#i am very sick as of queuing this though so i might just be going crazy

[every-matsuda]

[glacierbash]

Y'know, any time I start to talk about this game, I feel obligated to lead with the funniest fact I have: I absolutely hated Final Fantasy, for myriad reasons both personal and amusing. I hated, for example, the way Elezen were shaped. I hated that Lalafell looked so young. I hated that everybody acted like it was so great, and by sheer contrarian nature I decided I would simply never play this game. And for quite some time, that worked! I'd bombard my partner with whatever media algorithms recommended me involving FFXIV, just to make fun of it. I detested this MMO, without having ever tried it. And yet, deep down, I knew I wanted a community. I wanted to be around people, even if through an online medium. When I worked at the library, my coworker set up a WoW private server that I spent some time fucking around in, but deep down I wanted people. Try as I might, I couldn't deny some part of me wanted to see what the game was all about.

So, I tried it. I spent 30 minutes exactly between opening the character creator to first posting a name that, genuinely, would define more than 2 years of my life: Iverelle Vauvenelle.

I spend about 2 days playing the game, one being chased around by strangers who my partner swore were good people, and one just questing on my own--and it was fine. I got to MSQ level 24, quite literally one quest away from being able to travel to other city states, and I stopped. I played my fair share, I played 5 hours, and I decided the game wasn't for me. I put it down for several months, when I was approached by somebody who I am no longer friends with. He said I should play the game again, keep going just long enough to travel to Gridania, so that I could see one of his alts--and maybe, we could play together! I didn't want to upset him, so I said "fine," and gave it another try.

By the end of the week, I was finishing up ARR, and moving into post patch, and something just... Changed for me. I'm not sure what it was, honestly. It's not like the game magically changed for me then, or if Iverelle had become perhaps my most meaningful character ever, but something shifted, and I found myself enjoying the game. It didn't even make sense to me then when I bought a subscription to the game, but I knew that something here was special. I just... Had to.

Post patch took me about a month, with multiple days spent stressing out over queuing into Good King Mogglemog out of fear and anxiety, because the trial was labeled as hard and my disorder was, frankly, at its worst. But, I managed to do so anyways. The victory was meaningless for most people, but for me? It was beyond words, just how important it was that I did content with other people, especially considering I went through all of ARR solo.

I made it to the end of ARR, to the infamous cutscene, when I realized I was sick with covid. In VC with two of my friends, I said the infamous line: "I think I have a fever." What a way to enter Heavensward, huh? I think it is in no small part due to Covid that Heavensward ended up being my favorite expansion of all time, and why Ysayle Dangoulain ended up being my favorite character of all time. Sickness and quarantine gave me all the time in the world, and being far too sick to be anxious, I sped through the story. One week later, I was done with Heavensward.

And of course, by now, I am finished with Endwalker and awaiting Dawntrail. For 2 years of my life now, I have been playing this game nigh daily. I stay up late playing it, I finish my daily responsibilities as soon as possible to play it, and I find myself enjoying it. I never thought that would happen, truth be told. More importantly than enjoying the game itself, though, is the friends I met.

I have lived a very isolated life. Partially due to my anxiety making me extremely averse to interacting with people, and partially due to how I've been raised, I struggle a lot with people. Autism, anxiety, and having not been properly socialized made me terrible. I longed for new friends, but I hated the effort that went into it. Imagine my surprise when one day, I found myself driving out to meet people who I play this game with, to spend time with them? When I found myself wanting to meet them?

And yet, here I was. I was driving out to meet these people who I play this game with--and more importantly, they wanted to meet me. Even as I think back on that day, I start to tear up. It was one of the most important days of my life. Were it not for this game, for playing it daily, for being dragged into a Free Company and for sitting in calls with people because of this game, I would not have known these people. They are some of the most important people in my life.

I think of the late nights playing Mahjong, or doing PVP, or treasure maps, or just sitting around talking. I think of those nights and then having to wake up early for work, waking up exhausted but so happy. I think of staying up until damn near 5 in the morning talking about whatever it is that comes to mind. I think about stupid inside jokes, and shared experiences, and the stories that I'll tell for years to come.

It's just a game. Final Fantasy XIV is, at the end of the day, just a game--and yet, that game has served as a way for me to grow as a person in ways I've never thought possible. My anxiety has not magically been cured, mind; but, when I'm able to talk to strangers and my heartrate doesn't skyrocket, when I'm able to do things in this game that once terrified me, when I'm able to exist comfortably not just in this game but in the outside world, I realize that it's done more for me than I'll ever be able to say. Yes, it is just a game, but people play a game due to a shared interest, no? And through that shared interest, friendships can blossom. To say that I love my friends, the people I met ultimately because of this game, would be an understatement, and I fear I do not make that clear enough.

Stupid as it is to say, Final Fantasy XIV has changed my life, for the better. Dawntrail is coming in just a few short hours, and though I am a whirlwind of emotions, the predominant one is excitement. I was there for the end of an era, and now I am here for the start of a new one.

So thank you. If you read all the way through this, thank you. If you skimmed just to the end, thank you. Thank you to my friends, especially. I would not be here as I am now were it not for you all.

Here's to a new adventure, friends :^] (Second screenshot featuring: @gailiag, the best viera on hydaelyn)

[blossom-hwa]

Put Your Arms Around Me (I’ll Be Warm For Days) - DAEYEOL

so I once swore I'd never write a vampire fic yet here I am breaking that promise because I saw this post explaining that once you rescind your welcome to a vampire they are obligated to leave and then this just happened

god I already feel embarrassed just queuing this I'm so sorry

Pairing: Daeyeol x gender neutral!reader

Genre: fluff, vampire!au

Triggers: mentions of biting like once? it never gets described

Word Count: 3k

In your arms, Daeyeol feels just a little more human.

Golden Child Masterlist

Spinning in the pouring rain, dreary gray clouds lining the sky with not a hint of sky in between, your laughter rings radiant in the air as Daeyeol watches from under the apartment overhang, umbrella closed by his side. A small smile lifts the corners of his lips, a smile that he no longer tries to hide – you know how feels. And though you haven’t given him a reply just yet, it’s a blessing nonetheless not to have to hide the love in his expression whenever he sees you free, happy, alive.

