#he was around to fine-tune and micromanage everything

[fivekrystalpetals]

Pandora Hearts really took up the trope of Dead Men Tell No Tales and fucking ran with it

[moondirti]

jigsaws

— surgeon! simon riley x resident! reader

angst. anxiety. panic attacks. neurosurgical procedures. medical setting. mean simon. d/s undertones. 3.3k wc

There's a reason no one likes working with him.

Tough. Censorious, or hard to please – whispered wearily by nurses with permanent distaste etched into their crow's feet. He scathes anyone not accustomed to his abrasive exterior; a talus pile of whetted rocks, poised to flay you open should you take the plunge so confidently. Rubs your skin raw, brutally worms his way into your flesh, infamously bars rescue, allowing only saltwater to cradle your open wounds in the aftermath. Nothing about his criticism is comforting, not in the way an attending's support should be.

It sounds inflated. Excessive. Your intern year, you let the horror stories float you by as though they were nothing more than dust motes in an old room. To be expected, no? Hospital's are brutal for even the briefest of visitors, let alone a man who's worked here twenty years. In hindsight, you see that it's a type of discredit only the very fortunate can claim; inaugural residents and medical directors, those who do not have to deal with the virulent terror himself. You know better, now. Really.

Still, it feels as though you're being punished.

The air in the operating room is heavy. Clotted by a thick sense of unease. It's never like this, usually. Though the smell of burnt bone, blood, and remnant antiseptic is always a force to be reckoned with, you've gotten very good at shunning your nose for favour of your other senses. To tune into the vital monitor's beep, or the distinctions between this lump of amorphous tissue versus that lump of amorphous tissue. Reinterpreting them based on the plans you revised while scrubbing up, focused fingers around delicate tools prodding. Cutting.

Reliable perception is fine work. You've honed your personal ability the best you could.

The first lesson Dr. Riley teaches you, and rather gratuitously at that, is it takes just one person to throw it off kilter.

There's an impossible itch right where your mask hooks over your ears, latched nastily onto your scalp. Nothing you can address physically (sterility before comfort), though you're aware that its source isn't so easy as to scratch away. Figurative, then. An unwavering neg, pointed by a pair of cold eyes in your periphery. You're tempted to look up, throw off his stare with one of your own, but you think he wants you distracted.

So, you shift your weight and centre the electrocautery to another portion of abnormal growth. It comes apart like stale bread.

You haven't felt this micromanaged since medical school, when professors would loom over your shoulder and mark the clumsy way you sutured incisions shut. But where your grade had been on the line then, it's a person's life now. You seem to be the only one privy to that fact, or perhaps the one surgeon who cares.

Because Dr. Riley watches you over his wire-rimmed specs, grunting ambiguously under his breath like you can't hear him standing just a foot away. Maddening in that it's quiet, idle. To question it would be putting the burden of critique on yourself. To let it continue–

Sweat pools beneath your collar. The spotlights don't help, either, heat lamps on your roasting nerves, highlighting the wet sheen of your temple to whoever cares enough to notice (just him). Focus feels a vain pursuit, attention zeroing in and out of control. You're caught in the violent dance, swept away, water beneath your feet, between the operation and everything else. Everything else, like the ground that suddenly pushes too hard beneath you. The walls, stretching further and further away. There'd be nothing to catch you should you fall – a possibility that gains traction by the second, your vision spotting with exhaustion.

You almost lose it before a flash of green reels you back in.

It's instinctual. Entrenched response to a colour that only ever means one thing. Looking up at the neuronavigation, you watch as the silhouette of your apparatus veers dangerously close to the patient's motor cortex, highlighted in nausea-inducing neon for maximum visibility. Dr. Riley's presence darkens the space next to the screen, a point of singularity that consumes anything within its event horizon. Though it's the last thing you want to do, you coast a hesitant look over to him.

A surgical gown is meant to be ill-fitting. You find he fills the fabric in a manner antithetical to that design, shoulders stretching it tight across his neck, tree-trunk arms drawing tense pleats around his joints. Even his cap, wrapped smoothly around his forehead, ripples with every shift of his brow. Doubled-up gloves warped to the contours of his hands, thick fingers and knuckles. You watch the way they twitch, distorting the latex like a swift fish underwater, and swallow the stone lodged in your throat.

"I can't read your mind, Doctor." Your attending snaps when you take too long to elaborate. His voice is rough, a sucking chest wound in the sterile air of the OR – too raw, natural in a way these halls don't see. You squirm uncomfortably in the force majeure. "What's the hold up?"

"Um-" You pull away from the glioblastoma, your patient's head remaining tightly in place by a positioning frame. "I'm concerned about resecting this part. It's all wound up in healthy tissue, right up against the motor cortex. A wrong move could cause permanent damage."

Dr. Riley doesn't move. Instead, his blank stare flicks down to the surgical site, digesting the truth for himself. The anesthesiologist beside you holds her breath. You wish you had it in you to do the same, but your lungs already wheeze for oxygen as it is.

Somewhere, dim and timid in the recesses of your mind, it occurs to you that this isn't normal. No attending should actively foster an environment where help is punished, especially not while being paid a hefty salary to do exactly that. A dour attitude is one thing – everyone has their days – but you know nurses with greater burdens that boast smiles and little stickers on their ID badges, running on three hours sleep while dealing with bedpans and lewd comments all day. Your search for guidance, then, is certainly not the worst thing in the world.

(No matter how stern the look he gives you is.)

"You need to make a decision. Hesitation in the OR can be just as fatal."

Great load of good that does.

But it was to be expected. Pre-op, you sat down with him to discuss the acceptable margins, and got as much out of that conversation as you did this one. Review the imaging. You've been given the functional mapping for a reason. Never mind that it was standard procedure to check-in regardless; he handles you like you're a child playing dress-up, waving around tools too complex for your grubby hands to operate. Asking him anything is validating what he believes, like kindling wood into a roaring fire. Your mouth smacks to the taste of ash.

The discoloured mass growing off your patient's brain seems to glare back at you. Ugly, yellow, and stained in a coating of blood, severed from its sisters that now lay dead on an adjacent table. It kills you to let it stick, to progress to hemostasis with an increased risk of recurrence. Should this individual ever come in again, their pain would be on your hands – a real possibility you cannot reckon with, for all you know how devastating a toll it would have. The last time it happened, you promised yourself you would never allow it again.

(A mistake that even the greenest of medical students know not to make. Promises are null in this field. They'll blow out like bad tattoos, ink smudged under skin. Patients die, families grieve, doctor's bear the guilt – to fool anyone about it would be doing a greater disservice. Conciliation is not your job. It is not a duty you owe.

Not even to yourself.)

"I… I think we should stop here to avoid any potential issues." You resolve, lips pursed painfully tight. Your hands shake, bullet of emotion ricocheting within your ribs. Your nerves are shot, you tell yourself. It'll take time to compose them, time you don't have. Better to shelf this, then. You're doing the right thing by wrapping it neatly for another day, if that day should ever come.

Dr. Riley huffs.

Or, not.

"CUSA," He clips to the scrub nurse, who shakes as they place the tool into his impatient hand. It's all you can do to watch in horror as your attending commandeers your case, addressing the portion of concern with offensive expertise. The activity on the neuronavigation doesn't so much as blink as he emulsifies the target tissue, tumored cells dissociating from the surrounding matter like butter.

And it isn't a learning opportunity – hardly anything at all when he washes the area in saline solution, manoeuvre over as quickly as it started. Instead, your attention sticks to the casual disrespect he felt was necessary. Snubbing your insight like it was dirt beneath his shoes, too competent to even address your error with words. Humiliation rips like a wave up your neck, washing your ears and cheeks in balmy warmth. Underneath it all, settled like wet sand on the shore, you find that it is not your bruised ego that's left, but rather a wilder, darker thing.

Shame at having failed him.

(How obnoxiously redundant.)

"Think you can manage the duraplasty, Doctor?" Derision distorts his expression into something crueller than his usual indifference. You hate to think it suits him.

"Yes."

It's only an hour later that you're granted the chance to break down.

After wound closure, scrubbing out and postoperative discussions with the patient's family, you think you'd have moved on. Things like this happen – it's what necessitates post-graduate training in the first place – and you're certainly not irredeemable for having faltered on the line. At least, that's what the logic delineates. It mutters its assurances like dogma in your head, insisting that because it is rational, it is right. Any other day, you would be inclined to listen to it.

