grief of old relationships as they change and fizzle, the grief of your previous self, the grief of your pride when you say your apologies over and over—understanding the multitudes of ways you hurt your family. You grieve your anger and your spite, coming to terms with the detriments of your self righteous attitude.

There’s a special grief in the pain of being forgiven, too.

There’s a beauty in this sadness and this ache: the beauty of memory. Abuela begins to appear everywhere, and in all of those people you once thought weren’t deserving of her. It hits you the hardest with mamá, a face you see daily and with each moment growing more and more similarities between her and the deceased.

You’re envious that abuela lives in her features, in the slope of her nose and lips. Some were passed down to you and your sister, in matching smiles but otherwise your relationship isn’t apparent. Even you and your sister look nothing alike, only sharing the eyes of a man you don’t know. A man you saw in a dream now weeks ago, one who promised you everything for one brief moment.

He appears one day.

You’re freshly showered from a morning in the garden, heading toward the stairs to meet mamá in the kitchen, passing the square window on the second floor. She stands in the opening, a frame capturing a moment in time: her in the driveway with someone. He’s tall with tanned skin and curly hair—an aged version of the second man from your dream. You watch him smirk at mamá, a sharp sliver of teeth. You can’t hear her, but she waves her arms and her lips move rapidly. Her chest heaves and you think for the first time in your life you’re watching her yell at someone.

The man takes one step closer. Your mom shoves him at the shoulder. He stares at her openly before finally turning away.

His head tilts towards the window, gaze immediately locking onto you. Despite the distance, the shape of his eyes is clear: they’re sharp, intense. For a brief moment you think you’re looking at your sister. You break the stare, turning your head sharply before moving away from the glass.

You stand still for a minute, back against the wall. Your heart pounds in your chest and ears, crawling uncomfortably up your throat.

“I think I saw my dad,” you say abruptly the following day.

You watch Hanta’s face go still. “Huh?”

“He was in the driveway with mamá. I’ve never met him, or seen pictures. But I have his eyes.”

“He must be hot.” You deadpan at his response and he laughs. “Sorry. Did you get to talk to him? Or ask your mamá about it?”

You shake your head. She didn’t say anything when you came downstairs; she’s never said anything before. You’ve never felt a reason to ask, always happy enough with the family you have. If that dream from last month had any indication of the kind of man he is, you’d rather keep things the way they are.

You don’t see him again.

Your second month at home is busier now that you’ve reintegrated with your relatives. You go from spending most days at mamá’s to getting pulled along excursions to other houses and local spots. You’re put on impromptu babysitting duty for your nieces and nephews, shaken awake early in the morning to hike with your cousin, abruptly shoved into a car during the afternoon for a trip to the beach. You find yourself in markets and on the sand and in the jungle. It’s exhausting, but you love it. You missed it.

You still maintain the garden with your sister and call your friends regularly. They ground you into the soil of your home, even across the ocean. Your joint chat with Chiara and Davide populates with pictures, frequently including ones of them smiling together at your usual places. Swiping through them fills you with warmth, and a distant ache. 

Hanta is equally diligent with his communication. His responses to your own photos always result in grins that pique the interest of your family members. You learn to wait until you’re alone to read his messages.

(He sends a video one evening, of a recent training session. The phone is still, likely propped on a table or chair, while he moves through an unpracticed routine—a freestyle. It could be mistaken for casual stretching. Even so, every motion is smooth, every transition is seamless. At one point he anchors his legs before leaning back in a bundle of fabric. The camera is close enough to pick up the steady rise and fall of his chest.

You save the video with warm cheeks, watching it again several times throughout the day. He’s so captivating.)

One rare morning when you rise before your sister, you tend to the garden alone. The work is minimal: watering some sections and picking ripened tomatoes. Less than an hour later you step inside with a heavy basket of sweet red, heaving it on the counter. The consecutive thump of footsteps sound down the stairs—your sister must have woken.

You turn to greet her and freeze.