“Daeyeol!” You come running up, shoes squelching through streets already covered in a layer of water. Even as cold rain splashes and hits his skin, his smile widens as your wet face appears in his line of vision. “Come on, you stupid baby – just for a few minutes!”

“You’re calling me a stupid baby?” He scoffs in mock indignity, pulling you out of the rain. “I’m several centuries older than you, thank you very much, and I have more degrees than you will ever earn in your life –”

A wet hand hits his arm and your laughter rings again, music in Daeyeol’s ears. “And yet you’re still afraid of a little rain,” you tease, hand wrapping around his wrist. “How is it that you’re the immortal who’ll never get sick or tired but you’re also the one waiting out the downpour?”

“How is it that you’re the human who’ll definitely get sick and sniffly but you’re also the one dancing out in said downpour?” Daeyeol counters, shrugging off his coat. The chill strikes his bare arms but he ignores it, placing it over your shoulders. “You need a hot shower or you’re going to be sick all day tomorrow.”

“Hey, just a few minutes.” You beam at him, pulling the coat around you more securely. “Come on, please?”

He can’t say no. He never could, not when faced with you. Even though Daeyeol is a centuries old vampire and has seen enough of the world to make him lose faith in humanity multiple times (once quite recently), the sparkle in your eyes never fails to remind him that there’s still kindness, there’s still good, there’s still love in the world that might just prevail over all the bad. So he follows you into the rain and watches you spin under the showering droplets, arms held out wide (his coat is definitely going to need a long wash), and even as the cold air begins to seep into his already cold skin, he finds warmth in your laugh, warmth in your smile, warmth even in your chilly hand as it wraps around his fingers and forces him to spin around once too.

What wouldn’t he give to pull you closer, to bring your body right up against his so he can press a kiss to your rainy forehead, staring into your eyes as you gaze back with the same love that he holds for you? What wouldn’t he give to sway you gently in the downpour, water soaking your clothes as he wraps his arms around your waist and rests his head on your shoulder and simply stays there, soaking in the love of someone he cares for with all that is left of his heart?

But with no reciprocation must come restraint, and after centuries of life (or death, depending on how he thinks of it), he’s well-versed in the skill. Daeyeol loves you and you know this, but he’s also made it clear that he will never pressure you into an answer, will never force himself onto you no matter how long he must wait. He’s lived for centuries. He can wait a little longer for a reply to his confession, be it favorable or unfavorable, as long as you allow him to stay by your side.

You twirl around, eyes squinted nearly shut with laughter. A few feet away from Daeyeol, you stop and turn back to him with a look simultaneously familiar and unfamiliar, unfamiliar in that he hasn’t seen it on your face, but familiar in that he has seen it on his when Joochan drew that portrait of him staring at an off-canvas you, the softest glint of love in his eyes.

Love.

Real love.

But this time in your eyes, not his.

Daeyeol’s breath stutters in his throat. Hope rises in his chest, makes him feel an artificial warmth in his cold face and if he were still human his heart would be fluttering, pounding, racing as he returns your gaze –

But the look disappears in a second, replaced by a much more familiar expression of simple joy and laughter as you tromp through the puddles to brush a wet clump of hair out of Daeyeol’s face. Your fingers, though cold, send warm tingles up his spine. “It’s not fun if you just stand there and let the rain pour all over you, you know,” you reproach, eyes sparkling.

Cold disappointment eats through the previous warmth in his chest but Daeyeol swallows it down. He was probably seeing things, probably projecting his feelings onto you in a way that wasn’t real. And even if he wasn’t, just because you feel similarly doesn’t mean you’re ready to say it just yet. No sense in hoping or probing.

Daeyeol allows his lips to tilt in a little pout. “I just don’t want you to get sick,” he says, braving a hand to uselessly wipe rain off your face. “Come on, it’s been a few minutes. You need a shower and I need to cook dinner.”

You grumble a little but the reminder of warm food convinces you to escape the rain. Daeyeol lingers behind slightly as you head into the apartment lobby, gazing wistfully at your back.

No. He shakes his head. This is enough. All of it is enough. It is enough that you allow him to stay, enough that you welcome him into your apartment every day even if you rescind the invitation at night. It is enough that you accept his feelings even if you need more time for an answer, treasuring the heart he’s entrusted you even if you’re not yet ready to offer your own. Because even though you’re the only one for him, the only one who’s made him wish his heart could beat not just for life but for love since he was turned so many centuries ago, the only thing that matters to Daeyeol is your comfort and your happiness.

For as long as a genuine smile remains etched on your face, Daeyeol can find peace in your joy.

. . . . .

His hair is still slightly damp from the shower when the clock strikes midnight several hours later and Daeyeol looks up from his perch on the couch, frowning over his glasses at the two clock hands that signal his time to leave.

You look up too, squinting over your laptop at the clock. Daeyeol takes the moment to focus on the way your eyes still shine through the tiredness on your face. It’s a far cry from the rainy exuberance you wore a few hours ago, but it’s just as beautiful in a quieter, softer way.

A smile spreads over his lips, wide but a little sad, too. With this stolen moment of silent admiration comes the knowledge that it’s time for you to rescind your welcome, for him to make the lonely walk up one floor to his own apartment, for him to slide between cold sheets that won’t grow warm because his blood doesn’t flow and attempt to sleep while imagining you in his embrace. The next day will come sooner the faster he falls asleep, Daeyeol knows, and the sooner the next day comes the sooner he gets to see you, but that doesn’t seem to compute when all he wants is to feel your warmth by his side.

“I should go,” he says quietly, closing his literature textbook as he stands.

You nod, yawning. The urge to walk over and kiss your forehead is almost overwhelming but Daeyeol resists, only reaching out to pat your head softly as he passes by. “Mm, it’s late.”

Do you lean into his touch? Daeyeol doesn’t know. You’re always careful with your actions, careful in a way Daeyeol wishes you weren’t however much he understands, but this time when Daeyeol touches your face, he can’t help but hope you might have leaned in slightly, just slightly, even if it was unintentional.

“Goodnight, then.” He stops at the door to put on his shoes.

“Goodnight, Daeyeol.” You smile, though your eyes glint with a little something that looks like a mix of worry and… excitement? “Sweet dreams.”