But that's the thing about being strung out beyond measure. The only sentiment with teeth, sharp and stubborn, is anguish. Indignity. Self-turned anger. You replay the scene like something new will come of it, a silver lining or a divot to pin the blame in anything but yourself. The scalp staples back into place, the dressings wrapped tight. The hibiclens soap lathers up to your elbows, your skin itchy as it dries. The family is thankful, little tears dotting their eyes. The storm passes, waters rippling into quiet calm. And still–

In the wake of it all, you're irrevocably changed. Raw.

There's a little closet for occasions like these. You're relieved to find it empty, void of anything but rusted buckets and mildewed mops. It's a welcome crowd, certainly, borderline claustrophobic compared to the wide floors of the OR, and you sink to the floors within the tight, comforting embrace. Immediately, hot tears spring to your eyes, rabbit heart racing along hollowed ribs. Emotion rushes your throat, tumultuous and messy, piling half-formed grievances on top of one another until they form an intricate, prodigious beast.

Impossible to tackle, worse to tame.

Could you have done anything different?

Is there a reason why he hates you?

Are you cut out for this?

Is this worth never getting a good night's rest?

Do you deserve any of the opportunities you've been given?

Would they be better off in the hands of someone more competent?

No answer claims any. Unresolved, they wriggle underneath your flesh, feeding on the muscle keeping you intact. Tunnelling through your marrow, soft matter fattening them up. You feel as though you're shifting to accommodate them, anatomy morphing into an ugly sack of dermis and maggots. True reflection of a degraded conceit.

The dark, at least, remains omnipresent. Clean against your skin, or purifying, in some odd way. If there is no witness to your misery, then perhaps you can pretend it doesn't exist. That it doesn't affect you as much as it does, or how you won't be thinking of it during every case to come–

A knock rattles you out of your reasoning.

"Hey." Kyle's voice is soft on the other side of the door.

You make your best effort to wipe the wetness from your cheeks, warbling a quiet come in to your chief resident. Fluorescent light intercedes on your little sanctum, spotlighting your crumpled frame. The pitying grimace that twists his face is enough indication that you did not do a good job at hiding your affliction. You must look pathetic.

"We missed you at lunch."

"Wasn't hungry." You sniff, taking his hand to pull yourself up.

"That bad, huh?"

"Worse than you could've prepared me for."

He snickers. It alleviates some of the weight off your chest, this. Conversation to remind yourself that there is more to the world than your angst.

(Only some.)

"It'll get easier, I promise. He's harsher on the juniors."

"I think that's not for you to say. Tell me, has there ever been a superior who didn't absolutely adore you?" Your voice sobers to a close resemblance of Laswell's. "Good work on the diagnosis, Dr. Garrick. I'll admit, I wouldn't have caught that myself."

The man in question lightly shoves your arm, wrinkling his nose in distaste. "Okay, hush. I get it. Still–"

"You don't have to do this, you know." You smile until it gets too much to sustain, then turn to gather your white coat from behind the front desk. The note of positivity his companionship brings is fickle. Appreciated, but not enough to balm the sore blisters of Dr. Riley's rebuff. That'll take the weekend, likely, holed up in your room with nothing but a cuppa and old How I Met Your Mother reruns. "I'm fine, really. I'd rather just continue about my rounds and forget he exists."

But Kyle sighs. Sighs, and bites his cheek in that same way he does when he has to deliver bad news to intakes.

You blanch. "Don't–"

"He came looking for you in the mess hall. Something about the report." The unsteady composure you've built within yourself immediately dissipates, as though it were nothing more than an absorbable stitch. "You know better than to skip out on post-op briefs."

Your voice is weak when you speak again. Breathless. "I'm sorry."

"I don't blame you, darl. But he wants to see you in his office, now." Kyle's face is sympathetic. It doesn't do you much good. "I'll cover your rounds in the meantime."

"Thanks."

And despite your true gratitude, the words ring as empty.

"Sit."

Like a marionette suspended on string, you do as you're told.

Dr. Riley's office is barren of any personal adornment, cast in the same austere template initially given to him. There's a leather couch tucked prim under the window, throw pillow flat on one end. A wire file organiser sits atop his desk, papers fighting for space between the flimsy bookmarks. Pens in a cup, a stapler by his keyboard. All ordinary, inconclusive belongings, that which you sift through like a ravenous creature, slobbering for clues at the life your attending leads.

Ironically, the one thing that offers any inference is an empty photo frame, faced towards the rest of the room, away from him.

You don't like the uncomfortable feeling it inflicts.

"The family." He levels a bored look to you, that which hardens the longer you take to address his ambiguous question. In the harsh lights of the operating room, his eyes looked nearly black. Now, sunlight paints a clearer picture. Taupe and sepia, flecks of various browns brightened by the pale blue underline of his mask. "Doctor."

Floundering, you search for the clouded memory of your discussion with the patient's relatives. It ripples, faintly, between your revels in self-pity. If you needed any censure of your disordered priorities, that is surely enough.

(Funny how he continues to criticise you, even unintentionally.)

"Good. Hopeful. I told them you managed to resect the entire thing, and detailed the plan going forward." It's as though your hands are compelled to move by electric shock, charged full of destructive energy. You rub your face, twiddle your thumbs, scratch the armrests of your chair; trying any measure to defuse the bomb you feel ticking beneath your chest. "They give their thanks."

All the while, he remains steady before you.

A moment of tense silence clears. "I just submitted the operation report." He says, derailing the conversation to what you suspect has always been its purpose. "I mentioned your inability to close the surgery."

You damn near choke on your spit. He notices, of course, and raises a challenging brow.

"I- I'm sorry, but that isn't what... I was perfectly able to complete it." Your protest carries none of the strength you will it to. As is always the case around him, you're made to sound like a defiant student, instead. Pouting and stomping your foot, inflating your strict sense of justice to an occasion that does not call for it.

"Oh?" You know you're not crazy for thinking that way, either. He speaks in faux conciliatory tones, brows knitting together as his argument waters down to one he thinks you can digest. "Would you rather I have said you refused, then?"

You shake your head, staring down at your lap. You really, really don't want to be here. Is it worth it, then? To stand your ground when the worst that will come of his misstatement is an inquiry from above? The strength has long since left you. Now, it is a matter of bloodletting. Leeching the struggle before it festers into something greater, a malady you cannot control.

"No."

"Make up your mind, Doctor." He hums, grabbing a protein bar from his drawer before standing. He doesn't have to round his desk to tower over you, but he does. Heat radiates off him in waves, blushing your neck so that when you look up at him, owlish, your face flares with stockpiled fervor.

You wonder if it could be read as desire.

"You know best." Shutting down has never been so disencumbering. Acquiescence, upending an ivory flag with the knowledge that you don't have to bleed any longer.

His lashes flutter. When you blink, they seem closer than they were before.

"That's right." Dr. Riley practically fucking purrs, chest rumbling thoughtfully at your chosen response. A pressure settles between your legs, bloating desperately into that bundle of nerves that inhibits all reason. "So next time, if you have a problem with the way I do things, you'll address it to me directly instead of snivelling like a bloody prat. That way, maybe I'll explain it to you, too."

A nod is not enough.

"Yes, Dr. Riley."

He cocks his head, fiddling with the wrapping in his hands. His fingers are scarred, brutish, though they tear the foil with all the precision in the world. Your acceptance does not feel nearly as final, expectation thickening the space between you. The title startles to your tongue, then. Novel. Unsure. You haven't called anyone it since secondary. You do not know whether he'll take to it kindly at all.

"Yes, sir."

But his eyes crinkle at the corners, pleased, and it more than fills the hole he harrowed out from you earlier. Your reaction to the approval should be documented, given a name and listed somewhere on the DSM-5.

(Nothing about it feels healthy.)

"Good." He pushes off the edge of his desk, tapping a knuckle to your chin. Instinctively, you open your mouth. The protein bar fits between your teeth, pasty and dry, but his pulse vibrates near your lips and–

You bite down anyway.

(But oh, does it feel good.)

[masterlist]

[starwarsaddiction]

I’m so tired of this fandom not being able to tell the difference between attachment and love

There is a difference and it’s a good thing to tell what it is in real life too, because attachment is dangerous in real life relationships as well. It’s something that GL tells in all his interviews, and the idea is teached in a lot of religions and philosophies from around the world. Please, try reading something from zen and buddhism, if you want to find real references to what GL means, because he took them directely from there. 

Never in canon is stated that jedis can’t love. They can and they actually do love a lot. Just because it’s not romantic love it doesn’t mean they don’t love. 

