#i am unable to put this in proper words bc i am so excited

[fivekrystalpetals]

actually, Fyodor saying that--

surprised, not by the flooding, but by the fact that Dazai and his 7-year partner's bond was so shallow that Dazai think Chuuya's ability cannot deal with that flood // @/popopretty

--is surprising to me because Chuuya didn't really do... much for them to escape.

You see, this wasn't an incorrect fact:

Dazai is right, the walls are anti-ability and we see this in action too: (this most probably was a part of Fyodor's plan to throw Dazai off-guard and make him think that his plan was working)

Yes, Chuuya's ability doesn't work on the walls. Dazai didn't underestimate him or his ability. He looked at the facts and gave his opinions. (That's why I think his words in BSD 101 were also true, he must have really believed that Chuuya was going to drown because he had no way of knowing that Fyodor was gonna pick him for a pawn)

Getting Chuuya to break the threshold between every door was Fyodor's idea.

And it doesn't even seem like a big deal to break the threshold; it hardly took the power of a finger for Chuuya. (and no more than a slight dent in the floor should be enough for the water to flow out)

So.... why is he talking about their trust and bond and all if not to simply rile up Dazai?? It's Fyodor that Dazai should have kept an eye on (and still needs to) because once again, this conjurer is misdirecting his attention to his 'stronger' assistant here while the actual trick was all Fyodor's.

[eoieopda]

Yoongi + “runaway bride” I’mma leave this one up to your interpretation bc I know I’ll love it either way and also wanna see what you come up with 👀

oooooooh!!! v excited by this prompt, lol. this is, um, going to hurt kind of a lot at the beginning, but stick with me!!!! also, i accidentally made this >3.3k words….. which i will proofread when i am no longer exhausted 🤪

the one with yoongi and the fucking hydrangeas

ft. POV shift, pining & correlating angst, reader who’s🎵 a runner she’s a track star 🎵, a #nonspon vans product placement, a very unfortunate namjoon (sorry, buddy,) childhood idiots in love

2024 ETA: long after this was written, the user who requested this drabble admitted that they were a minor masquerading as an adult, violating my explicitly stated boundaries re: minors being prohibited from interacting with me and my content. this user has since been blocked.

Yoongi sat in a seat chosen specifically for him not because he wanted to, but because he knew how much time you’d sacrificed in writing every place card by hand.

To be clear, he’d never wanted to attend this rehearsal dinner in the first place. Unfortunately, he knew the stakes. That wasn’t something he’d dare to say out loud — especially not to you. Not in that restaurant while you fluttered between tables and shined your warm light on every single guest, one by one. Not ever, because you’d slipped through Yoongi’s fingers the second Namjoon slid that ring on yours.

If, in twelve hours’ time, Yoongi could force his deflated body out of bed, he’d have to watch quietly while you got away for good.

There was nothing he could do about it, either, so he swallowed that grief with a mouthful of bibim nengmyun. He knew it wasn’t the food that tasted so bitter on his tongue; however, on the off-chance that it was, he followed suit with another ill-advised swig of makgeolli.

During the two subsequent hours he sat and stewed at that table, Yoongi had lost count of just how many glasses he’d had. His eyes never lingered on the bottle, sticking instead to you and the smile that didn’t seem to spread beyond the curve of your lips. Every now and then, you’d glance his way — and every time you did, there was a microscopic twinge at the corner of your mouth.

It felt like a signal, something cryptic, but he wasn’t in the proper headspace to begin making assumptions. For the first time ever, you’d hit Yoongi with a look he didn’t know what to do with, and that fact drove him insane. This was what he was afraid of, after all — that the invisible string between you would be re-routed to someone else, and the telepathic link you’d always shared would disappear with it.

Your friendship had started early because your respective mothers had grown up together, and found each other once again as adults with two kids each. Back then, both of your front teeth were missing and — if Yoongi made you laugh too hard at routine, weekend gatherings — banana milk would occasionally fly out through the gap. He was nine-years-old and had no concept of it, but now he knows that he loved you then.

He loved you when you were ten, and you kneed a classmate in the dick for bullying Yoongi on the basketball court. You were two years younger and half his size, but you were a force to be reckoned with.

He loved you when you were fourteen, and a wave of brand new hormones made you a little bit of a fucking nightmare to be around.

At seventeen, twenty-one, still.

Now.

There, while everyone around him clinked their chopsticks against their glasses and Namjoon accepted the crowd’s wordless demand that he kiss you.