He lingers a moment longer, debating whether or not to ask you if something’s wrong. Worry isn’t exactly characteristic in your expression, and even less so is the mixture of anxious excitement burning softly in your eyes. But he stops himself. It’s late, after all, and if you still look the same way in the morning, he can ask then when you aren’t so tired. His other shoe goes on and he swings open the door, glancing back one last time as you wave from the table.

One foot out the door, then the other. Daeyeol begins to close the door.

Then his eyes widen and he swings it back open before he can even comprehend his brief thought.

You don’t look surprised when he stumbles back into the apartment, clutching the doorknob so hard he knows it’ll break between his fingers if he doesn’t loosen his grip soon. If anything, a little smile curves your lips, shy and anticipating but gleeful, too, excited and glinting with a warmth that Daeyeol recognizes from Joochan’s portrait –

“You didn’t rescind your invitation," he breathes. “Did you –” he swallows, not wanting to consider the painful possibility but forcing it through his mouth even as hope blooms vibrant and full in his chest – “did you forget?”

The second it takes for you to open your mouth is excruciating, but his patience is rewarded when shake your head and smile. “No,” you reply, standing up. Daeyeol can barely breathe as you step forward, closer, eyes sparkling. “I didn’t.”

You’re close, so close that Daeyeol would barely need to move to slide an arm around you, to pull you into his chest and bury his face in your shoulder the way he wanted to so badly in the rain. He could lift his head, press soft kisses to your neck and jaw and cheek, moving towards your forehead and nose and then your lips –

Two warm arms wrap around his waist and Daeyeol stops breathing for real. Your body presses into his and Daeyeol winces slightly, wondering how you’ll react when you feel the distinct lack of a heartbeat beneath his shirt. But you don’t so much as flinch, only look up with a slightly uncertain expression when Daeyeol goes rigid beneath your touch. “Is this okay?” you ask, eyebrows furrowed.

“Yes,” Daeyeol replies, voice slightly choked for breath. “Yes, it’s everything I’ve – just –” He swallows. “Is this what you want? It’s not… not just because of how I feel, is it?”

At that, your expression relaxes, worry melting into exasperated affection. “Of course not,” you murmur, arms tightening around his body. Daeyeol almost gasps at the muted warmth that seeps through his shirt, rushing up his skin. “I trust you. I should’ve trusted you a long time ago, really. You’ve only ever treated me with love and care. You’ve never done anything remotely threatening to me and…” You lift your head from his skin and look at him with shining eyes. “I don’t believe you ever will.”

He moves, then, arms curving around your waist with maybe a bit too much strength but he grants himself a brief reprieve from years of constant restraint, allows himself to bring you close, close, closer as he tucks himself into your warmth, closing his eyes in bliss as your breath tickles his skin. “You had every right not to trust me,” he corrects you, murmuring into your ear. “I don’t blame you. When a vampire shows up in your life and you catch him feeding, of all things…”

“Still, Daeyeol.” His name takes a new nuance, spoken from your lips with love. “You’ve never done anything to me or anyone, really, not on purpose. You’ve only been loving and gentle and kind, and I trust you enough to give you my love.”

To give you my love. Besides his name from your voice and your laugh, Daeyeol has never heard anything lovelier to his ears. “I’ll treasure it,” he promises, pressing a soft kiss to your neck. He delights in the little shiver that races up your spine. “Forever.”

“As I treasure yours.” You pull back, smiling wide. “Do you want to stay the night?”

. . . . .

Somehow, Daeyeol ends up in your room, sitting on the bed uncertainly as he waits for you to come out of the bathroom. He doesn’t really know what to do – actually, what will you be okay with him doing? Will you allow him to curl into your warmth the way he yearns to, or will you want to maintain some space?

Your voice startles him out of his thoughts. “Daeyeol, I’m not going to bite,” you say, looking slightly amused as you reach around him to pull open the blankets. “That’s your job. Come on, get in or I’ll make you get up to turn off the lights instead.”

Like a child, Daeyeol slides between the sheets, letting you drop them back over him before switching off the lights. The room descends into darkness lit only by a sliver of the moon through the window as you settle into bed next to him, pulling the blankets over you both.

An arm slips under him and Daeyeol almost forgets how to breathe again when you bring yourself closer under the blankets, resting your head against his chest. “Is this okay?” you whisper, voice tickling his skin.

It’s okay. More than okay. Much more than okay. So Daeyeol just nods, pushing away the urge to take off his shirt and feel your warmth directly on his skin rather than through his clothes. It’s your first night in the same bed. You’d probably be uncomfortable. “Yes.”

“Liar.” You shift in the bed, the moon illuminating your face just enough that Daeyeol can see the eyebrow you’ve raised. “Am I making you uncomfortable? I can stop if you want.”

Daeyeol shakes his head as best he can. “No, no. I just…”

“Hm?”

To hell with it. Daeyeol swallows. “When I’m not around you, I feel cold,” he says. For heaven’s sake, if he was a human, his cheeks would be burning. “But when I am, I finally feel warm. And I…” He sighs. “I’d rather feel your warmth directly, rather than through my clothes.”

“… So you want to take off your shirt.”

His ears would also be red. “Yes. But if you’re uncomfortable –”

“No, it’s fine.” Your eyes look a little shy but it’s too dark for Daeyeol to really tell. “Come on, make yourself comfortable. I’m fine with it.”

“Are you sure? I –”

“Daeyeol.” You look up to face him fully as you smile wide. “Yes. I’m sure.”

The shirt falls to the floor and you pull yourself close once more. Daeyeol sighs as your warmth seeps through his skin, sending pleasant tingles all throughout his body as he curls into you, closing his eyes in delight. “Thank you,” he murmurs against your neck.

“Of course.” You shift slightly and Daeyeol blinks, ready to adjust to whatever position you find yourself in, but you only level your face with his, smiling brighter than the stars peeking through the window. “Do you mind…?”

It takes Daeyeol a moment to understand what you’re asking but when he does, he doesn’t bother giving you a verbal answer in favor of kissing you, eyes fluttering shut in bliss as you press back. His arm falls to your waist, curving over your body and bringing you closer as his other hand rises to caress your cheek. You sigh into his lips, your own fingers reaching up to tangle softly through his hair.