I’ve already said it, romantic love is way overrated and romanticized in fandoms in general, and often if two characters show a MINIMUM AMOUNT of connection and feelings OMG THEY ARE IN LOVE. 

it saddens me because i’m a demi, and i have lived a great part of my life perfectly fine without a romantic partner, and I’ve felt found families and friendships as much as fulfilling as romantic love. 

And attachment is not love. It’s greed. It’s possession, it’s lack of trust in the other that will love you back if you are not constantly in your lover presence. It’s a terrible thing, that more often than not leads to abuse and pain. It means that you think that something terrible is going to happen to your SO if you don’t control everything, that they won’t love you back, that your feelings are more important than theirs and their well being. 

That is the difference, and that’s what Obi-Wan and the entire Jedi Order are full aware. They try to tell Anakin the difference, it’s easy to see how much Obi-Wan cares for him, without telling explicitly that he loves him, and either Obi-Wan and the Order don’t have an issue with that. They warn him, and each other, not to be blinded by love, to let go of possessiveness, that is the bad thing. Thinking that the other one owes you something back because you love them and that only you can solve everything because of that love. 

Love doesn’t work that way. It’s a dangerous path to take in real life too, it’s micromanaging someone else’s life just to keep them safe, and it’s abuse. When Anakin freaks out about his visions of the future where he sees Padme dying of childbirth, he doesn’t even try to find real help, he scarcely explains to others that he had obscure visions of death of someone he loves and his first thought is “how can I solve this, how can I prevent this”. Kids, ask doctors, ask your wife to do some checkup, trust others to help you and talk clearly about your feelings. The thing is, he doesn’t trust anybody else apart from Palpatine, who has worked so well in grooming him, in letting him believe his childish resentment about being pull apart and taken back, instead of being glorified for a potential that has not still reached real greatness. Because he has this immense talent, in the Force, it doesn’t immediately mean he’s great. It’s like having the immense talent of mozart and just playing commercial tunes, it’s not all you can achieve, and Anakin doesn’t want to really commit to improve himself because it’s long and tyring. And this, added to his misunderstanding of the real nature of love, leads to his failure, to all the bad choices he made that will end with his fall from grace into the dark side. 

It’s not love, his failure, it’s that he doesn’t love, he want to possess and control love. But he can’t, and a cunning sith like Sidious can play his feelings like a toy because he exploit the side of Anakin that is still a scared child, unable to rationalize his feelings despite all that the Jedi Order had tried to teach and effectively shown him during his years of training. 

and one last thing.

you really want to see how a character who is forbidden to love and show any kind of emotion is done? search in star trek, his name is Spok. That what real emotion supression looks like. 

[fifteenleads]

Scientific Method: a process that uses evidence and testing to investigate the unknown, usually following a set of steps in order to arrive at a conclusion.

(Way too tedious. And boring. And so unlike Dazai.)

— An SKK Gakuen AU.

Step One: Make observations.

Most treat it like a "Step Zero", though, to their teacher's dismay. An era of results and instant gratification guarantees zero patience for things that take time.

Chuuya's guilty as charged, of course.

In any case, Dazai is being annoying, as usual.

"Stop blowing raspberries into my ear," he hisses, ducking under his textbook. "It's disgusting as hell."

"Did not," Dazai singsongs in English to the tune of his annoying ringtone. How he manages to even carry a tune despite the bubblegum idol pop blasting from his huge headphones is a mystery, indeed.

Chuuya rolls his eyes at that. "Did, too." He lightly kicks Dazai's leg to get his attention. "Seriously, listen to me. This is important."

Dazai seems to have read his lips, pausing his iPod and taking his headphones off with an annoyed sigh. "What, chibi?"

Ugh, that's definitely intentional.

Chuuya lets that insult slide for now. "I need the budget for the props ASAP," he huffs, arms crossed. "The school festival is already next week, you know."

Five days, to be precise, but Dazai still acts like they still have five weeks. "Ask Higuchi to do it," he drawls, lazily waving Chuuya away. "We still have 120 hours, don't we?"

Dazai turns to him, raising an eye expectantly. Damn him and his lack of sense of urgency sometimes.

That said, though, he always manages to get shit done in time. Every single time, without fail. And Chuuya, in turn, is always baffled at how he does it, every single time.

Today he finds himself asking the same thing all over again. Ugh.

Dazai's still waiting for an answer.

Chuuya's way too tired for this. "120 and counting down," he answers in kind to prove his point. "I need to submit it by today, in case you forgot."

"Higuchi will do it," Dazai simply repeats, wearing his headphones again. "Come back here when you're done. I'll wait for you."

Chuuya opens his mouth, then closes it again. Inhale, exhale. Better.

"Fine," he relents for now, arranging his things. "You'd better still be awake, or I'll dropkick your bony ass to tomorrow. Got it?"

He only gets the same lazy wave in response as he leaves.

When Chuuya comes back to the classroom an hour later, Dazai is fast asleep at his desk, headphones awkwardly displaced around his face.

To be fair, Dazai never said yes at all.

Chuuya could only scratch his head at that. This is one mystery he doesn't feel like solving at all.

.

Step Two: Ask a question.

Easier said than done, really.

They've been seatmates for more than a year and co-class reps for half that time, but that's about it.

Chuuya had cursed his luck to high heaven and back, and Dazai knew it. Reveled in it, even.

Then he got used to it.

He prides himself in being a good team player for the most part, if nothing else. That said, though, this is the first major event they are handling together, and the weight of the responsibility isn't lost on him.

"—Oiiii. Earth to Chuuya?"

Dazai is staring holes into him, pointed nose a mere fingerbreadth from his. He quickly backs away in surprise, sending the stack of paperwork flying to the ground.

Dazai seemed to have expected this somehow, and he sinks back into his seat while breaking into an amused chuckle.

Chuuya slowly puts up a hand to his face, surely an embarrassing flush of red by now. This is what he gets for getting caught off-guard.

The meeting continues where it left off, with Dazai rattling off a string of numbers while Higuchi notes down everything. Luckily, no one else said anything anymore.

Chuuya's still in his own headspace as he walks home alone, having managed to successfully ditch Dazai for once. He stops at a vending machine for a can of iced coffee, since he'll be pulling another all-nighter.

He gets the hazelnut-flavored one by mistake. A reflex, really.

Downing it in one go, Chuuya grimaces at the nutty aftertaste at the back of his throat. He still doesn't see what Dazai likes about it.

That being said.

Since when has he been this preoccupied with thoughts of Dazai?

"Ever since," a voice from the back of his head whispers.

Chuuya feels his face heat up again at the thought. Traitor.

Maybe he's still only flustered about earlier. He also hasn't slept enough the past days. Also stress from festival prep.

Or, he's only confused. Yup, that's definitely it.

That instantly makes him feel better.

.

Step Three: Formulate a hypothesis.

1. Dazai's annoying.    2. Dazai's very annoying.    3. Dazai's very, very annoying.

This one goes into the wastebasket, of course— as if he didn't already know that.

Chuuya's eyes trail to Dazai as he reads aloud a paragraph from the textbook.

It gets increasingly difficult to follow along with the lesson at hand when he's absolutely distracted by that rich, warm voice, carefully enunciating each word in the passage.

"Thank you, Dazai-kun," the teacher nods in satisfaction. "You may sit down."

As Dazai takes his seat, he turns his gaze ever so slightly in Chuuya's direction and their eyes briefly meet.

No sparks fly in all directions, but Chuuya feels a faint jolt of electricity run from his chest outward to every inch of his body.

Then Dazai smirks— the bastard.

1. He's definitely riling me up.

Dazai's smug face lasts only for a fraction of a second before it reverts back to one of disinterest.

Chuuya definitely knows better, though: from the dip of his eyebrows to the twitching of the corner of his lip.

2. He can be serious as hell.

Chuuya ends up mulling over his list through last period. He doesn't notice that class is over until Dazai sneaks up on him and quickly blows into his ear.

"Argh— goddamnit Dazai, every single time!"

Dazai sticks out his tongue in response. "That's for ditching me yesterday."

Chuuya groans in disbelief. Petty much?

He will never understand what he even sees in Dazai at all, at this rate.

Surprisingly, the very thought does the trick for him, and he takes note of it in his notebook at once.

"What's that?" Dazai attempts to peek over his shoulder, but Chuuya manages to evade him, snapping the notebook shut and glaring at him. "None of your business."

It only makes Dazai laugh. "Fine, then. I'll find out by next week."

"Is Nakahara here?" Kunikida from the next class calls from outside. Oh yeah, meeting.

"Gotta go," he excuses himself, half-relieved.

And that was that— for now.