In her arms are dresses, the dresses you made her. Dresses you haven’t shown her. Her eyebrows are arched high into her forehead as she asks, “So tell me why these are exactly my size and style?”

Heat flares up your neck. Instead of explaining, you demand, “Why were you in my room?”

“Why is this my size?”

Several moments of silent glaring pass. You still refuse to answer. She laughs.

“You sap! You are so fake.” The grin on her face stretches wide. Her arm bends to press the garments to her chest while her other one points at you. “This is embarrassing for you.”

You nod, absolutely humiliated. Your plan was to hang the dresses in the back of her closet the day you leave for Japan. At the very least you could avoid her reaction over the phone. But now that she’s found them, more than anything, you’re just relieved that her eyes are shining with glee.

She likes them.

Towards the end of August you’re in regular conversation with Kendou and Momo about moving to Japan. Kendou assists your preparation for work while Momo helps with housing. The latter recommends you visit in person before committing to a lease, and insists you stay with her until you get situated. You attempt to refuse, but she doesn’t relent. When you try suggesting you at least pay her something, she laughs. 

“I’ll quit,” you threaten.

She grins, nearly singing, “Too late. Besides, I have your things hostage at my estate.”

You sigh, defeated.

The next day you get a call from Hanta in the evening. His pouting face is the first thing you see when you accept it.

“What?” you ask in amusement.

“Why’d you ask to stay with Momo? Why not me?”

Your jaw nearly drops. Can’t they let you share your own news? And why is he acting like you begged her to host you?

“Hanta, I tried to refuse but she has my stuff already.”

“You should move it to my place.”

You laugh. “You’re crazy.”

He pouts harder, puppy eyes sparkling. “Why not?”

“Hanta—” you sigh. “I thought you wanted to take your time?”

He groans, flopping his head onto a pillow. You grin.

“Yeah,” he exhales. “I just miss you a lot right now.”

The confession strikes your heart, claws an ache through your chest. He’s straightforward with his feelings and his words, sending shivers of giddiness through you.

“I miss you too,” you admit. The busy days with your family have been effective distractions, but that longing always reappears—in the quiet of the nights and mornings, or during these calls when you can hear his voice so clearly. So close. “We have less than two months left.”

He groans again. “That’s so long.��

You agree, and ask him what he plans to do when the tour finishes mid-September. The circus cast has a month break before training in Tokyo resumes.

“Last time I went to Ecuador to see mamá’s family.”

You hum. Maybe you could meet him there and catch the same plane to Japan. Neither of you say anything, but you can tell he’s thinking something similar.

By the time September sweeps in you live everyday with a buzz thrumming beneath your skin. It’s a constant energy, restless anxiety knowing that you’ll be moving soon. You and Hanta have started working out the details of meeting in Ecuador. He tells you that he’ll know his plans in a few days.

You keep yourself busy to ease your agitation, more beaches and mountains and markets. The full days have you exhausted at night, enough to sleep instead of letting your mind race in excitement.

Today you wake early, finishing the garden tasks before the sun arches overhead. You have plans to spend the day in the city with your sister. You already know where you want to eat lunch, and you can guess which bakery she’ll demand you visit afterwards. While you make your way downstairs quickly, she takes her time. The water from her shower stops running just as you reach the living room. You sigh. 

After several minutes of listening to pattering footsteps above you, the chime of the doorbell rings. You frown. It deepens when your sister calls, “Can you get that? I invited someone to join.”

You were looking forward to a day of just the two of you, not prepared to have a third presence. Knowing your sister, the guest is your older cousin—who you love, but is usually overwhelming to be around for longer than an hour.

You open the door with a huff, ready to greet her with the most enthusiasm you can muster—

But Hanta is standing at the doorstep.

Your eyes fly open at the sight. Immediately they trace his face—his dark hair and eyes. He’s disheveled, sporting stubble along his lip and jawline. His hair is longer than it was half a year ago, bunched in a knot at the base of his neck. Long wisps fall at the sides of his face, framing him. He’s in warm weather clothes—an unbuttoned tropical shirt with loose shorts and sandals, and a big backpack.