You break away for air, then kiss once, twice, three times more before it feels okay to stop. Daeyeol blinks slowly when you pull away the last time. His hand is still on your cheek and he rubs absentminded circles on your skin, soaking in the way you lean into his touch, and in that moment, he knows he could spend centuries waiting for your lips if it meant he would feel them, warm against his own, just once in a millennium.

“I love you,” you whisper, breath soft against his bare skin. Your eyes are fluttering shut but you keep them open, barely, just enough for Daeyeol to see the loveliness of your gaze before you close them fully for sleep.

He curls in closer to press a quiet kiss to your forehead. You don’t flinch from his cold touch, only sigh briefly before allowing your lips to curve sweetly, gently, as your eyes close. “I love you too,” he murmurs, kissing you softly one last time before settling into your touch.

Your skin bleeds heat into his, makes him feel a little more whole, a little more full, a little less like a blank, immortal vessel for the first time in centuries. It makes him feel as though his heart could beat again, could pump blood through his dead veins and turn him human once more. But even then, even if it can’t, it’s okay. As long as Daeyeol has you, as long as he can love you fully and feel the warmth of your affection in return, he’ll be happy, happier than he ever thought possible since the day he was turned.

Daeyeol smiles, pulling the blankets more securely around you as your breath evens into sleep.

He already feels warmer.

If you enjoyed, please don’t forget to reblog and leave a comment to tell me what you thought! Thank you for reading and have a lovely day <3

(1 reblog = 1 prayer for Daeyeol to keep this warmth :D he deserves it)

[butterflydm]

wheel of time (pre-rewatch)

I’m planning on rewatching the first three episodes of Wheel of Time this weekend, and I might do reviews for each of them, but I wanted to share some overall thoughts first.

So, I actually watched this with my mom, because she’s the one who introduced me to all of these sorts of books (I also went to Dune with her, which is another thing I want to rewatch in order to really dig into it, but going to the theater again is harder than just queuing up episodes on prime, so!), and she and I were both pretty thrilled with the adaptation (my mom actually liked this better than she liked Dune 2021, which I am not personally willing to go as far as yet, lol, but I liked it a whole lot).

They changed a lot of things from the books, but all the changes so far do make a reasonable amount of sense to me. Now, I did deliberately refrain from re-reading the books once we knew for sure the series was happening, because I wanted to be able to experience the show with a somewhat fresh eye, and I think that approach really worked for me. I wasn’t caught up on specific scenes but more thinking about if the flow of the show suited the series as a whole, which it definitely did for me.

(and now we go into Book Spoilers territory)

To start with the most controversial thing... Perrin’s short-lived wife. I get why she existed and why she died. Was she the best way to convey that information (Perrin being scared of his own strength and terrified of losing control and hurting the people he loves)? I’m gonna give that a firm... I don’t know. But there are more than enough female characters with rich and interesting stories that I’m personally not too emotionally hung up over her death. I mean, given that the prologue isn’t in the show (...yet? we might get flashbacks in the future idk), I kinda feel like we just traded one fridged wife for a different one, you know? And Perrin is even more in his own head than the other boys are, so it helps to have something external to illustrate his issues.

I straight-up just approve of the change in Mat’s background. It fits very thematically with where his character goes in the future and gives him some emotionally grounded moments before his personality gets affected by Shadar Logoth.

Egwene and Rand’s romance upgrade before the break-up -- I liked it! I liked all their scenes together, honestly. I’ve always had a soft spot for them, though Rand’s upcoming set of relationships is my everything. If I get canon polycule on-screen, I may well expire on the spot. Like, Rand’s polycule was my Sense8-type emotional awakening before Sense8 existed, if you understand my feelings on the matter. There is a line directly from my love of the polycule to my love for Sense8.

Lan and Nynaeve were perfect. That is all. Oh, wait, Lan and Moiraine’s incredibly-close but non-sexual relationship... also perfect. Moiraine saying Siuan’s name while she was delirious and sick? Perfect. tbh, if they use introducing Thom later as a way to subtly begin to un-canon M/T so that we can get M/S endgame instead, every change they made is absolutely justified and I will defend them to the death.

Oh, other amazing characterization things -- loved the change they made to the Taren’s Ferry scene. Moiraine was so cold there but so justified in it. The show did a fantastic job of illustrating the Three Oaths in action, imo, in that scene and then in the Whitecloaks scene.

(the Whitecloaks? Terrifying!)

I felt like the episodes did get stronger as they went along -- three felt the strongest of all, for me -- oh! yes, loved Dana the Darkfriend. Getting that nihilistic philosophy out there near the start of the show was a good thing and that actress was amazing.

For me, the show is a five out of five banger and I am going to be on the edge of my seat every week waiting for the new episode to come out.

[quickspinner]

The Truth Hurts

(I’m sorry I know that title is super unoriginal but it fits so well)

Spoilers for S4E1 Truth

Also not especially a fix it fic, more of an aftermath fic, so prepare for pain. 

I’m late but this is for the LBSC Sprint Challenge prompt  2. “So, if you are too tired to speak, sit next to me because I, too, am fluent in silence.” I actually only spent two sprints on this and then I thought I was done enough, but I did add quite a bit more trying to bring it to a satisfactory close. I think I still fit pretty closely to the time restraints plus editing though. Except I’m already a day late so the editing was not very heavy on this one. Hopefully I didn’t miss too many errors or word repetitions. 

Luka pain (sorry) and Couffaine sibling solidarity. Special apologies to @airi-p4 because I didn’t fix anything, I just made it worse.  😅

Warnings for Dad Pain and abandonment issues. 

He woke up numb. Which wasn’t a bad option, all things considered. 

Then he rolled over. And there was the face. Staring from his wall, like it had been for, what...seven years? 

The face of his father.

He wasn’t so numb anymore. Luka shoved the covers off of himself and sat up, staring at that face. 