Chuuya doesn't look at the third item on his new list until he's home. It's... strange and vague and unlikely as hell, but there it is anyway, in bold, red ink:

3. This might be a crush (???)

.

Step Three-point-five: Refine the hypothesis.

This is absurd, Chuuya thinks.

He's taken to scribbling his thoughts on a dog-eared spare notebook, since Googling "Do I have a crush on my classmate" was evidently useless.

The result ended up looking like a conspiracy map. Ugh.

Chuuya considers his three-and-a-half pages of chicken scratch before tearing them off.

It feels like he's dug himself into a hole at this point. Not that he minds staying in it, if it means he doesn't have to see Dazai tomorrow.

School festival's tomorrow, though.

Double ugh.

Chuuya honestly thought he was already too old for this shit. No, really.

Now his 15-year-old palpitating... red organ thing is laughing at him for it.

(He still chugs the rest of his coffee anyway. Mmm.)

Running won't solve anything, Nakahara.

Inhale, exhale.

Back to work:

H0 (null): He doesn't have a crush on Dazai. H1 (alternative): He has a crush on Dazai.

There, much more... straightforward.

Dazai would probably laugh at him for misusing a stat concept like this, but it serves his purpose just fine. It's not like he'll find out anyway.

It's one or the other.

(He'd have to decide sooner or later, anyway. Best to strike while the iron is hot.)

.

Step Four: Gather data.

(Because there's no time to experiment.)

It's only Day One, but micromanaging proves to be more challenging than expected. It comes with being second-in-command though, so Chuuya takes it all in stride.

Dazai, on the other hand, is on his phone, mindlessly scrolling and tapping and humming to himself between listening to the team's reports and ordering everyone else around.

Magnificent bastard's a born leader.

Chuuya peeks at his own phone; stopwatch app's still running

Dazai's been on his mind for... 6 hours now.

(No, really. Despite all the chaos. Yes, he's been keeping track.)

Others:

1. They've been using the same shampoo. The smell of activated charcoal has never been this alluring.    2. They think in the same way, apparently. Higuchi of all people had noticed. "You realized just now?"

And... And!...

3. They've been sharing breakfast for a year now. Bites out of the same bread, gulps from the same bottle of water, the works.

It makes Chuuya run for the nearest faucet to scrub off the blush on his face.

He's only left with cat-scratch nail marks and a soaking wet shirt for it, so clearly he shouldn't have bothered.

Welcome to adolescence.

Dazai is mildly amused when Chuuya returns to the classroom. "Had fun, chibi?"

No thanks to you, stupid beanpole.

Day Two isn't any different, but they're more used to the work by then, so they manage to close up much earlier.

Chuuya and Dazai are the last to leave the classroom, having finished the stocks inventory for Day 3 while everyone else went to enjoy the festival.

It's five PM.

"Ah, freedom!" Dazai yawns loudly as he says this, stretching his arms upward before swinging them around.

Chuuya ducks to the side to avoid getting hit. "Ugh, watch it!"

To his credit, Dazai drops his arms back at once. "Oh. Sorry."

He adds a smile to that. It's beautiful.

How hadn't he noticed that before?

The early sunset bathes the corridor in pale red-orange, as well as their white polo shirts. Dazai's messy hair seems to shine, too, if anything.

Chuuya's reaching up to touch it before he realizes. Greasy but soft.

Also: "You have freckles."

Dazai's confused at the sudden contact. He doesn't withdraw, though. "You, too." A smile. "Faint ones, as small as you are, across your nose."

Then he leans in and traces the cat-scratch marks on Chuuya's cheeks. "You've been distracted since last week. What happened?"

.

Step Five: Analyze the data.

Step Six: Draw a conclusion.

Step Seven: Share your findings.

...

Wait, wait, wait.

The moment feels like a jolt of electricity and the numbness after, and then some. Those who said people short-circuit were onto something, after all.

Chuuya doesn't register anything for the entire minute Dazai shakes him back to reality.

Then something wet goes into his ear.

He lets out an unholy screech right there and then, instinctively covering his ear in disgust. Dazai, too, has a finger in both of his, face contorted into something between a wince and a grin.

A beat.

Two more.

And Chuuya laughs his head off. He doesn't know anymore.

Dazai does, too, and they devolve into a pair of crazy hyenas— not that anyone would notice.

It's only a good five minutes later that they catch their breath, slumped on the wall, leaning into each other for support.

"You okay now?" Dazai asks him, still trying not to laugh.

Chuuya only huffs loudly in reply. Dazai takes it as a yes.

"Now that that's out of our system,"— and he goes back to business mode— "will you tell me what's going on?"

Hypothesis 2: Dazai can be serious at times.

(He has always been, though.

Chuuya only refused to see it.)

The next thing he knows, their faces are too close for comfort.

Chuuya takes a nervous gulp. It felt more like gasping for air, the way Dazai frowns at him for it.

Hypothesis 1: Dazai likes to rile him up.

(Maybe? Why, though?

Now he's not so sure anymore.)

Maybe it would be wiser to just forget it. This only happened because he overthought many things.

There's still time to back out.

Dazai won't let him, though, if the intense glare he has on now is any indication.

Inhale, exhale.

Moment of truth:

"Here's the deal" Chuuya starts, momentarily avoiding Dazai's gaze as he finds the right words to say. "We've worked together for so long now. And yes, I still think you're annoying as hell."

Dazai merely hums at that, as if he were expecting it. He doesn't say anything, though.

"A lot of times, though, you pull through. Get things done— magnificently at that. I really don't know how you do it, sometimes.

"The past week made me think about these things. Maybe even earlier than that. Who knows? Does it even matter?

"In any case, I realized something."

By now, the sunset is as deep red as his cheeks, and he feels himself burning up inside.

(Running now won't solve anything.

One or the other.)

Chuuya meets Dazai's eyes.

It's now or never.

"I like you," he says with finality. "And that's all you're getting out of me for now."

Chuuya lets out another huff to prove his point, and holds his breath. And waits.

A beat.

Two more.

It's Dazai who sighs in relief.

And what a sight to behold: his lithe form slumping forward against Chuuya's, the tension in his muscles dissipating with the remnants of the afternoon heat.

"Whew," Dazai finally manages after a while, "you finally said it."

"... Huh?"

"I told you, right? I'll find out soon."

"You didn't read my notes."

"Of course not," Dazai laughs. "You /were/ mumbling a little too loud to yourself these days, though. It was easy to piece things together."

Ugh.

Chuuya rubs at his temples. If only he has something to chuck into Dazai's face right now.

It doesn't explain Dazai's exaggerated reaction just now, though...which he isn't at all trying to cover up, unlike all the times he played pranks before. Unless..

...Oh.

It takes Chuuya only a moment: "You—"

"Yeah," Dazai breathes out. "And that's all you're getting from me, too."

No problems there. Chuuya likes straightforward people.

He still headbutts Dazai for it, though. "Payback," he says simply before he hears complaints.

"Fair enough," Dazai mutters under his breath. "We even now?"

"Yeah."

A bit anticlimactic, all things considered, but Chuuya finds he likes it, too.

Now that that's out of his system, though... "Now what?"

It's a pretty loaded question, and they both know it. No one just suddenly admits and enters into... whatever this is, without a plan.

Dazai stares back, just as cluelessly— but not for long: "I think I know what."

Chuuya decides he still doesn't like that grin at all.

"Remember the lab primer in science? There's a certain procedure we follow to investigate what we don't know."

This time, it's Chuuya who slumps. Good lord.

.

Step Eight: Start over.

.

.

.

For Kiro.

[forkanna]

[AO3 LINK] [EF LINK]

NOTE: More sensuality. Dry-humping.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Some time around five in the morning, Anna gave up on sleep completely. Sidling over to Elsa's desk, she 'borrowed' a piece of paper and a pencil. She wasn't going to get any more sleep, so she may as well use the time to plan.

Kristoff. Elsa had to fall for Kristoff, not her. They had to get married and have kids – and maybe when Anna was back in her own time she could try and help fix their relationship then, too. However, she had to figure out how to make all of this happen without screwing everything up as badly as she had been so far or she would never get the chance.

So by the time she made it to Kristoff's that morning, seeing that he was up early and doing the family laundry, she had something a little more concrete to work with. About the only plan she could see that would do the trick. The problem seemed to be that Anna was "cool" and appealing, and Kristoff was just boring in a relative sense. Maybe she couldn't exactly make herself less attractive to her young mother, nor could she make Elsa purebred-hetero, but she had a possible solution to put her dad back in the running.

"Alright, walk me through this again," he sighed as he tossed in the dryer sheet. "You're going to the dance with her, but she's going to end up with me? That's doesn't make sense."