Yoongi had done well enough with your previous relationships. None of them made him feel like this, though, and he’d spent two years unable to put his finger on why. Sandwiched at that carefully chosen table between his mother and older brother, it finally clicked: None of them ever threatened to last.

Yoongi had never been a particularly hopeful person, but buried deep in the back of his brain, there had always been a crumb of it. Part of him, however stupid, thought you’d end up together at a dinner like this. All of this was the last nail in the coffin, the alarm clock screaming that it was time to wake up.

Suddenly more nauseous than he’d ever been before, Yoongi scooted his chair back so abruptly that it scraped along the floorboards. Just as quickly, he got to his feet and made a beeline for the exit. Of all the heads that turned to watch him leave, yours was the only one he noticed in his peripheral vision. He could feel your eyes on his back — pictured how confused you must look — and it only made his stomach acid churn faster.

When he finally made it out to the patio behind the restaurant, Yoongi’s suspicions were confirmed: closed for the season. Fitting. He wasn’t in the mood to heed the signs, so he stepped carefully — one leg at a time — over the hip-high metal gate and gulped down sharp, late autumn air. As he did, he begged himself to get his shit together for you, if not for him.

He spent several minutes out there, maybe even hours, sitting on a bare, metal chair and glowering out at the trees at the edge of the property. He hated himself, he realized, for how easily he wasted time. Let it slip by unnoticed while he stood still.

The clock seemed to mock him, ticking faster from behind him as if time was going to outrun him again.

At least, that was his first guess.

Yoongi quickly learned that the clicks weren’t signaling the passing seconds; they were broadcasting the urgent beat of stilettos on brick. So, having figured that his mother had appeared outside to gun him down, Yoongi glanced over his shoulder and braced himself for the be-all, end-all of scoldings.

What he got instead was you and the undeserved concern that caused your eyebrows to furrow.

“Are you okay?” You asked quietly once you reached the gate. With your manicured hands on the cold metal, you shivered, but you didn’t seem to notice. “Did you eat too much of the gochujang? I definitely did, and now I’ll be up all night with heartburn.”

Yoongi felt as though he’d been punched in the chest. The memory caught him in a riptide, beat him bloody against the rocks because he could’ve sworn he was sixteen again, stacking old encyclopedias under the headboard of your bed. He’d read somewhere online that, while sitting upright in a chair can exacerbate reflux, sleeping at an angle could help.

He was dizzy when he blinked back at you and saw your lips moving. He had to focus hard to figure out what you were saying.

“You remember that?”

Yoongi struggled to even out his breathing; he had no hope at all of finding the plot he’d lost. “Huh?”

You grinned and it made up for all the stars that had been hidden by grey clouds overhead. “The encyclopedias,” you chuckled, “They worked, you know.”

Yoongi didn’t mean to say it. He knew it before, during, and after it slipped out of his mouth that it was the worst goddamn thing he’d ever done, but he couldn’t stop himself — couldn’t shove the bullet he’d shot back into the gun. With the way it exploded through his chest — I love you — he was surprised that his body was still intact. No viscera sprayed out from the exit wound, no stains appeared on your chic, white cocktail dress.

You opened your mouth but closed it soon after, so clearly stunned by his unsolicited admission that you couldn’t find the words. Yoongi had no expectations whatsoever when it came down to your reaction because he hadn’t meant to provoke one in the first place. Even still, the wounded look on your face was worse than anything he might’ve imagined.

The two of you stood in tense silence for so long that Yoongi’s soul had nearly ejected itself fully from his body.

“That’s not fair,” eventually came your shaky reply. You clenched your fist tight around the top of the gate to anchor yourself and stammered, “Yoongi, that is not — Why would you —”

As soon as he aimed to take a step in your direction, your shock gave way to a scowl that could’ve boiled him alive.

“Why would you dump that at my feet? Tonight, of all fucking nights, Yoongi — seriously?” You snapped, though it sounded like a sob. “What am I supposed to do with this now?”

Now?

He didn’t know how to respond. He was paralyzed, inside and out, and he deserved it. Who the fuck was he, forcing the burden of his feelings onto you?

Selfish. Stupid. Out of time, as usual.

The makeup you always took so much time on started to run alongside your tears. Yoongi had seen you cry before, though he’d always been the reason you stopped, rather than started. He hated every single one of those muddied, black tears because he knew you. He knew you would have worn waterproof mascara if you’d had any reason to anticipate crying on your special night.

“I’m getting married in the morning!”