For a few minutes last night, heartbroken and sick at everything that had happened, Luka had known what it was like to have a father. One who cared. Jagged had hugged him. Ankara’s hugs were tight and hard, but she still had a woman’s body, soft and curved, a little plump with age and childbearing. All Luka could think of as his father embraced him was how bony he was. The metal clink of Jagged’s jewelry was nothing like the quiet click of Anarka’s beaded bracelets, and his arms were thin, his body broad-shouldered but thin, without any of Anarka’s cushioning. Luka had never really spent time imagining what a father’s hug felt like, but it was different from a mother’s, and that was good enough for him at the moment.

It wasn’t as if he hadn’t needed a hug just then. Badly, in fact. 

It all felt like such a dream; something from a movie plot. His father, his idol, suddenly one person, and promising to write a song with Luka, it...it was overwhelming. It was like every little-boy daydream come true. 

But it wasn’t a dream, and Luka wasn’t a little boy anymore. So he wasn’t al that surprised when Jagged left.

Because he had a party to go to. 

Because he’d left his family long ago for a rich and famous rock star life, and he had never once looked back. 

I know how to turn feelings into an awesome song . 

Luka lunged up out of bed, turning over the pile of stuff at the end of his bed until he found his laptop. With it in hand, he turned and reached to snatch the earbuds off his nightstand amp, and then paused with them tangled in his fist, thinking. 

“Luka?” Juleka mumbled, sitting up in her bed. 

Luka ignored her. As much as he loved her, he couldn’t take care of her right now. He couldn’t. He threw his earbuds down on his bed and went upstairs instead, jaw set, shoving crap out of his way carelessly until he unearthed the wiring for the sound system. 

He hooked up his laptop with shaking hands and blurring vision. He could barely breathe as he queued up his entire Jagged Stone collection, chronologically, from memory, because he was officially Jagged Stone’s number one fan and it wasn’t even hard. 

Luka cranked up the sound system, and pressed play. Jagged Stone’s very first album blared from the speakers above him. Luka skipped the first song hurriedly. He wasn’t ready to face that memory just yet.

“What in the seven seas—” he heard behind him, and he turned, fixing his eyes on his mother. He wasn’t even sure what kind of face he was making, but she stopped in her tracks.

She knew, all this time . She knew that these songs were about her, were about them . 

You are the donut of my life, Jagged’s voice howled from the speakers. The donut. Sweet, but heavy. Bad for you. Not something you ate every day. Not something that nourished you or made you better. 

God, how it must have hurt Anarka all these years, hearing those songs over and over and knowing.

It was hurting her now, he could see. 

Luka could have stayed below. He could have used the earbuds. He could have spared her. He could have suffered privately.

He wasn’t sorry he hadn’t. Not this time. 

Anarka sighed through her nose, and then turned and walked away, fists clenched. 

He’d feel bad about it later. It wasn’t like he didn’t have enough to be sorry for after yesterday. Might as well lump it all in together. Luka turned back to his computer, and pulled his legs up, wrapping his arms around them and setting his chin on his knees as he closed his eyes to listen to the blaring music. To the truth .

Even thinking the word twisted his stomach and made him feel sick. But that’s what this was, wasn’t it. The truth about his father’s feelings. Luka almost wanted to laugh. It explained so much, now. The sentimentality of Jagged’s early work. And here, around his third album, here was where he moved on . Where he got over them. 

I abandoned everything, but not my dreams .

Here was where he began to take on the persona of the true rock ‘n roll artist. Where he convinced himself it was all for the best because now he could make pure art, now that no one—now that Anarka and Luka nad Juleka weren’t holding him back .

My guitar is my only family.

Goddamnit, Luka loved that song. He buried his face in his knees and gripped his hair with both fists. 

He felt hands on his back. Two hands, flat against him, rubbing slightly. Soothing. His mind flew, irrationally, to Marinette, but when he raised his face enough to look over his shoulder, it was Juleka sitting there behind him, her hands resting on his back, her shoulders curled inward as she peered at him through her hair. Of course. Because Marinette had no reason to be here anymore, and he’d chased his mother out. Of course it was Juleka, who had never wanted to know the truth, who had preferred not knowing to being disappointed.

Luka was starting to see her point. 

And now he had forced this, all this on her. The truth she had never wanted to hear screaming out in stereo sound. 

God, he was such an ass. He might be angry at his mother but none of this was Jules’ fault. 

Juleka moved her hands hesitantly to his shoulders, and leaned against his back, resting her cheek against him. Luka lifted one hand to cover hers, and put his head down on his knees again, pulled a little bit out of his own selfish pain by her presence. He appreciated her silent forgiveness. 

Soon he would have to get up. The world wasn’t going to stop for his shattered heart, and Luka would have to get up, and put on his brave face, and deal with things like Luka Couffaine did. Honestly, head on, by telling the truth as he saw it. He owed it to Juleka to help her work through it too, since he was the one that forced the knowledge on her. Silently he vowed not to let her be overlooked. Jagged owed it to her to at least look at her and acknowledge her. If she didn’t want anything to do with him after that, then that was her choice. 

Juleka’s head nudged his back, and he sighed. She moved her hands again, this time putting her thin arms around him and hugging him tight. Luka took another long breath, and leaned back into her a bit, as Jagged’s Most Rockin’ Hits Vol 1 began to play.

Under the moon, deep within the woods...

Luka closed his eyes and swallowed hard. “I broke up with Marinette,” he said quietly. “Or maybe...we broke up with each other. I don’t know.” He sighed shakily. “I guess we just...weren’t meant to be. Right now.” He swallowed again against the lump in his throat. “It’s probably for the best. I’ve...got a lot to deal with right now anyway.” 

Juleka had tensed when he said it, with surprise, he thought. But she listened, and hummed a wordless acknowledgement, and hugged him tighter. 

If his tears dripped on her arms, she didn’t complain. The back of his shirt was feeling a bit damp, anyway. 

The truth hurt. He’d always known that, but he also believed in the healing it brought. Better to face the pain head on, where you know it’s coming, than let it fester and burst on you when you weren’t prepared for it. Luka had enough experience with denial to know that running away only left your back bared to the knife. 

Juleka’s face pressed a little harder between his shoulder blades. 

Luka sighed, and reached out to turn the music off. He turned towards Juleka so that she leaned against his side, and he put his arm around her, and they leaned on each other in the suddenly deafening silence. 