"It's just a backup plan, Dad. Uh… I mean, rad. I mean, that doesn't make any sense, either." Shaking out her head, she tried to push through and cut to the chase. "You can still ask her during the party, but if it doesn't work, I think you sailing in like Batman will make her notice you."

Nodding, he slammed the door and it started tumbling their clothes. "Fine, fine," he sighed as he turned back to the basket, picking out a few clothes to toss in the washer. "And I do love Adam West. But the part I don't get is, how am I saving her from you? I mean, she's your friend."

'Oh, honey,' she thought. He was looking at her with an expression almost as naïve as his words. "Well…" Clearing her throat, she turned away. "Elsa's a sweet girl. Nervous and kinda delicate. So when I get a little rough with her… she'll want someone to save her from that."

"Rough how?"

"Handsy." When Kristoff was still just blinking at her, she went on, "Come on, not even you can be this dense! I'm gonna take advantage of her!"

"WHAT?! You mean you're gonna touch her on her, her…" As he gesticulated, Anna winced to see that her paternal grandmother's bra was in one of his hands. "But you're both girls! A-and- ohhh, what the hell?!"

"Kristoff, calm down!" Taking the bra from him, she tossed it into the washer and tried to ignore how red his face was getting. Probably a lot like her own. "It's just an act! Besides, if you stick to the schedule, I won't even get any further than pushing her down and looking at her funny, right? Just enough to make her worried, and for you to look like the hero."

He still looked incredibly unsure, but at least he wasn't arguing anymore. Still, she knew what he was thinking because she was thinking it, too.

"Look," she sighed, somewhat morosely. "I'm not going to hurt her for real. I promise. Like you said, she's my friend, and… and I care about her a lot. So chill."

Finally, he smiled. It was a little weak and lopsided, but hey, it was there. The moment was broken when the dryer gave a particularly loud thunk. Kristoff jumped; Anna shrieked. For a moment, the only noise was the sound of the machine, cheerfully chugging along.

Then Kristoff started laughing. Heart still thundering in her chest, Anna could only glare at him for a few moments. His face was redder than before, face screwed up in mirth. Were those tears in his eyes? But then he didn't stop. Every time his laughter slowed, all he had to do was look at Anna and it renewed. Soon she was giggling along with him. Slowly her irritation was replaced with something else: a feeling of camaraderie – foreign, much like most of the positive emotions she'd experienced in relation to her father thus far had been – overcame her.

"C'mon, dude," she said between hiccups of laughter. "It's not that funny!"

Kristoff disagreed. "You didn't- didn't see your face!" he chuckled.

It took more genuine effort than she expected, but eventually Anna did get her giggles under control. They parted company, confident of their two-fold plan. First, they would try to help Kristoff "schmooze" his way into Elsa's heart at the party itself. Then, if that earned them no progress, she would go through with Plan B. Given that they both seemed to loathe it, Anna could only hope that Kristoff would be successful.

                                          ~ o ~

The day of the party, Elsa started passing out her future address to all of her friends and close acquaintances. Not that she knew that's what it was; only that it was an empty space in which to arrange a bash. She was able to talk Al into helping to get together some of the essentials, and he promised he'd grab some of his teammates for the task. Everything was shaping up great.

Meanwhile, Anna had wheedled a little more cash out of Doc for two more outfits: a party outfit, and a prom dress. The fuchsia mini skirt and fishnet leggings made her feel stupid, almost as much as the denim vest over the black long-sleeve button-up, but she knew everybody else would be wearing similar fashion disasters. She just had to grin and bear it.

"You excited?" she hissed to Elsa as they were getting ready to leave the school. She was a little sad; this would be her last 'school day' with her. Weird as everything had been, she would definitely miss seeing this part of her mother's life.

"I wanna hurl, dude," Elsa confessed with a shaky sigh. "This is the first real party I've ever kinda-sorta thrown myself. It has to be bad, or I'll be a bogus bimbo from now until graduation."

"Those are a lot of B-words." Suppressing the worry that this would cause a resurgence of the urges from the night before, Anna linked her arm with Elsa's as they headed to Ariel's shiny Nova. It wasn't a great car overall, but at least it was fairly new, and she had the use of it most days.

"Oh… hey," Elsa breathed, glancing down at their arms and then back up at Anna's face.

"We got this."

"We got what?" she asked. Anna could kick herself for lapsing with the lingo so often. "O-oh, you mean the party? Yeah, I'm sure it'll be tubular. Or… reasonably sure."

"It's gonna be amazing," Anna insisted. "Everybody's gonna have fun tonight. The key is to let them have their own fun – no micromanaging!"

Elsa merely nodded her head. Honestly, it wasn't something Anna was overly concerned about. There was gonna be some food and soda and apparently Elsa had some 'really neat tunes, totally not square'. She had no idea why her mother was so stressed.

"You're coming, right?"

Oh. That may be why she was worried. Keeping her frown to herself, Anna nodded. "Yeah! Gotta make sure no one messes up your little shindig."

"Shindig?" she snorted, eyes alight. "What is this, the 50s? Who even says that anymore?"

"I do!" Anna defended. Elsa shook her head, a smile still playing at her lips, but she said nothing more.

They walked the rest of the way in silence, each seemingly having no idea how to continue the conversation. It was only when they neared Elsa's friends that she spoke.

"Thank you, Tori," she said honestly. Sincerely. "For all you've done."

"Ahhh, it was nothing." Anna tried to play it cool, but obviously wasn't doing too well. Not when Elsa paused in her steps to face Anna fully. "Hey," she said softly. "What brought this on?"

Elsa shrugged and didn't say anything for a moment. "I just…" she began. "I just get the feeling you're going to be leaving soon, so..."

"What? Oh… well, yeah, probably am." How did she know she was leaving? Still, she had to do better. "Definitely am. Gotta head home, y'know?"

"Right! So I wanted to tell you in case I don't get the chance or- or in case something changes." Change? What could change? Anna's mouth was already open and primed to ask when Elsa interrupted. "So thank you, Victoria."

"Well… I'm… okay." She decided not to fight Elsa on that, since she really wasn't exactly sure what she would be fighting against. In truth, if they hadn't already technically crossed lines, hadn't masturbated next to each other, she probably would have leaned up to kiss her on the cheek – to reassure her. Instead, she merely squeezed her bicep. "You're welcome. But you honestly don't have to thank me; I just think you're a… rad chick and want to help you out."

"After what happened, I'm not sure I deserve that," she sighed as they got closer to the car.

"What do you mean?" But Elsa didn't answer. They were too close to Ariel now, which Anna understood… but she still had to wonder what Elsa had been going to say. Did she completely blame herself for their straying over the line and into the Danger Zone? That wasn't fair.

"Ready to crank this party to eleven?!" Ariel was asking them, blotting out the rest of Anna's inner musings. Along with her, Elsa and Jasmine immediately cried out in unison "IT GOES TO ELEVEN?!" and Anna could only shake her head and laugh, wondering where this wonderfully ridiculous version of her mother had gone.

                                          ~ o ~

A few hours later, they had the model home as tricked out as it could possibly be. Somewhere, they had dug up an actual deejay, and he brought a crate full of the best early-80s new wave and rock hits. Even a little disco, despite how most of them rolled their eyes to see the 'Saturday Night Fever' soundtrack amongst his selection.

They also grabbed a few folding chairs and added them to the plain, boring couch and armchair that had been in the living room. There was no TV – or rather, the one in there was just a cardboard display to give the impression of an actual TV – but they didn't really need one. They quickly set up a drink and snack station in the dining room, and put out bowls of chips and some dip on the coffee table so there would be more than one place to grab food.

"Looks good so far," Jazz was saying as she looked around at their work. "Wish we had more Pepsi Free, and more Coke Classic than New Coke…"

"Well the New Coke was on sale," Ariel said. "We're not exactly millionaires."

"Well, Al is bringing some supplies, too," Elsa reasoned, "So we're probably gonna be set no matter what." She was currently rearranging the table, making sure they had enough coolers full of ice – and enough room in them – for the various drinks. She was nervous and scared of failing, that much was obvious.

"So, who's coming?" Anna asked. Ariel and Jazz were, bless their souls, entirely unhelpful. Jazz could only name one person – "Al!" – and Ariel gave a shrug.

"Word probably passed around the school," Elsa said. "Have you never thrown a party before?" They all turned to Anna.