You swallow. He looks good.

He grins immediately, reaching for your hand as he says your name. You’re too stunned to hear it, focused trying to process the fact that he’s here.

“Hanta…?” you eventually ask. Your eyes burn and your nose stings. Tears surface.

His face softens, smile turning gentle. He tugs your arm, encouraging you to step closer. Your heart thumps quickly and loudly in your ears. You think your chest is going to explode.

“Yeah,” he nearly whispers. “Can I hug you now?”

You nod fervently and let him pull you by the waist. His bag prevents you from wrapping your arms around his torso, so instead you loop them over his shoulders. He buries his face into your neck with a sigh, his breath sending shivers down your spine. Your cheek presses into his hair while you inhale the scent of him: sweet oranges. There’s a thrumming against your chest, but you can’t differentiate your heartbeat from his.

“Missed you,” you mumble quietly.

“Yeah.”

Your mind races with questions. How did your sister manage to contact him? Everyone told you the circus  still had a few more days before the tour officially ended—did they finish early? Did Hanta leave early?

You don’t ask any, instead squeezing your arms to clutch him harder. His grip tightens in response and a rush of euphoria runs through you—to be held like this, by him.

The shutter of a camera breaks your moment of bliss, immediately prompting you to jerk away. Hanta’s grip doesn’t let you go far, keeping your chests pressed together while you lean your head back to turn to the sound. Mamá fumbles with her phone, grumbling that the ringer was supposed to be off. Your sister stands beside her with a giant smirk. You want to cower away in embarrassment. Hanta doesn’t let you escape him, so you resort to burying your head into his shoulder.

He laughs, a symphony of glee. You peek at his face and see no traces of fluster. He looks happy.

His grip loosens enough to let him step aside and introduce himself, but his hand holds yours tightly. The greeting he offers feels dutifully Japanese—bowing as he states his full name, thanking mamá for the care—but the words come out in Spanish. You blink at his formality and its out of place nature in your family, on him.

Mamá ushers the two of you inside, insisting it’s her pleasure and for him to make himself at home. It occurs to you that she also knew he was coming, already expecting to let him stay. You look at your sister with wide eyes, hoping for an answer, but she continues to grin smugly, widening as she deliberately looks at your intertwined hands.

She interjects before mamá and Hanta can get invested in their conversation. “You should go soon.”

You frown. “Huh?”

“I did invite someone over—for me to hang out with.” The look she gives you says all you need to know: it is your older cousin. “Unless you want everyone to know about your boyfriend today, you should leave before she comes.”

You can feel the headache forming at the thought of your extended family finding out. So you nod, hurrying him to your room to drop off his bag.

“Maybe we should go to the beach,” you tell him quickly. “This city is small and I would really like to wait a couple days before anyone finds out you’re here. The beach will be fine, and we can visit the next city over—”

Hanta leans to press his lips against your own, effectively halting your speech and thoughts. The words die in your throat as you immediately kiss him back, mind melting as his hand cradles your neck. He takes a slow step forward, backing you up to the door. He’s radiant with warmth, his front entirely flush to you, removing any distance. 

The kiss is passionate—that searing heat you’ve missed for too long. He smiles against you, softly scraping his stubble against your cheek. An embarrassing noise slips from your throat, originating from somewhere deep inside you.

He hums before pulling away, only long enough to breathe before he’s on you again.

“I missed you,” he whispers after a proper pause.

You swallow. “Yeah.”

He glues himself to you for the entire day. His arms are firm over your waist while he sits on the back of your moped, you speeding along the road to the beach. He pulls you by the hand when you park, grinning wide as his feet sift through the sand. The air and ground are warm, Hanta a thousand times warmer as he holds you on the shore. You lay on your back, him on his side so he can throw an arm over your stomach and stare right into your eyes.