[calumcest]

i took a walk with my fame down memory lane (i never did find my way back) - chapter six

[ao3]

can you believe i’ve actually been posting this on time on schedule every week bar that one week that i accidentally posted it at like 1am but lets not talk about that. i’m a changed woman i really am nobody come for me about unfinished chaptered fics again 

as ever i have to thank the brilliant @tirednotflirting for putting up with the horrors of my huge google doc which is still half-bolded because i change all those things in the ao3 posting box because i write like an absolute mess i believe the document is now around 140 pages so...you are a trooper for sitting with me through all of that every time i see you in there i get very happy and your little comments always make my day 

and of course where would this fic be without @kaleidoscopeminds at this point maybe i’m sustained by your validation...maybe so 

It would have been too much to expect that having to have The Conversation with Michael would be the only thing Calum would have to contend with. 

In fairness, the day doesn’t get off to too bad of a start. Calum can’t eat breakfast, stomach churning too much to swallow anything more than a glass of water before he runs out of the house at half-eight, just managing to make the bus to Piccadilly, but, unusually for British Rail, his train’s actually on time. It’s idling on the platform when Calum gets there, a few people dressed up in suits looking at their watches before getting on, like they can’t really believe it’s two whole minutes before the train leaves and it’s already there, and it’s not too busy inside. Calum finds himself an empty two-seater and slides in, putting one elbow on the slight ridge of the window and resting his chin in his hand as he stares out, trying to focus on the people milling around on the opposite platform rather than the uncomfortable lightness of his stomach. 

The train leaves on time too, pulls itself out of Piccadilly with heaves and groans, all rattling and hissing, but then they’re on their way, and Calum watches as the industrial sites and red-brick houses fade into flat, green fields. It starts raining somewhere past Leamington Spa, or maybe Milton Keynes, but Calum doesn’t mind, picking out specific raindrops and watching them as they trickle down the window. Someone’s etched COCK into the glass - or is it plastic? Calum’s never sure - and the raindrops sliding past it make it look oddly artistic, like something Calum thinks he might find in the Whitworth. He’s so entranced by it, watching the droplets framing the second C, that he doesn’t realise they’re in London until people start standing up and gathering their things together, and the train starts slowing as it pulls into Euston. 

Calum hasn’t got much to gather, but pats his pocket to make sure his wallet’s in there all the same, pulls his coat closer around himself and shoves his hands in his pockets as he stands up, smiling politely at the woman that gestures for him to go ahead of her. The crowd of people that have gathered by the door are slowly starting to trickle through it, jostling impatiently as they wait for an elderly man to make his way off the train, and Calum just shuffles along with them, swallowing to try and clear some of the dryness in his mouth. He’s here, now. He’s in London. This is it. 

Euston’s big, impersonal, has none of the charm of Piccadilly - not that any of London does, really, Calum thinks - and he joins one of the queues by the dirty ticket barriers, fumbling in his pockets for his ticket that hadn’t even been checked once on the entire train journey down as it slowly shuffles forwards. The machine doesn’t spit it back at him, just swallows it down and flings itself open for him to walk through, and he hesitates for a moment before going through. It feels like crossing some kind of threshold, but he’s swept up in the bustling hordes of self-important-looking Londoners weaving in and out of each other before he has too much time to think about it. They always seem to be in a permanent state of transience, Calum thinks, as he manages to duck out of the crowd and lean against WH Smith; he’s never seen a Londoner look like they’re actually where they want to be, always seem to be heading somewhere else. 

It’s getting close to lunchtime but Calum’s still not hungry, feeling a little sick with anticipation. Or maybe it’s just travel-sickness. Or maybe it’s the adrenaline that spikes every time he thinks about the fact he’ll be near Michael again, that Michael will be within reach. He tries not to dwell on that as he joins the crowd heading for the tube, digging around in his pocket for some change to buy a ticket. He’s not even sure what he needs - a single should do it, right? He’s not sure how returns work, whether he’ll need to use it by a specific time, not even sure what time he’ll be leaving Michael’s. London off-peak might be different to Manchester off-peak. 

There’s even a queue for the ticket machines - fucking hell, is there anywhere in London that he doesn’t have to queue for - but Calum’s slight irritation is quickly replaced by a cold rush of fear when he hears an unmistakable voice shout: “Eeyar, ‘s that Calum? Hey, Cal! Cal!” 

Oh, shit.  

For a split second, Calum dithers between turning around and legging it, but by the time he’s glanced over at possible exit routes, a hand’s clapping on his shoulder and pulling him around anyway. 

It’s Liam, with Noel in tow, because of fucking course it is. Jesus Christ. It’s like the universe is spitting sign after sign at Calum, flashing red neon warnings that say don’t be a cunt, you owe it to the two of them, don’t go behind their fucking backs, only escalating with every one that Calum ignores. Well, he thinks, a little bitterly, as the guilt that’s been quietly gnawing at his stomach flashes its sharp teeth. The universe shouldn’t have sent him Michael in the first place, then, should it?

“What the fuck are you doing here?” Liam says happily, not sounding more than a little curious. Noel, though, is frowning, having the answer to the equation and one constant, and trying to figure out the coefficient and the variable.

“Just...running a few errands,” Calum says, and hopes it doesn’t sound as evasive to Liam and Noel as it does to him. “Mum wanted some stuff done.” It’s not exactly implausible, is it? It’s a week ‘til Christmas; it’d make perfect sense if Calum’s mum wanted some stuff done. It might not explain why she’d need it doing in London, but Calum hopes that that part of it won’t get prodded at too hard by either of the brothers, and if it does, chucking in a few embassy s and work visa s should do the trick. 

“Why didn’t you say?” Liam says, but he doesn’t sound upset, just curious. Calum shrugs, and steps forward to the ticket machine as the lady in front of him walks away, buying himself time to come up with a semi-plausible answer. Noel and Liam follow, much to the annoyance of the guy behind Calum in the queue, who tuts and mutters something under his breath that just earns him a lazy two-fingered salute from Liam. 

“Only found out last night,” Calum says, which is absolute bullshit, because he hadn’t got back from the pub until long after last call, and his mum goes to bed around ten. Liam seems to have forgotten that, though, because he just nods, and turns to the machine. 