"Oh, heh, well, not exactly. Where I'm from parties tend to be a little… different." She'd been invited to them, of course. After the first one she'd never gone again. Parties were loud and obnoxious things. When someone inevitably brought out the alcohol, she added 'scary' to that list. Drunk people were scary. And most seemed not to realise what it did to them, what it turned them into – both in the short term, and in the long term.

Realising that she'd been staring at Elsa as those thoughts swirled in her head, Anna shook her head. "I guess I'm just not a huge party girl," she said.

At first, Elsa and her friends laughed a little. Then when she realised Anna wasn't joking, the blonde leaned in a little closer. "Wait… are you serious? But you're the coolest girl I know!"

"Maybe… sobriety is cooler?" When they only stared, she wilted and mumbled, "Yeah okay, didn't expect that one to work. But for real, I'm just not much of a drinker, sorry."

Of course, that would be the exact moment Al and his posse showed up with the keg and a couple bottles of harder liquor. Anna swallowed her disappointment and helped them set up, getting everything ready and appointing one of the jocks – some giant beefcake who called himself "Herc" – as the one to watch the table and make sure nobody drank themselves stupid. Not that she really trusted him to do that.

Around the time the first few guests began to show up, Elsa took Anna aside and whispered, "Why are you doing all this?"

"Huh?"

"This party. If you're not a partier, then why would you go to all this trouble to help set one up?"

Her thoughts went to Kristoff, who was probably trying to parallel park outside as they spoke. "Oh… just trying to be a good friend, I guess."

"Ah. Well, I want you to know I appreciate-" But that was as far as she got before she was being dragged away by Ariel to help greet and mingle. That was just as well, since it gave Anna an excuse to head for the refreshments and grab herself some caffeine.

She was also hoping to run across Kristoff. She'd told him to be early – "but not too early!" – but so far she hadn't seen hide nor hair of him. Twenty minutes later, by the time the party was getting into full swing, he still hadn't arrived.

A little irritated at his lack of punctuality, she made her way out the front of the house. There were kids strewn everywhere. It wasn't too bad yet – no one was truly drunk, which was nice. And down the street a little, still close enough to be visible in the light, was a familiar face.

"Kristoff!" Anna called, jogging towards him. He gave a start, and lifted a hand in a wave, but he didn't move forward to meet her. So that was the first thing she asked him about. "What the hell? Why aren't you in there yet?"

Looking away, he mumbled some pathetic excuse. Something about not being wanted at the party, an "I'm sure Elsa doesn't want me here." But this was the same old self-esteem issue, so Anna punched him in the shoulder. Not enough to hurt, but enough to make him flinch and look up.

"Dude," she said. "This isn't an invite-only gig. And trust me, you're just as welcome as anyone else." Before long, everyone would be too drunk to care whether a 'nerd' was there or not. Plus… they did say Anna was cool. She could invite whoever she wanted! "And besides, you're already here. May as well make the most of it."

She practically had to drag Kristoff towards the house even when she received a reluctant agreement from him. Anna refused to allow him to back out now, not with all the effort she had put into this.

"Just try and strike up a conversation with her," she encouraged him once they were inside. "She won't bite, you know that."

"Fine, fine! Wow, you're pushy!" But he didn't fight her on it, either; seemed to be how he handled most situations.

Back inside, she left Kristoff to approach Elsa and focused exclusively on pigging out on snacks. The potato chips seemed especially bland to her for some reason, and she couldn't decide if New Coke was an acceptable alternative to the stuff she was used to. Stubbornly, she refused to have a single sip of anything alcoholic; she told herself it was only because she needed to remain focused on getting her parents together. Which was mostly true.

After a good fifteen minutes, she floated back out to the living room to find them. However, neither Kristoff nor Elsa was there. Poking her head around the other rooms, she finally had to drift down the hallway to locate one of them.

Elsa was lying on one of the beds, staring up at the ceiling. Ironically enough, it was in the room that would later become Anna's. Even the awful grey feature wall was the same. When she heard Anna come in, she sat up on her elbows, then sighed. "Oh, it's you."

That didn't sound good. Gently closing the door behind her, Anna took a few steps into the room. "What's going on? What are you doing in here?"

Elsa shrugged. Sitting up fully, she curled her legs up under her chin. Anna took it as an invitation to sit near Elsa's feet. She smiled to herself – the Elsa of her time would have had kittens to see shoes on the bed.

"Just wanted to get away," she finally admitted.

"Not having fun?"

Closing her eyes, Elsa sighed as she turned her head in the direction of the door – it made her sway a little bit. "No, no, it's not that. I just… Kristoff asked me to the dance tomorrow."

"OH?!" Anna perked up at that. Perhaps it was lucky that Elsa wasn't looking at her, though, because immediately after, she deflated. If Kristoff had asked her, why was she hiding out here? She was almost too afraid to ask. Fortunately – or perhaps unfortunately – Elsa wasn't finished.

"He's a great guy, but I…" she trailed off. Sucking in a breath, she turned her gaze to Anna. Her hold on her knees tightened, and Anna couldn't tear her eyes from Elsa's. "I realised that I… really want to go with someone… someone else."

Oh. Fuck.

"Y-yeah?" Anna managed to sputter. She wanted to run, but she managed to force herself to stay still.

"Yeah. And… I think I made a mistake." Her head nodded toward a cup on the previously-empty bedside table. "I thought maybe it would make me feel less upset about the whole situation, but instead now I just want to cry."

This was a tough situation. One of her hands drifted over and patted Elsa's forearm; it was about as neutral a location as she could manage. "Sorry. I really thought you two… w-well, it doesn't matter right now." It did, of course, but she couldn't explain without risking a time paradox.

"Oh, I like him more than I expected. I almost said yes, but then I thought- I… Tori, I just want to go with you. Can't I pick you up in my car, a-and we'll go to the dance together? No grody stuff, I p-promise!"

"Elsa…" Whatever she was going to say died on her lips at the look in Elsa's eyes. Vulnerable, weak. She couldn't do that to her, couldn't destroy what little hope and faith Elsa had. Not right now. And they still had Plan B. "Okay. As long as you swear to me-"

"Pinky swear." Elsa actually did hold up her pinky, and Anna snickered as she took it. But her mother remained serious all the while. "I know… know th-that you were pretty wigged about that. Because we're friends, and you already have a… w-well, anyway. Sorry."

"Nothing to be sorry about." Then she pushed Elsa a little more firmly against the bed. "Now, just relax here for a little while. I'm gonna get you some food to help soak up the drink."

"Will that work?" she asked, vaguely watching – barely helping – Anna take off her shoes and setting them on the floor.

"I've had practice," Anna muttered under her breath. Cleaning up after her again.

But the bitterness Anna had come to associate with cleaning up her mother's messes didn't come. Looking back at the bed, at the girl sitting forlorn atop the covers, she knew why; this Elsa wasn't her mother. Not yet. This Elsa was just a teenage girl who'd done the same thing countless girls before, and countless after, would do: drink at a party.

Leaving Elsa momentarily, she went out into the wild to forage for some food. Despite the lack of flavor, most of the crisps had vanished. There was some dip and crackers left, but Anna wasn't sure that she could trust it. Eventually she found another, unopened container in one of the coolers. It was a little damp from the ice, but the creamy goodness inside was untouched.

While scrounging around for another packet of crackers, she spied Kristoff standing off to one corner. Sighing, she knew she'd have to talk to him before the dance. But that could wait.

Upon returning to the room, the first thing Anna noticed was that Elsa hadn't moved at all. "I brought dip," she said. "There weren't many chips left but this'll soak it all up a little better."

Glumly, Elsa nodded. Her lips pursed into a point. She looked miserable – and Anna had a feeling that it wasn't the depressing effects of the alcohol. "Why do you hate drinking so much?" she asked, probably more as a distraction than anything else. "I never met anyone who hasn't tried it."

Anna lifted her shoulders, resuming her seat next to Elsa and opening the dip. "I have tried it," she admitted, passing her the container and moving on to the crackers. "And I don't hate it, exactly. More like I hate what it does to people. And I don't just mean like… getting wasted and then having a hangover the next day. I mean the… when you drink… or when someone you love drinks… and they don't ever seem to stop. And they just aren't the person you know because they're always the drunk version, and they can get mean sometimes."

Putting the dip on the bedside table, Elsa picked up a cracker and loaded it with a gratuitous amount of dip. "C'mon, I'd never be wack like that, though. It's just a drink here or there."

This time, Anna couldn't look at her, blinking rapidly. The words were out before she could stop them: "You can't promise that."

She was a little surprised to find a hand on her cheek, forcing her to look up. The cracker had been abandoned in the dip, and Elsa was looking at her with the fiercest eyes she'd ever seen.