Your reminder was a dagger flying out of your mouth, sticking him right between the ribs. It stung as images flooded his mind — of you and Namjoon, your guests, and your out-of-season, imported fucking hydrangeas. It hurt even worse to see how badly you shook as you glared at him.

“Yoongi — fuck!”

Before you walked away, your eyes locked on his for a fraction of a second. In that moment, Yoongi promised himself that it was the last time you’d ever have to see his face.

When you were little, you pictured your wedding day like a moment ripped straight out of Cinderella. In your head, you’d wake up to birds singing at your window and mice scurrying around your feet, eager to dress you in a gown of epic and magical proportions. It’d be perfect. For years, you’d been sure of it.

In reality, there was no waking up because there hadn’t been a single second of sleep to begin with. No beauty rest, no sweet dreams of marital bliss — just you, feeling as if you’d swallowed a car battery. It sat heavy in the pit of your stomach, let acid burn all the way up to your esophagus. And it’d been all too easy to toss and turn in your hotel bed, which laid perfectly level on top of a plush, floral rug.

You crawled out of bed without the assistance of altruistic rodents and shuffled your dead weight over to the mirror hanging on the opposite wall. For once, your imagination had been accurate. Your puffy eyes were red in the aftermath of all your tears. They ached above circles so deep and dark that they would’ve alarmed you if you hadn’t expected them.

Namjoon had seen you at what you both believed to be your worst. Neither of you could’ve ever predicted that the Corpse Bride would be the one staggering down the aisle towards him. He’d love you anyway, you knew it, no matter how you looked. But if he knew what you spent all night toiling over…

You shook your head and abruptly turned away from the mirror. There were several of your dearest friends bustling around the room next to yours, all of whom were waiting on you. Swallowing hard, you headed for the adjoining door and promised yourself that the only person you’d let down today would be you.

You lost all track of time when a blur of hands went to work on you. If you’d closed your eyes while you dissociated, you could’ve pretended that your assistants were those woodland creatures you used to dream about. But you couldn’t close your eyes, couldn’t sleep through this part, couldn’t let your mind wander all the way back to that patio.

It’d been terrifying, staring your own heart in the face like that. More than anything, it was confusing because it didn’t look like you expected it would — not like an organ at all, but a person. You’d gotten so good at ignoring it that you couldn’t reasonably expect yourself to recognize it. It knew you, though, and loved you. Apparently, it always had.

As you sat in that hotel room, far away from the patio, you pictured every other moment you wished Yoongi had said what he did. The thousand times you’d thought for sure he felt the same, and all the ways you distracted yourself when you resigned to believing he didn’t. Every person you dated until you finally managed to move on —

“— please, love?”

You blinked rapidly to force your eyes to focus. In front of you, your mother stood with a knowing smile on her face and a sokchima in her hands. You didn’t need to ask her to repeat herself; you took the hint and rose slowly to your feet.

“I was nervous on my wedding day,” she hummed as she pulled the undergarment gently over your head. “Hungover, too, but your grandmother does not need to know that. Frankly, I’m surprised she couldn’t tell with how bloated I was when she helped me get ready…”

The bright scarlet chima followed without so much as a word from you. Your heart slammed helplessly against your rib cage when your mother proceeded to tug the sleeves of your jeogori up your arms. This moment should be special, you thought bitterly. All you wanted to do was cry; to apologize to your mother for your total inability to care while your wedding happened around you, not for you.

Soon enough, you were dressed. Your friends and older sister gushed about how beautiful you looked — the perfect bride — like you weren’t caught in the web of an anxiety attack. Like it wasn’t all wrong, and you weren’t dangling on the precipice of your life’s greatest mistake. Like you hadn’t spent so much of your hard-earned money on invitations and greenhouse-grown, special-ordered fucking hydrangeas.

Like you could catch a fucking breath under all the layers of your hanbok.

Sensing that a moment alone was necessary, your mother kissed your cheek and ushered the others out the door ahead of her. Before seeing herself out, too, she stalled in the threshold, turned back around to look at you, and exhaled through a pause.

“I left your shoes by the dresser,” she chirped.

The gentleness of her tone was reassuring, but there was a faint gleam in her eyes that caught your attention. Before you could ask after it, she nodded firmly once and let the door click shut behind her.

Alone again, your instinct was to do the same thing you’d spent ten consecutive hours doing — burying yourself under pillows and crying until you ran out of tears. But you had run out, which was precisely was the problem. You had no options left, nothing left to do but lean in.