You speak in quiet voices about everything you can. He kisses you often, stealing them between every pause of your words. When you jokingly chide him for it, insisting you need to speak, he settles for grazing his lips over your neck and collarbone, shifting to your knuckle when he wants to see your face. 

Sometimes the conversation lulls, and all you do is watch each other with soft smiles and glistening eyes. 

In the water, his gaze becomes stronger, too strong for you to handle. When you surface from a wave, he’s the first thing you see, crooked grin and wet hair. You immediately dip back under. There’s a certain weight in his eyes that you can’t handle.

The next time you break for air, he’s out of sight. Before you can turn to look for him, a hand tugs you from behind. It’s Hanta, pulling your back to slot against his chest. His head dips to your shoulder, lips running over the skin, arms snaking around your waist so you can’t disappear again.

You close your eyes at the feeling—his heat and his honest affection. You’re embarrassed by the tender displays in public, susceptible to the gazes and opinions of others. But maybe you deserve to have this moment, to be the annoying couple at the beach.

Couple? you wonder. You shake the thought away. Whatever this… thing you have with Hanta is, you don’t know how to name it. Neither of you have spoken about labels or exclusivity, but… couple feels almost derogatory. 

The two of you stay out until the evening, not sure when your home is safe to return to. When hunger settles in you drive with Hanta into the city.

This is his first time in Costa Rica, but he's in a different element in Latin America. Speaking Español brings out facets of his personality that are less noticeable in English or Japanese—a more playful but direct version of him. You wonder what you might learn about him as you continue to study Japanese.

He hugs you tightly on the ride home, arms back around your waist. He tries to tuck his head in the crook of your neck and shoulder, but the clunky helmets enforce a distance. You ride slowly through the night, careful of the winding roads, slow enough to catch the rustle of monkeys darting along the powerline. Every time you come to a stop, your ears flood with the ringing of insects and the soft, steady tone of night birds.

The house is quiet at night. Mamá is the only one present, greeting you with a quiet smile. She offers you dinner, and then some fruit when you decline. Hanta’s lip pouts at the mention of fried plantains, puppy eyes forcing you to agree.

“You can stay in my room,” you tell him afterwards while climbing the stairs. “I just need to grab a couple things.”

He trails curiously when you skip your door to go further down the hall.

“I’ve been sleeping in abuela’s room,” you explain.

He doesn’t follow you into the space, instead waiting by the doorway. You swipe your charger and book from the bedside table before smoothing out the covers and leaving.

Hanta doesn’t ask any questions, and you don’t offer any details. You wonder what he’s thinking, what he wants to know. His eyes linger over you, watching you closely. You wish you knew him better, wish you could take one look at his face and know immediately what’s turning through his heart and mind. Maybe he feels this way towards you, too.

This time when he enters your room, his eyes drift through your shelves and desk. They brighten when he catches a picture frame, nestled with a younger version of you and your sister standing in front of mamá and your grandparents. You don’t remember your abuelo well, only having fragments of memories. The only pieces of him you recall are the ones captured in photos; maybe they aren’t even real memories, just scenes you conjured from your imagination to pretend.

“You look like your abuelo in this one,” Hanta says.

Is this too much? For him to be here, looking through your artifacts of life and smiling fondly over old pictures? Part of you still feels like you’ve only known each other for a week, still chasing him through tents and trying to discover their makers. The other part thinks you’ve been in each other’s arms through your months of separation.

A seed inside you says, He’s been with you before the circus, too.

Hanta’s still smiling when he looks at you again. You swallow, catching that joyful glint in his eyes. For him, this is long overdue.

(This being the intimacy and the affection and the opportunity to learn everything he can—to find his way into every opening of your being and make a home for himself. For both of you.)

In this stillness and quiet of the night, you search your heart for how you really feel—untampered by fears of what’s right or what others may think, what the standard for relationships is supposed to be.

You want him—like this. Forever.