"Then I pinky promise," she said. If Anna had been teary before, it was nothing compared to the effect that simple sentence had on her.

"Alright, alright. I believe you," she breathed, but more because she wasn't sure how else to handle this situation anymore. Elsa was looking at her with more love in her eyes than she ever remembered seeing from them in the future. Not that she never loved her; she knew her mother did, in ways that she could manage despite her depression and general dissatisfaction with her life.

But that future Elsa would never have leaned in to take her mouth gently the way this one was.

'Not again!' Anna thought furiously. But again, she had as much difficulty fighting off the advances of her amorous friend-who-would-eventually-birth-her as before. She did back up, but Elsa simply followed. Within moments, Anna found herself on her back, Elsa lying atop her.

She needed to stop, but the longer it went on, the more she found she didn't want to fight Elsa off. Some part of her understood that she needed to, that it was important, and that she knew nothing good could come of this if she let it continue. Furthermore, with or without their chromosomal connection, there was no way she could stay with Elsa knowing how she would turn out. That woman from the future was most definitely not her type.

But this one was. This Elsa was everything she went for in a woman; sensitive, thoughtful, sweet, and kind. Just impulsive enough to know how to have fun, but not some kind of reckless wild child who would hurt her, or get her hurt. And a knockout besides.

"I know," Elsa finally breathed when she broke the kiss, gazing down at Anna's stricken face. "I know what I said… a-and I won't. But… I can't lie to you, Tori. I can't lie to myself."

Anna wasn't thinking. Couldn't think, not when her mind was full of nothing but the kiss they had just shared. She knew her mistake when she leaned up, none-too-gently, to press their lips together again. Her hands came to wrap around Elsa's head, fisting in her hair and holding her close.

Okay, so perhaps this wasn't the sort of relationship she'd ever wanted with her mother, but… there was love. Real love. Anna didn't know how deep it ran through Elsa, but it was there for her. Elsa's lips were soft, and this time, she could appreciate how they felt, kneading into hers. The fact that her hands hadn't moved at all since the beginning, still resting on Anna's cheeks…

Punz wasn't nearly this tactile. Elsa made her feel so wanted. So needed.

But she didn't completely lose herself in the kiss, in the feeling of Elsa atop her, moving gently against her. There was a tiny voice at the back of her head that was asking one little question that she couldn't ignore much longer: What happens now?

"Tori," Elsa breathed briefly when their lips parted, before they moved to Anna's neck, nibbling gently at her skin. She was unpractised in many facets of relationships, but here she excelled. Anna had to close her eyes and suck in a breath, just to keep some of her wits about her.

"Elsa, I… I d-don't know…" What didn't she know? "I don't know if… if I can… do much more than… than this…" That was a much more moderate reaction compared to what she meant to say, but at least it was a toehold.

"We both feel it," she insisted, ghosting her lips over Anna's again. Her eyes were bright, and Anna couldn't maintain contact. "Don't we? And… I'm sorry about that girl, back in wherever, but… can you honestly tell me it's this good with her? This bodacious?"

"I haven't had the chance to f-find out," she replied with a shaky sigh. Maybe she could distract Elsa. "I, um… we were supposed to have our big night, but I ended up coming here instead. It… I was really looking forward to it, we've been kind of awkward potatoes until now."

"Potatoes?" she snickered, reaching up to brush Anna's hair from her forehead. It seemed she had backed off from kissing her again – for the time being, at least. "That way with words you have is pretty weird. But I dig it."

They just looked at each other for a moment. Both were trying to catch their breath; it wasn't the activities, nor any kind of exertion that caused it. When Anna could finally speak, it was to as a question. "Did you… mean it?" Her voice was soft. "What you said earlier?"

Elsa's head tilted, just a little. "What did I say earlier?"

"You-" Anna had to stop to swallow. This shouldn't have been this difficult! She'd already snogged her, and they had come pretty close to doing way more than that once before; asking a question, in comparison, should be a cakewalk! The problem was, she wasn't sure she wanted to know the answer. Wasn't sure if she could handle such raw truths from Elsa.

No. She had to know.

"When you… you said you wanted to go w-with… me. To the dance," she added, unnecessarily. Elsa's head jerked back a little, eyes widening a fraction.

"Of course!" she cried out, obviously not having the same issues as Anna. "I mean, what kind of a skank do you think I am? I don't kiss random people for no good reason, Tori. I, um… I kinda have to like them first, and… you're the first person I've liked this much. Don't you see that?"

Then she did it again, almost as if to prove it to both of them. Anna tried to summon up some of the disgust she knew she should be feeling, but it didn't seem to be in proper working order at that moment. Even trying to think about having come out of Elsa's vagina, something she thought for sure would kill the mood for her, just seemed to make her think about that part of her future mother's body in general… which she decided was only making things worse, so she gave up.

At least, she tried to give up. Elsa wasn't making it easy, what with the kissing and moaning and- was she grinding? Anna's hands left Elsa's hair, sliding down her sides to rest at her hips. It only encouraged more movement. The fervour with which Elsa claimed her mouth only seemed to grow, and Anna could only partially blame the alcohol.

Only partially, because here she was responding to that advance without having touched a drop.

"Have I told you," Elsa panted, breaking away for a moment to look Anna in the eyes, "just how hot you look in fishnets?"

"Huh? Really?!" Her mind blanked. Elsa was still staring at her, hair framing her face as she panted. It was blatantly obvious that she was as affected by their actions as Anna felt. Fingertips slid through her bangs, combing them gently. "Wait, whoa, be careful… this is getting close to… to a repeat of…"

"I'm just being honest." Elsa shrugged, though there was a dangerous glint in her dark eyes. "I'm jealous; on me, I'd just look like a cheap hooker. But you pull it off. 'Red hot' instead of 'red light'."

Elsa was moving closer again. The temporary distraction had seemingly worn off, and now she was gunning for the girl she had no idea was related to her. "Red light?"

"You know… like in 'Roxanne'."

"Oh- yeah. Community. Alternate timelines and shit."

"Uhhh, sure, whatever that means." Once again Elsa pulled that odd little expression – the one of amused confusion. And then it had vanished because she leaned down once more to fuse their lips together. She broke away for a second to murmur, "Definitely red hot," before returning.

Anna didn't have the will to stop her. It was becoming all to easy to forget that this was her future mother, lying atop her – grinding into her. It was too easy to forget, to pretend that she was just another girl who was sweet and warm and wanted her.

It was an odd feeling, this one of desire and need, that Anna didn't know how to deal with. So she didn't; she just kissed Elsa back with equal passion, needy hips rolling against hers. Putting the worries out of her mind for a moment. She was grateful for her denim jacket and skirt, because they hid the worst of her arousal; protected her from it.

Elsa let out a moan, right into Anna's mouth that sent sparks shooting through her. She didn't know if she was happy or not when Elsa's mouth moved, sliding down her throat. Her hips never stopped moving; in fact, they seemed to speed up.

"Elsa…?"

"Nng… Tori…"

It was blatantly obvious what has happening. Anna had heard that same noise only the night prior, though then they'd had some distance to distract them. Some mild formality of teacher-and-student that didn't exist here. Some part of Anna wanted to draw it out, but it was quickly snuffed out by her more logical side. She shouldn't want to draw it out – she should be able to stop it completely! But it was becoming more and more difficult to remind herself of who this Elsa would become, and rather just think of who she still was.

And at the moment, that was a horny teenager riding her to oblivion in the spare room of a house party. She could sense when Elsa was getting close; it was in the way she panted against Anna's neck, hands scrambling for purchase before their lips realigned. Elsa moaned as their tongues slid together, hands gripping so tight she could almost make Anna bleed.

And then her mother came, tipping over the edge of rationality and into her mind-numbing finish.

Her body shuddered for a long while afterward as they lay there. It was Elsa who had broken the kiss moments afterward, pressing her head into Anna's shoulder for some kind of stability, some kind of support. Her breath was hot and damp in the small space, and Anna could feel her eyelids fluttering, gently scratching at her skin.

Poor Anna could only lie there beneath Elsa, staring up at the ceiling. There was only one thought going through her head: this should not have happened. But then, that same thought had been spiralling since the beginning of the week. Since she'd stupidly interfered with her parents' first meeting.

This really was some fucked up karma.

Elsa squirmed atop her, shifting her body so she was no longer lying completely over Anna; instead, she sat up. Anna could still do little but look at her, eyes wide. Elsa was so beautifully trashed, hair frazzled, complexion a dappled red. Now, her eyes weren't nearly so dark as they stared down at Anna.