At least, that was your first guess.

Your list of choices expanded by one when you saw the well-worn pair of slip-on Vans your mother had set out for you.

Yoongi sat on the edge of his bed with his elbows on his knees and his face buried in his hands.

Only two meters away, a garment bag hung from the hook on the back of his bedroom door. That bag — and the crisp, black suit it concealed — lingered there for weeks in the shadows, untouched since the day he bought it. Even though it hadn’t left its hanger, he felt it smothering him throughout the night. It choked him while one thought ran circles in his sleep-deprived brain:

The reason he bought it was the same reason he’d never be able to wear it.

Sick of the way he’d trapped himself with his thoughts, Yoongi pushed himself to his feet and crossed over to the door. With the way he flung it open, knob slamming against the wall, he’d likely never recover his security deposit. It felt good, though, taking his grief out on that godforsaken suit.

On his way to his front door, Yoongi stopped short. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of a cabinet he hadn’t opened in weeks. As he stared at it, the devil and angel on his shoulders warred over the action he wanted so desperately to take.

Sure, he’d recently — finally — quit at your insistence, but what did that matter now?

He gritted his teeth and shook his conscience off his shoulders with a shrug. Within seconds, Yoongi was on the other side of his kitchen, grabbing an unopened pack of cigarettes and the lighter that lay in wait next to it. He closed his hand tight around it so he couldn’t see the Hello Kitty stickers you’d placed all over the plastic; your attempt to dissuade him from using it in public.

Joke’s on you, he thought as he placed a cigarette between his lips, your plan backfired. Leaving your mark on it the way you had was the only thing that’d kept him from throwing it away — and the only reason he still had a lighter to use at all.

Yoongi opened his front door with one hand as he tried to ignite the lighter with the other. No matter how many time he flicked the pad of his thumb over those little metal ridges, nothing sparked. Defeated yet again, he slumped down onto the porch swing, closed his eyes, and willed himself not to break down over something so stupid.

He had no way of knowing how much time passed as he sat like that. He had no way to tell who those urgent footfalls belonged to, either. That is, not until panted breaths hit his ears and prompted him to open his eyes.

Admittedly, Yoongi had pictured you in your bridal hanbok more than once throughout the years. Half the time, it hadn’t even been purposeful. From first to third grade, you’d rambled to him about your dream wedding on your daily walks home from school. You spoke about it so often, in fact, that even he started thinking about what embroidery a mouse might add to the hem of your chima.

As the pair of you got older, you brought it up less, so Yoongi didn’t think about it often. The image crept up on him, though, once in a while. Every time you brought him as a plus one to your friends’ weddings because you didn’t want to dance alone; and he nearly told you that he’d always want to be your partner.

Or that time you cried through your worst ever heartbreak on his couch, lamented that you’d die an old maid, and never get to wear one.

Even as recently as last night, when he drank half a fifth of whiskey and grieved over the fact that he’d never get to see you wear one.

He couldn’t make heads or tails of the real thing, not with the way you’d doubled over to catch your breath; and bunched the ends up in your fists, presumably to prevent yourself from tripping as you — ran here?

“What did I tell you about the cigarettes?” You puffed, still with your hands on your knees and your face angled at the sidewalk.

Somehow, despite running five kilometers to Yoongi’s doorstep, you hadn’t displaced a single hair from your artfully crafted up-do. Your makeup hadn’t budged, either, which meant that the only sign of your expended effort was the tint of pink on your cheeks and the tip of your nose.

You’d outrun his train of thought in your scuffed, old Vans. Yoongi had to buffer for a moment in order to catch up, but the involuntary smile fighting its way over his mouth didn’t bother to wait. Eventually, he recited your long-suffering appeal, smirking all the while, “They’ll fuck me up, and I’ll have to be wheeled out onto the basketball court in an iron lung.”

“Exactly.”

With one last, deep breath, you returned to your upright position. The second you did, Yoongi was the one choking up.

Rapid blinking did nothing to stop the tears pricking at the inner corners of his eyes. He swallowed the lump in his throat to the best of his ability, but he couldn’t shake the inexplicable flutter in his chest at the sight of you. You’d always been perfect, but this was —

“Oh, my god,” he croaked, thoroughly melted from the inside out.

Yoongi stood before his brain could signal his legs to do so; or remind his hands not to drop the phone, lighter, and cigarettes he’d been holding. His eyes, on the other hand, knew exactly what to do. He drank in your appearance like he’d spent the last twenty-two years wandering, dehydrated in the desert — and in a way, he had.