“What d’you reckon we need, then, eh?” he says, glancing over his shoulder at Noel, never mind that Calum’s the one who’d queued for the fucking machine, and all. 

“Probably best to get a travelcard,” Noel answers. “Got a lot of places to visit.” 

“Where’re you going?” Calum asks, as casually as he can manage. Maybe a little too casually, because Noel’s eyes narrow fractionally, but then Liam responds as he’s stabbing buttons on the ticket machine. 

“Hampstead Heath, wasn’t it? And I’m looking in Kentish Town.” Well. Calum has no fucking idea where those are, but at least they aren’t Camden. 

“Why’d you go and tell him to follow me down here, eh?” Noel asks, throwing Calum an exasperated look, but there’s no heat behind his eyes or his words. 

“You’d rather he sleep on your floor every night?” Calum says, arching an eyebrow. “Done you a fucking favour, mate.” Noel grins, inclining his head a little in concession.

“On the floor?” Liam says, sounding a little incensed, and holds his hand out for Noel to give him some money. “I’d be sleeping in the fucking bed, me. Our kid can kip on the floor. Tiny cocker can probably curl up on an cushion or summat, anyway.”

“Get fucked, you, ‘s my fucking bed. And why’m I paying for your fucking ticket?” Noel demands, even as he’s digging in his pocket for change. 

“You get more of the royalties,” Liam says, and Noel rolls his eyes as he slaps a selection of coins in Liam’s hand. 

“That’s three travelcards, then,” Liam says, turning back to the machine, and Noel makes a noise of outrage, and tugs at Liam’s shoulder as he starts slotting the coins into the machine. 

“Hang on a minute,” he says indignantly, but Liam shakes him off, pushing coin after coin in until the machine makes a groaning sound and starts churning out tickets. “Cheeky cunt,” Noel grumbles, and Liam throws him a winning smile as he presses Calum’s ticket into his hand. 

“Aye,” he says happily, and steps away from the machine, Calum following in his wake, not wanting to listen to Noel grumbling to himself about Liam or risk him yanking Calum’s ticket out of his hand.

“What about my money?” Noel demands, because the machine’s spitting out coins now, and Liam just shrugs, already engrossed in a map of the Northern line. Noel flips him off anyway, and then scoops the assortment of coins out of the machine and sticks them in his pocket as he wanders over to where Calum and Liam are stood. 

“Where do we need to get off?” Liam asks, and Noel frowns at the map. 

“Hampstead, I think,” he says, and Liam nods, before turning to Calum.

“Where’re you off to?” he asks. Calum hesitates, wondering whether he should lie or not, and then realises as he’s squinting at the map that they’ll probably be on the same tube, so he can’t. Now that he’s looking closely, he’s realising Kentish Town looks uncomfortably close to Camden - it’s the next stop after Camden Town - but given how fucking massive London is, that should be fine, right?

“Camden,” Calum says, a little reluctantly. 

“Oh,” Liam says, and shrugs. “Alright.” He doesn’t seem to think anything of it, and for once neither does Noel, who’s too busy patting his pockets and frowning.

“Where’s my ticket?” Noel says, as Liam starts for the ticket barriers, and Liam holds his hand up as he walks, waving two tickets in the air. Noel jogs after him, reaching up and trying to snatch one of the tickets out of Liam’s hand. “Give it here, you prick. How’m I meant to get through the barrier?” 

“Not my problem,” Liam says, but he lets Noel take one of the tickets when he gets up to the barrier, sticking it in and forcing himself through when it swings open. “Fucking hell, these things are small, innit? Who are they made for, Noely G?” 

“Fuck off,” Noel tells him, but Calum can see the small, fond smile playing at his lips as they start down the escalator. 

Liam’s absolutely buzzing with energy, even more so than usual, pointing out adverts on the wall as they pass and commenting on what people on the other escalator are wearing and asking how old d’you reckon the tube is, then? Hundred? Two hundred? It’s proper deep, innit? How far underground d’you reckon we are? until Noel cuffs him upside the head irritably and says shut up, Liam, for fuck’s sake. 

“Are we northbound or southbound?” Liam asks, stopping abruptly in front of one of the huge maps and making at least three people behind them tut and swerve pointedly around them. 

“North,” Noel says, dragging Liam towards the platform by the elbow. Calum throws the map another quick glance just to double-check - yeah, he’s northbound too - and then follows in their wake, letting their quiet bickering wash over him as he gulps in the hot, sticky air of the underground, hoping it’ll do something to counteract the way his stomach feels like a block of ice, cold and heavy in his abdomen. It seems to get heavier with every step, like it’s trying to stop him being able to get himself onto the tube and lean against the door next to Liam and Noel, who are now arguing about whether it’d be better to have a Tesco or a Sainsbury’s nearby. He’s not sure whether the fact that Liam and Noel are here, not a care in the world, buying Calum tickets and joking around with him not knowing what he’s here for, or the prospect of the conversation with Michael is making him feel worse. He knows he has to do this, knows that he and Michael can’t toe the tentative line they’ve been dragging themselves along forever, but doesn’t want to think about what the possibility of crossing it might mean. There’s no going back from that, and Calum’s not sure he’s going to like what he finds on the other side. 

Camden’s only two stops away, and much as Calum wants to put off getting there, he’s sort of glad it’s not far, because he always forgets how fucking loud the tube is. He does enough damage to his ears in his profession, and he feels out of place being the only person wincing at the rattling that’s probably pushing legal decibel levels. Even Liam and Noel don’t seem to care, just raising their voices to shout over the sound of the carriages hurtling along the tracks, enjoying their latest spat too much to care about anything else.

“This is me,” Calum says, when the tube pulls into Camden Town and starts to slow. 

“When’re you heading back?” Noel asks, and Calum shrugs. He hadn’t picked a specific train back to Manchester, just bought an open return. He doesn’t know whether Michael wants to pull him in to shout abuse at him for half an hour and then kick him out again, or spend half a day talking about everything that’s happened in the past five years.

“Not sure,” he says. Liam nods inattentively and turns back to Noel, but Noel cocks his head a little, eyes flicking to the doors as they open. 

“Alright, well,” he says. “I’ll probably call you tomorrow.” Calum nods, ducking out of the doors and throwing both of them a quick wave, hoping his nervousness isn’t written all over his face, the combination of shit, shit, I’m here, I’m here and what the fuck does Noel want to call me to say that he can’t say right now?  