Under soft covers and cocooned in Hanta’s warmth, you manage to fall asleep in your own bed. You enter a dreamless sleep and rise naturally with the sun. Your sister doesn’t barge into your room to wake you, but you still dress for the garden and get to work. She’s there already, clipping the last round of tomatoes.

She gives you a pointed look that you return with your own. Neither of you speak, instead trading glances through the morning as you join her tending. She’s nosy and wants to know the details of how you met, what your relationship is like. You communicate that it’s not her business. You know you’ll fold and tell her eventually.

When you re-enter the house, you’re ambushed by the sight of Hanta in the kitchen helping mamá with breakfast. He wears her floral apron, diligently cutting onions while answering her questions—about his work and how it led you two to meet. His voice stops when he sees you, immediately grinning. He asks if you’re hungry.

After breakfast he insists on washing dishes. Your sister volunteers to dry, so you and mamá clean the table together. You can hear your sister grilling him from the kitchen, Hanta answering every question with ease.

“He’s a good man,” mamá says softly.

You nod.

When you two wiggle into your bed a second time, he asks you to wake him if you rise first. You frown. “Don’t you need your sleep?” 

He yawns, punctuating your point. “Maybe,” he slurs. “But I didn’t like waking up alone.”

Your heart pauses while you nod slowly. He hums with satisfaction and promptly falls asleep. You kiss his forehead. His hand tightens over yours.

On the third day, one of your tía’s and multiple cousins show up unexpectedly. You’re showing Hanta the garden, explaining how to hold the clippers, when a car pulls in and you sigh, knowing this will be the end of your peace. Hanta takes the chaos happily. He says he’s excited to meet everyone, albeit nervous.

Your extended family loves him. Everyone does, you start to realize—with his calm but lively energy, his honesty, his charm. Seeing him meet your relatives strikes you with awe, and a new wave of gratitude. 

Even tía abuela can’t dislike him. You’re anxious for their introductions, but then you watch Hanta softly bow his head—that Japanese filial piety overtaking him—while he politely says, “Mucho gusto, tía abuela.”

You catch the purse of her lips, the glint in her eye as she takes him in, and you know that he’s won her over already. Her eyes flit to you with the undertones of approval and you want to hug everyone in the room from your relief.

Things don’t fully mend by the time you leave with him for Ecuador. Tía abuela still won’t hold an extended conversation with you, some cousins mention abuela offhandedly to stir tension, and occasionally one of your tíos stare at you with anything but forgiveness. But you came home; you brought abuela home with you. This time when you leave, you’re leaving her behind—scattered along dark sand and blue water.

Mamá weeps when she says goodbye, holding you long in her arms. She says that she’ll miss you, that she loves you, and that she’s happy for you. She just hopes you’ll come back. You promise that you will.

Your sister is sharper with her words, insulting you through tears as she jabs, “You better not die.”

You nod vigorously.

Quito is different than you remember; too many years have passed since your first and last visit. It’s still beautiful and lively, with long markets and silver buses stretched down the roads. You board one, eventually winding your way along jungles and mountains, passing squares of shrimp farms by the coast. Hanta lets you take the window seat, happily holding your hand while you stare outside.

Ecuador is another sort of beast, with more chaotic roads and a harsher sun than Costa Rica. As you approach Hanta’s city along the sea, crumbling concrete buildings make a repeated appearance. The work of earthquakes, he tells you, an unwinnable battle for the poorly constructed towers—salt water and sea sand hiding in their walls, ready to surrender in an instant.

The edge of the shore appears. The sand is white, almost grey like ash. Like your abuela, now scattered along the Pacific. Did she make it down here after the past few months? Will she spread to the shores of Japan—to Musutafu?

When you arrive at the front of his house, you are struck by the familiarity. It takes a moment to remember that you’ve been here before, when Hanta ran with you across the ocean and led you through his home from the back porch. But that was a home from over a decade ago. Now parts are faded and parts are changed, but you still recognize it as if it were your own.