You blinked back at him with swimming eyes as if you’d found sanctuary, too. Suddenly aware of what you were gripping, you opened your fists and let the fabric flutter down to the ground. While smoothing out wrinkles that didn’t exist, you asked softly, “Not bad for a bunch of mice, right?”

“Look just like a dream,” he replied just as gently.

Yoongi’s hands, which were thankfully now free, reached out and grabbed yours. You followed his lead as he spun you, twirled under his raised arm until you ended up with your face mere centimeters from his.

“Yoongi,” you breathed. Your eyes danced from his, to his lips, and back again. “If you wait another twenty-two years to tell me how you feel, please pick a time and place that is mutually convenient. I swear to God, I’ll —”

It came out much more easily the second time than the first; and when it did, it felt more like a beginning than a bomb:

“I love you.”

[fluffypotatey]

any tips and tricks for getting into the writing zone?

ok so i have 2 methods and they depend on what i'm writing on: story writing and essay writing (waring: this is a mini-ramble)

with essay writing,

get mad, get super fucking mad, write that shit with spite flowing in your veins. even when i'm writing essays and stories i enjoy, i drag my feet.

i whine and complain like a toddler in my head because despite this topic being one i enjoy, putting my excited tones and rambling into coherent words always tends to feel like i'm butchering that (which is why academic papers should simply let me swear in them and use the 1st pov bc it is sO easy and my thoughts flow a lot better but noooOOOOoooooOOOOOooooo, i have to be formal and proper and-)

also, outlining. fucking godsend with essays. it's why a lot of my longer essays have headings bc i use them to outline and keep my thought on one line of thought bc i have a rambling issue (which is then easily solved with parentheses, my beloved)

with story writing (notice how this is basically a heading? good job! you've found my mini outline for this reply! have a cookie 🍪)

i find that jotting down that scene that is nagging at your brain immediately is super helpful. and do it even if you're now writing out of order. pro-tip: writing out of order is THE best, endorphins be going crazy bc you're actually not fighting with your brain with the story but writing alongside your brain-map.

personally, i find it very difficult outlining a story (how contrary) because sometimes my mind changes ideas or switches the order of scenes, and it is exhausting trying to keep up with all of that in your outline. but i guess, my "outline" with stories is simply me jotting down a very quick summary of the plot that invaded my mind in one document, never touching it again, but staying true to it because i wrote it down. therefore, it exists no longer in the recesses of mind but it a physical statement/promise to complete.

also (this advice goes for both story and essays) it is ok to take a break, step back, and not look at your writing for some hours, days, weeks, months, years--fucking whenever.

my midterm essay? a fucking nightmare. loved the topic, would write something similar about it for fun, but the reason it took me so long to complete (and why i dragged my feet) was because of the "short" timeline i had to complete it. i felt like i was on a time crunch and that led to me procrastinating, stressing over it, and taking my grand old time researching for it. however, when i was able to work on it? i allowed myself to simply do as much as i could. if i was unable to look at that stupid document, i didn't look at it. if my mind had a really good thought or example for the topic rotating in my head? immediate sit down and get that thought onto the paper. it must exist.

i have fics sitting in my folders that have been unfinished in so long, but i still consider them as wips because (and here’s another subpart-advice) i tend to work on them when i am unable to touch my current work. to be frank, working on something else helps keep you in the writing zone even if you cannot stand to look at the blank/unfinished work you wanted to complete originally. when i was incapable of writing for the Monkie Destiny Challenge, i switched to working on writing and editing my teen wolf fic (a fic i had not looked at since July) because while i still had that itch to write, something was blocking me from completing the prompts. and when i switched fics, getting into the zone was a lot easier.

so, to recap:

when jumpstarting the writing zone for writing an essay, you get passionate (can be read as mad/spiteful), and outline your thought process of the essay with headings to keep the writing flow flowing (the headings do not need to stay in the final product but they are good to have in the draft) .

when jumpstarting story writing, write! that! shit! down!!!! chronological order doesn't mean shit when you're in the planning/writing phase. your readers don't have to know that you wrote/planned a character's death before writing/planning out the beginning. they just read it in the order you publish it in!

to keep the writing zone stable and in working condition, TAKE THOSE BREAKS BOO! who cares about your personal deadlines???? if you feel exhausted before opening up a doc, then take that break, babygirl. again, your reader(s) will not need to know (nor do they need to know) how long it took you to get your writing piece done. hell, if you still feel the itch to write but the thing you wanna do is not working, then work on something else you haven't touched in a while because that itch WILL get its scratch somewhere, so help me god.

so yeah, i hope this was helpful, anon (and coherent jfc there better not be a plethora of typos T^T). happy writing, and may your weekend be a healthy dose of eventful!