Already, the guilt was setting in. Elsa looked like she wanted to run, but was too afraid to move. The space between them was a rubber band, stretched and ready to snap. There was no heat left; only blinding shame.

Space. She needed space, now.

Sitting up, she couldn't voice the gratefulness she felt when Elsa slid back, off her and onto the bed. Anna felt like she had to say something, but wasn't sure what she could say. She couldn't even determine what Elsa was thinking; there was nothing but stony silence and averted gazes. When they did speak, it was Elsa who gave the first choking cough..

"I'm… I'm s-sorry," she said, voice low. "Wasn't… wasn't thinking."

Anna doubted that. She most certainly was thinking – just not from her head. "It's okay," she said. It sounded hollow, even to her own ears. "You're pretty wasted. I know… look, I really don't hold it against you, I… I couldn't. It's okay. But maybe we should, um, should go and rejoin the party. Everyone's probably wondering where the host is."

Elsa seemed unsure, but she also seemed to realise that distance was something Anna needed. So, climbing from the bed, she nodded. "Yeah… probably."

Though Anna wanted to apologise, what could she say? She really didn't think this was a smart plan. And she wanted to kiss Elsa again just to show her that everything was fine, and that she didn't hate her, or think she was a bad person for being a little buzzed and letting her emotions run away with her. Maybe that was a bad idea, but she had to do something.

"I'm really looking forward to the dance, though," she wound up whispering as she stood next to her. They were about even in height now that Elsa was shoeless. "And… I won't pretend I could ever forget this moment. Just so you know."

Of course, she mostly meant it was traumatising and she'd spend years in therapy to figure out how she could ever have let this get so far. But luckily, Elsa took her words at face value. Her smile was soft, and she leaned forward to give Anna a little peck on her cheek.

"Me, too. It's gonna be rad to the max."

As they left, Anna added, "And you keep saying I look hot, but you look even better; that minidress is killer."

"Killer?" Elsa mused with a little chuckle, barely glancing down at her purple outfit. The one that showed evidence of arousal standing at firm attention on her breasts – though thank heavens, it showed nothing else. This time, Anna couldn't help staring for a half-second before she tore her eyes away. "Hmm… I like the sound of that. It's 'killer'." Then she reached down to take up Anna's hand. "Ready when you are."

Anna was more than ready. But as they exited the room and made the way down the hallway, she wondered whether Elsa really was prepared. The closer they got to the living areas, the more tense she seemed to be. She walked slower than usual, and her hand tightened around Anna's.

The moment they moved into the light, Elsa dropped it. She covered the movement quite well, heading towards where Ariel was standing. The redhead was watching Jazz and Al hit it off, and Elsa made a show of gushing about it as soon as she arrived. Anna had been expecting it, and while she knew it shouldn't, it still hurt a little; the fact that Elsa didn't feel comfortable enough to keep holding her hand. But that was how it had to be – for both their sakes.

Shaking away the lingering disappointment, she glanced around. Kristoff was standing where he had been the first time she had come out of the room. He looked like he was still holding the same cup, and if Anna had to guess, he probably had the same drink. She sighed to herself before making her way over to him.

"Hey, man," she said. "What's up?"

He didn't say anything for a moment. The first indication he gave that he was going to speak was simply a nod in Elsa's direction.

"So… I guess the rumours are true?"

Anna froze. Her heart stuttered along for a moment before it too seemed to still in her chest. "Wh-hah, what do you mean?"

He looked away, then pointed to the corner of his lip. A quick look at Elsa confirmed Anna's fear: she was wearing lipstick. A light red shade that was obvious even through the dimmed lights of the house.

A light red shade that was, obviously, evident on Anna's own face. And probably not just her lips, either…

She rubbed at her neck, and the spot Elsa had pressed her face into and kissed within an inch of its life. She had to be careful. The panic rising in her, threatening to send her running for the bathroom, would only get Kristoff to abandon all efforts to get Elsa to date him. There had to be something she could say that would undo the damage done by something as innocuous as beauty products.

"Y-yeah," she laughed. It sounded forced, but at least she got her throat to cooperate. "Apparently, she was a little tipsy, and VERY friendly. But um, I don't think the rumours are something you should worry about."

His nod didn't seem to convey that he agreed with her. "Mmm. I mean, maybe not, but she was definitely a lot closer to you than I've ever seen her with any of the guys at school. But I mean… I am a little surprised."

"What do you mean?"

"Come on, Anna." His cheeks pinkened a little. "If I wasn't so wrapped up with her, I'd think you had a crush on me."

"WHAT?!" That came out a lot harsher than she meant, so she cleared her throat. "I mean, um… how did you get there from… from anywhere?!"

"Spending all this time trying to help me? Cleaning up my act, trying to make me a winner instead of a wimp? It's like… you really care about me. I've never felt that from any girl before. Elsa, a little, but that's it."

This was too far. Anna needed a breather, and she needed it right away. "As a friend," she managed to tell him firmly as she backed away toward the kitchen, and the door that would lead to the garage. "Just a friend! Okay? But y-yeah, I'm in your corner, compadre."

Only once she was away from the party did she hear how stupid that sounded. Compadre? More like just 'padre'. Somehow, she had managed to walk into 1985 and charm not one, but both of her parents into thinking she was their ideal mate. At least with Kristoff it seemed to be purely because Elsa was unavailable and no other woman caught his eye; at least his future wife remained his first choice…

But what about Elsa? Her needs were much stronger, focused on her future daughter and no one else. Flattered and strangely intrigued as Anna was by the prospect, she had to refocus on the task at hand: getting them to hook up so she could safely return to her own time period and take twelve showers.

                                           To Be Continued…

[fenrirgraves]

Just Another Reason I Hate My School

Grad guy who barely has any clue how to run his class, and literally had his Monday class earlier this week be an outright failure had the balls to kick me out of his class today because I dared suggest he handle something differently.

He's been conducting this class poorly from the start, legitimately poorly. Seeming to go in with little to no plan, and the plans he did have fell completely through. Because they were atrociously designed. All it ever is is "recreate this shot, recreate these scenes", and yet instead of letting us have the freedom to do so, to make mistakes, to see what works, what doesn't, and just letting us experiment, he instead would micromanage everything.

So when he split us into groups today, showed us what he wanted us to do, and then was saying how he'd be around to be oversee and check on stuff, and I suggested perhaps that instead of him doing his usual micromanaging, that he let us do our own thing within the assignment's parameters. Let us figure this out ourselves, let us understand what and how we're working with what we're doing, we're at midterm, we have a good knowledge of this stuff, let us do our own thing within what we're assigned, if we do wrong or make mistakes, then so be it, it is what it is. That's a part of learning.

I should also right now mention that this guy is foreign, and does not have the best grasp of the language apparently. He was pretty pissed that I suggest this, as he seemed to take it as a debase of his authority or alike, because he was like "Well what am I supposed to do?", and I said, "Let us figure this out for ourselves, give us this space to learn and develop the art without being told and commanded. Follow the assignment, yes. But micromanaged, no". He got pretty upset about this, told me to meet him after class. I told him that I couldn't, because I had an actual, important shoot to go to right after. Guess he didn't like to hear that, because he told me to leave, that he didn't want me attending his class.  So, like, not only did he fail to understand me properly, and get angry at me because of it, because I felt a hands-off approach would be better, but then he asks me to leave, again, because of his failures.

Fine by me, I don'y wanna be in your rinkeydink horeshit class either, where we spend 2 hours lighting a single scene shot in the most ass-backwards way possible. (Shooting a classroom shot, natural to how it would look...instead of using the house lights in the room, which would make sense, he was having everyone use shitty LED and studio lights, making the fucking thing look artificial and produced as hell, yet all the while I was saying "Let's just use the house lights, they're perfect for our goal", yet nobody listened. About an hour in, someone else finally had the bright idea to do it, and then everyone was like WOW THIS IS GREAT. And I sat there like shit on a shingle, like...yeah, no shit, I've been telling you for fucking hours now.

And this guy, Mr. Micromanage, in all of his micromanaging glory, should've seen this right off and suggested it as such. But instead he stood around, stroked his goatee, and looked confused as ever.

This class, this professor, this school, this shit, it's so beneath me.

If you need me, I'll be actually shooting something of worth tonight at the Iron Works. My dudes in Turning Virtue will be lighting it up and serenading you all with wonderful prog tunes, alongside the talented prog masterminds of Aisles from Chile. And I'll be filming Turning Virtue's set. With my own self-learned experience, with no fucking thanks to anything I've learned in this dead end fucking school. It's a big ol' Box of Disappointment, my dude.