Hanta’s family is lively. His parents aren’t home—still working in Japan—but he opens the door to greet grandparents and avunculi and cousins. You watch his abuela’s face shine as she pulls him into a hug. His slender frame towers over her, awkwardly hunching to average their heights. The sight blooms a pang of something in your chest, the sting of an injury, and you swallow to avoid bursting into tears.

After surviving the introductions he leads you to his room. As soon as the door shuts and you have a moment of quiet, the tears resurface.

“Woah, hey,” Hanta says gently when he notices. His attention immediately fixes on you, hands abandoning his bag half unpacked to cradle your face. “Are you okay? Was that too much? Was someone out of line?”

You nod and then shake your head, trying to answer yes and then no respectively. It must be unconvincing, your face still twisted from holding back sobs.

“I’m okay,” you croak. You’re just overwhelmed, and maybe envious, from watching Hanta with his grandmother. From seeing loving touches and crinkled eyes. Curly white hair and wrinkled hands.

Hanta makes a complicated face. You gauge that he’s unconvinced and worried.

“We can go somewhere else,” he bargains. “Or you can rest here until you’re ready. Or a third option I don’t know right now.”

You nod, trying to agree with the second one. You’re fully crying by now, sniffling and blinking through tears. “I promise I’m okay,” you try to convince him. “I just need to cry, I think.”

He doesn’t question you, instead nodding and gesturing for you to sit on his bed. He lowers with you, carefully hugging you into his side. It’s a mourning cry, a weeping to express a hollowness in your heart, a loss that still hasn’t filled itself. Hanta remains a silent support, rubbing your back soothingly even after your sounds shift to sniffles. You press your face into his chest, tears smearing against his shirt. 

He’s warm. He’s always so warm.

You wonder how long you’ll live like this, still crying at random as if abuela’s death was a recent one—not a year in the past. Something tells you it’ll be often. 

Maybe you should apologize to Hanta in advance.

But his hold on you—firm while gentle—reminds you of his patience. He would tell you not to be sorry.

The week you have in Ecuador together is a busy one, spent meeting more family and getting yanked to Hanta’s favorite places. This time you’re the one on the back of the moped, leaning into his warmth as he winds up and down the roads. He lives on a small peninsula in the northern coast, where you can watch the sunrise from one beach, and then cross the city to catch the sunset on a different shore. 

The water turns red in the evening as the sun dips down, the ocean reflecting the brilliant rosiness of the sky. You and Hanta bob on surfboards in the water—yours long and wide and foam, his narrow and made of resin-coated wood. You soak in the remaining light, that fiery ball of light tucking under the horizon. There’s a tug at your heart when you remember the tent of floating oranges. When you glance at Hanta, he’s already staring at you. He grins.

You only get to see the coast of Ecuador during your stay, not touching mountains or jungle.

“Next time,” Hanta promises.

Next time.

Life doesn’t feel quite real when you board the plane together. Your goodbye to Hanta’s family felt more dramatic than your own, mostly because everyone was weeping and offering hugs all around. Tears pricked your eyes when his abuela pulled you for a hug, asking that you take good care of him. You promised you will.

You slide into the window seat, immediately pulling up the shade to look outside. You’re at the front of the wing, still parked on a giant slab of foundation and surrounded by the tunnels of the airport. Hanta plops down next, immediately snaking his arm around your waist and leaning into your side.

“Excited?” he asks.

Terrified is a more accurate description. “Yeah.”

He hums like he wants to ask more, but he keeps his questions to himself. You turn to look at him, his gentle eyes. They’re dark, dark like the night sky and shimmering with the sparkle of a thousand stars, ready to be plucked and pulled and woven into a timeless tale of love.

He has his abuela’s eyes.

(Is this how it’s going to be—you always searching for meaning and connection to the dead, never able to let them rest entirely, finding ways to make them alive time and time again? Is this who you are—someone who rereads the same book since childhood, clutching it close like a holy scripture that guides you forward?