[calumcest]

‘cause all of the stars are fading away (just try not to worry you’ll see them someday)

so i wrote this a while ago while looping stop crying your heart out with meg and sat on it for a bit bc i wasn’t sure whether i wanted to post it or not but y’know what. absolutely fuck it also i think? this is my first ever cashton fic that isnt a drabble like my first ever proper fic? isnt that exciting

@kaleidoscopeminds​ i think you know everything about this fic that you need to know already and i can’t be in sappy hours in the a/ns so all i’m going to say is in case you were under any illusions this is for you in every which way

Growing up isn’t easy. 

Nobody ever told him it would be. You’ll get hurt, his mum would say, eyes big and sad, and he’d shrug and say that’s life, not really understanding what she meant because he was yet to spend three nights in a row staring up at his ceiling, drunk and high and so miserable it somehow felt like everything and nothing at the same time. It’ll be difficult, his manager had warned, when they got their first tour with One Direction, and Ashton had shrugged and said isn’t everything?, not realising that what ‘difficult’ meant was sacrifice; his sleep, his home, his self, everything torn out at the roots and tossed aside for him to gather back into his arms again. 

The hardest part of growing up, though, isn’t when things happen to him, when someone breaks up with him or wakes him up two hours after he’s gone to bed or puts him on another plane six hours after he’s just got off one. The hardest part of growing up is when he looks around him and realises I’m not happy. 

It doesn’t hit him like a train, full-force to the face and leaving him no room for doubt. It comes piecemeal, comes in late-night conversations with Luke where he exhausts himself just to make sure Luke’s going to be okay until the morning, comes in brief flickers of clarity when he looks at himself in the mirror and thinks I don’t know who you are, comes in a moment where he walks past someone who smells like home and his heart, which he’d almost forgotten was still nestled somewhere in his chest, clenches and constricts. I’m overthinking it, he’ll tell himself, forcing down the panic that rises in his chest, or sometimes it’s just because I’m tired, or high, or on a comedown. It’ll pass. And it does, passes from his heart to his veins, from his veins to his lungs, but never strays any further from his core than that. 

So he just tries not to think about it, and most of the time, it works. Most of the time, he’s too drunk or high or tired to really think about it, for it to do anything more than thrum dully in his veins, buzzing below the surface. He tries to dampen it - never says no to a party, always says yes to a drink - but even when he’s laughing and dancing and grinning up at the ceiling of some dark, grimy nightclub in fuck knows where, it’s there with him, prickling at his skin like it’s trying to find a way to build a home under it. 

Being the oldest doesn’t help, either. It’s Ashton Luke turns to on a dark night, three lines deep and somehow still somewhere between a high and a comedown, and it’s Ashton Michael turns to after three nights with no sleep, exhausted and delirious and muttering I’m not worth it, I don’t deserve it nonsensically under his breath. Ashton has to shelve it, then, has to sit Luke down and let him use Ashton to counterbalance the coke, has to open his arms for Michael to crawl into and let him use Ashton to counterbalance the lack of sleep. He wonders whether Luke and Michael hear the deep breaths he takes to steady himself before he does, whether they know he’s using the air in his lungs to quell his own feelings, push himself down until he barely even remembers who he is besides their counterbalance. He wonders, if they know, whether they even care, whether what he needs matters to them at all.

Calum’s the only one who seems to get it, sort of. He never says anything, never offers any advice or commiseration or consolation, just sits next to Ashton wordlessly as he gets another line up his nose, or stands outside on the balcony at four in the morning while Ashton smokes all of Calum’s cigarettes, or lies next to him in bed while Ashton’s staring at the ceiling, fingers brushing against Ashton’s just to let him know he’s there. It’s something, Ashton thinks, as he’s relishing the bitter drip of the cocaine down his throat, or staring out at a city that isn’t home, or willing himself to cry while it’s still dark in the hotel room but unable to patch enough emotions together to form a single tear. It’s something, but it’s not quite enough to make Ashton feel like the pieces of himself will ever slot together in a way that fits.