But they are all you know, all you’ve ever chased, a child watching a display of magic and wanting nothing more than to be part of it.)

The voice of the flight attendant sounds through the speakers. Her voice crackles through the intercom as she reads from the safety brief.

Your eyes drift to Hanta’s skin. It’s darkened considerably since returning to Latin America. His cheeks and nose are splattered with an array of freckles. They’re constellations against his skin, a map of everything you’ve wanted. He leans to press his face against yours, like he can transfer those markings if you touch for long enough.

You turn to the window when the plane starts to roll forwards. Hanta’s chest presses against your shoulder while he leans to watch with you. His hand comes over yours, holding your fingers gently before raising them for a tender kiss.

There’s a jumble of knots in your stomach, like one thread tossed and turned until it became impossible to unravel. You’ve never been to Japan. You’ve never been contracted for a circus company. You don’t know Japanese and you don’t even have your own housing. All you have is a visa and the promise of a job awaiting your arrival. This is different from moving to Italy, fueled by nothing but the hunger for money. This time it’s a hunger for life, a hunger to find something—or, to follow what you’ve already found.

This time when you leave this part of the world, the part with your home, there is no obligation to do anything but what you want. A total freedom, the freedom to chase whimsical childhood dreams. Dreams of stars—The Circus of the Stars—and outrageous costumes and people you love.

The plane starts to dart down the runway, picking up speed to eventually lift and soar into the sky—a white aluminum bird against cerulean blue. Hanta’s lips press into your temple, hand squeezing yours. You grin while staring at the city of Quito below, clusters of buildings fading away with each passing second. The vessel of the plane chugs onwards and upwards, brushing through a mist of clouds—through the clouds, until they’re an ocean below you.

You squeeze Hanta’s hand back, interlocking your fingers like threads on a loom. Despite your fears, you feel ready.

Ready to stretch out your lives like the billions of stars in the sky, and to weave them together in a continuous, unbreakable fabric.

✰.

The circus is coming. And this time, you’re coming with it.

just a note about aerial silks: aerial silks for performance are not made of real silk, they're typically made of like some sort of synthetic fiber like nylon or lycra for safety purposes but i'm pretending like that isn't the case for the ~metaphors~

my sappy afterword can be found here

[dailymcrlyricanalysis]

You Know What They Do to Guys Like Us in Prison pt 4

Cw Rape

We repeat the “Two men as god had made us” bit. Some of the sex is becoming less non consensual. Still doesn’t want it to happen, but is coming from an “I don’t want to betray my gf and I also don’t want to admit to my attraction to men” kinda place. He’s still trying to distract himself by thinking about The Woman.

“To your room What they ask of you will make you want to say, "So long"” Remember how I said ‘Some’ of the sex is becoming less noncon? This is not it. “Well, I don't remember Why remember you?” This is heartbreaking. Buddy boy is dissociating through it. He’s been nonconed so many times Why would he remember you specifically doing it?

“Life is but a dream for the dead And well, I, I won't go down by myself But I'll go down with my friends” He’s breaking out of prison with his buddies. Yay

Bonus!

You Know What They Do to Guys Like Us in Prison live

This is a fucking party to see live, and the reason this song is often interpreted less as rape and more as gay. It is gay, but that’s not the main focus and most ppl forget that bc of how it is live. Also ⅛ of the reason everyone thinks Gee’s gay (they are kinda gay but i digress)

While it’s not in this video, Gerard will also more often than not change the lyrics from “I kiss your lips again” to “I suck your dick again” and occasionally “Well I won’t go down by myself, but I’ll go down with my friends” to “But I can’t stop sucking off every single guy I see”

Theres a tradition at mychem concerts where Gee will have all of the boys in the crowd take off their shirts before playing Prison. He’s also known to have the girls in the crowd encourage (very suggestively) the boys in the taking off of shirts

(We’re ignoring the title of this video, it was the first one that came up w/out it being a full concert and im lazy :p)