And realistically, Ashton knows he can’t carry on like that indefinitely, can’t carry on catching brief glimpses of himself in shop windows and car doors and in Luke’s eyes and thinking I don’t know who that is, but what else is he supposed to do? Luke needs him, Michael needs him, and neither of them particularly seem to care what they’re doing to him. When Luke’s talking quietly, miserably, about missing home and his family and the fucking servo they used to hang out at when they had no money, and Ashton strokes his hair soothingly and says I know, and I’m sorry, he thinks what about me? D’you not think I miss home, my family, the fucking servo we used to hang out at when we had no money? When Michael’s mumbling incoherently into Ashton’s chest, something about not good enough and worthless, and Ashton presses a kiss to the top of his head and says you’re enough, Mike, you’re enough, he thinks what about me? Am I enough? They’ll smile at him brightly the next morning, throw him a quick sorry about last night, restored by all the energy Ashton’s given them, bleeding himself dry for just a few hours of their happiness, but they’ll never do anything more than that. It’s easy for them, easy to drain Ashton and hang around on the sidelines, bored, while he struggles to replenish himself only for them to get impatient and siphon off whatever he’s managed to get back again. But what else is Ashton supposed to do, leave them parched and gasping? 

What Luke and Michael don’t - or maybe won’t - see, Calum does. He sees the way Ashton zones out of conversations, the way he slumps on the sofa, the way he’ll close his eyes for a moment before plastering a smile on his face and cracking a joke. He always sighs, and usually gets that little crease between his eyes, but he says nothing.

He’d tried, once. You’re exhausting yourself, he’d said, passing his half-smoked cigarette to Ashton. Ashton had taken it, looked out at the light-polluted sky in front of them, and shrugged. Yeah, he’d thought, edged with bitterness. Who else is going to? 

See, that’s the thing about growing up. Ashton doesn’t have his mum seeing him exhausted and upset anymore, doesn’t have her around to march to his friends’ houses and tell their parents exactly what she thinks about how their kid is treating her son. He doesn’t have anyone to cradle him at night while he cries, no more home-cooked dinners brought to him in bed, no more trips to the supermarket for three tubs of ice cream. Nobody’s there to pick him up or to put him back together again, or to tell him when enough is enough. Nobody pulls the strings anymore; they were cut long ago, and Ashton’s only just starting to see the fraying threads. 

“I can’t do this anymore,” Ashton blurts to Calum one night, chain-smoking Calum’s cigarettes on the balcony of their hotel room. Calum doesn’t say anything at first, just hands him his next cigarette. “I can’t.” He doesn’t know whether Calum’s going to know what he means, doesn’t even know whether he wants to be saying it, but the words claw their way up his throat and out of his mouth before he has a chance to force them back down, a well-worn little dance between his head and what’s left of his heart. 

“You don’t have to,” Calum says, after a minute. He doesn’t, it’s true. It’s in Ashton’s hands, the decision to step away, to hold his hands up and say I’m not strong enough for this. But that would mean taking his life into his own hands, and Ashton’s not strong enough for that either. 

“Yeah, I do,” Ashton says, and Calum just sighs, and hands him the lighter. 

It’s not until Ashton’s almost finished the next cigarette that Calum speaks again. 

“What do you need?” 

It’s such a simple question, but it stops Ashton in his tracks. He spends all his time thinking I don’t want this, I need something else, there’s something missing, there’s something wrong, but when Calum picks up the other end of that thread of thoughts and asks what do you need? What can I give you? Ashton realises he doesn’t know.

He doesn’t know what he needs, he just knows that he needs something, something that isn’t this. And he doesn’t know what he wants, either, just knows that he wants something, something that isn’t this. He doesn’t fucking know anything, because he barely even knows who he is anymore, doesn’t know the hazel eyes that blink back at him in the mirror every morning, doesn’t know the curly hair he catches in the window of a passing bus. How is he supposed to know what will stitch the disparate parts of himself that he still has a hold of back together into something resembling Ashton Irwin when he doesn’t even know who Ashton Irwin is? 

“I don’t know,” he says eventually, and Calum hums, like he’s mulling the answer over in his mind. 

“Alright,” he says after a moment, like it’s okay that Ashton’s falling apart in front of him into too many shards to ever fit back together again, and hands Ashton another cigarette - there are only two more left, now - passing him the lighter along with it. Michael would probably frown at him if he knew, Ashton thinks, as he puts the cigarette between his lips, and Luke would whine and bitch and try and steal one of them off him, but Calum gets it. He gets that Ashton’s relishing the way his lungs are hot and burning from it, the way he’s choking from the inside out, revelling in the feeling of choking on something that isn’t himself, for once. He doesn’t like it - Ashton can see that in the way his lips are slightly down-turned, the glances he keeps sending Ashton out of the corner of his eyes - but he gets it. He always gets it, always knows when Ashton needs to be alone and when he needs to be with someone and when he needs to be high and when he needs to be sober, and Ashton’s never really thought too hard about it, but now he can’t help but wonder whether Calum gets it because he understands.

“Do you ever feel it?” Ashton asks. Calum looks at him for a moment, a little calculating, like he’s trying to work out just what Ashton means by that and how honest of an answer he should give, then looks out at whatever fucking city they’re in today, and shrugs. 

“Yeah, sometimes,” he says. 

“What do you do?” Calum shrugs again. 

“Let myself feel it,” he says. Ashton takes another drag of his cigarette, lets the words sink in with the nicotine. 

“Why?” Calum throws Ashton a look. 

“There’s nothing else I can do.” Ashton exhales heavily, watches the cloud of smoke as it turns from a plume into a mist between the two of them. He knows what Calum’s doing. He’s telling Ashton, as gently as he can, that it’s okay. And, Ashton thinks, he’s testing Ashton, challenging him to say you could repress it like me, seeing whether in the darkness and a few pints down he’ll admit to it. 

(But the city’s still lit up in front of them, and Ashton’s barely even tipsy.) 

“D’you think it’ll always be like this?” Ashton’s not even entirely sure what he’s asking. Will life always be this crazy, maybe, or will I always feel this way? 

“No,” Calum says, reaching for the pack of cigarettes again as Ashton stubs out the one he’s been smoking, and holds his hand out for another. He sounds so sure, so certain that things are going to get better somehow, and it makes the scraps of Ashton’s heart ache. 

“Are you just saying that to try and make me feel better?” Calum huffs out a laugh. 

“No,” he says again, a smile playing at his lips. “I’m saying it because it’s what you need to hear.” 

“What’s the difference?” 

“It’s not going to make you feel any better.” 

He’s right. It sort of makes Ashton’s stomach clench, the thought that things aren’t always going to be this way, because it means something’s got to change, and nothing will change until Ashton changes it. It’s comforting, in a way, knowing that he’s not always going to feel like this, but it’s equally as frightening as it is reassuring, because it means Ashton’s going to have to take a deep breath and step off the precipice he’s been hovering on for years, eyes wide open and still no idea where he’s going. 

But, Ashton realises, although his stomach is constricting and his heart has skipped a beat or two, he doesn’t feel any different. He doesn’t feel any more afraid, any more overwhelmed, doesn’t feel unsettled or like the weight pressing down on his chest has got any heavier. He doesn’t feel better, but he doesn’t feel worse, and that’s more than he’s ever had when allowing himself a peek into this abyss.

It doesn’t quite hit him so much as it nudges at him, knocking politely and waiting for him to answer the door. Ashton hadn’t known what he needed - still doesn’t know what he needs, doesn’t even know what he wants or where he wants to end up - but Calum had. Calum had found the right words, known exactly how to balance comfort and honesty, known where to draw the line and where to step over it. 

Ashton takes another long drag of the cigarette in his hands, watches it as it burns almost all the way down to the filter, and then stubs it out, lays the butt in the middle of his frankly impressive collection, and moves to the edge of the balcony, letting his forearms rest on the railing and his hands hang in the cool night air. Calum seems to sense that it’s a silent invitation, and steps forward to join him, arm pressing against Ashton’s when he leans forward over the balcony. 

Calum holds out the last cigarette, digs around in his pocket for the lighter Ashton had handed back to him after his last cigarette, that silent this might be my last after lighting every one that neither of them believed anyway, and holds it out in the palm of his hand for Ashton to take. Ashton puts the cigarette between his lips, but hesitates with his hand halfway to Calum’s. His lungs feel full, now, smoke and tar and something else, something Ashton can’t quite place but knows he doesn’t mind. 

Instead of pulling the lighter out of Calum’s hand, Ashton brings his fingers up and links them with Calum’s, squeezing their hands together. It’s a little uncomfortable, the lighter hard and still warm between the two of them, but Ashton doesn’t mind. It’s sort of grounding, in a way. 

What do you need? Calum had asked. 

You, Ashton’s saying, hand tightening around Calum’s. When Calum’s fingers curl around his own, warm and soft, thumb stroking gently over Ashton’s, Ashton knows what he’s saying. 

Okay. 

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