Liam’s already turned back to Noel and started saying something before the doors have shut, but Noel’s eyes linger on Calum for a minute, something Calum can’t quite pinpoint on his face. He doesn’t have time to worry about it, though, caught up in the crowd as they make their way up the escalator and out of the station, blinking once he’s standing in the road and trying to remember which way his dad’s old London A-Z had told him to go. It was two lefts, he knows that, but was that after a right? Or was the right after the second left? He should have written it down, really. Although, given how today’s gone, the piece of paper would probably have blown out of his pocket and straight into Liam’s face, or something, big red letters that say Michael Clifford (from Blur, y’know, my ex)’s Address on the top. 

He decides to just take the two lefts first, thinking he can always just ask someone if he gets really lost, and it turns out to be the right decision, because he’s on Michael’s street after about ten minutes of pushing through angry-looking Londoners walking at the speed of light. It’s a smaller street, a little tucked away, surprisingly quiet for the fact it’s just off a main road, lined with identical Georgian houses. Number thirty-nine, Michael had said. That’s thirty-one, thirty-three, thirty-five, thirty-seven-

Thirty-nine.

Calum stares up at it for a moment. It looks exactly the same as the other houses on the street, a house Calum usually wouldn’t bother glancing twice at, except it’s got his childhood best friend, his first love, his fucking competition inside it. It seems to loom a little more than the houses either side of it, and a sense of foreboding creeps around the edge of Calum’s veins, constricting his lungs a little. He doesn’t fucking know what to expect. He doesn’t know what Michael wants. 

Calum takes a deep breath as he steps up to the door, wipes his sweaty palms on his jeans, and rings the doorbell. He holds his breath as he waits, feeling like he really needs to piss, and tries not to hop from foot to foot in nervous anticipation when he finally hears the sound of someone heading for the door and sees a figure looming behind the frosted glass. 

The door opens, and Michael blinks at him. 

“Hi,” he says. His voice sounds different in person, smoother and richer than Calum remembers - but then again, he’d been off his fucking head the last time he’d seen Michael. His eyes are greener than Calum remembers, too, still with a hint of blue, blinking a little hesitantly at him from behind dark lashes. He’s dressed in jeans and a blue jumper, one that Calum hasn’t seen before, and he looks so oddly out of place here, on a residential street in the heart of London. Something about it makes Calum’s head spin even more than the first time he’d seen Michael on stage, or when he’d seen him in that magazine, or at the awards show. He shouldn’t be here, his brain is trying to say, throwing up memories of Michael in shorts and a singlet on the beach, while his eyes are saying but he is here. And he looks fucking good, too.

“Hi,” Calum says, when he remembers to speak. He clears his throat, trying to clear out the embarrassment. Fucking hell; great first impression after what, six months?

“Come in,” Michael says, and steps aside, holding the door open. Calum throws him a polite smile and heads inside, hesitating just past the door as Michael clicks it shut again. 

“Um, should I-” he says, gesturing at his shoes.

“Oh, uh, yeah,” Michael says, a little apologetically. “If you don’t mind.” Calum shakes his head - it’s Michael’s house, why the fuck should he mind? - and kicks off his shoes, taking his time arranging them next to the blue-and-white striped Adidas trainers placed a little haphazardly next to the radiator, before straightening back up again, looking back over at Michael, who’s staring at him. He feels strangely naked standing in Michael’s hallway in his socks, a little disarmed, like he’s just willingly carved out a chink in his own armour. 

Michael looks away quickly, cheeks a little pink, like he’s been caught doing something he shouldn’t have been, and turns around, walking off down the hallway.

“D’you want something to drink?” he asks, heading into a room to the right. Calum follows him in; it’s the living room, big and light and beige and decorated by someone that definitely wasn’t Michael, all damask walls and sun-and-moon decor. 

“Uh, no, I’m good, thanks,” Calum says, hovering near the sofa. Michael gestures at him to sit, and hesitates for a moment, clearly dithering between sitting down next to Calum or on the overstuffed armchair opposite him, before heading for the armchair and curling up on it. It’s probably for the best, Calum thinks, as he arranges himself on the sofa. His skin’s already prickling at being in the same room as Michael, fingers itching to reach out and touch what used to be his.

“I thought we’d go out for lunch,” Michael says. “Probably better than me trying to cook.” Calum feels his lips twitch at that - it’s good to know that hasn’t changed. Michael being in a famous British band feels more realistic than Michael knowing how to cook anything more complicated than pasta. 

“Fine by me,” Calum says, clasping his hands on his lap and then unclasping them again. It feels so horribly formal, being sat like this with Michael, stone-cold sober and six feet apart. It feels so fucking wrong. 

Michael sighs, and casts his eyes down at his feet. 

“So,” he says, and Calum’s stomach flips. The Talk. 

“So,” Calum echoes. He hopes the lump in his throat isn’t audible. 

“I don’t even know where we should start,” Michael admits. “There’s- there’s so much.” He pauses, and then smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Why don’t you tell me about Oasis?” 

“What?” Calum’s a little taken aback. He was expecting why the fuck did you stop writing back, you absolute cunt, tell me why I shouldn’t deck you right fucking now. Maybe he’s been spending too much time with Liam. 

“Well, y’know,” Michael says, waving his hand a little awkwardly. “I only know what I’ve read in the papers. Last I heard from you you were working in construction.” 

“Oh,” Calum says. “Yeah. Uh. Well. I dunno, really. Bonehead started this band, and Liam knew him through a mate, and then their singer dropped out and Liam managed to join somehow, and they needed a bassist, so.” He shrugs, a little uncomfortably. “And then Noel came back from roadie-ing for the Inspiral Carpets, and Liam got him to join, too. And- well. That’s about it, really.” He’s not sure what else there is to say, but it feels a little clinical, like he’s reading Michael an excerpt from his autobiography, or something. 

“You went to school with Liam, right?” Michael asks, and Calum nods. 

“Yeah,” he says. “We were Chemistry partners. Gallagher and Hood, y’know.” Michael hums, like he’s thinking about it, and Calum just waits, tries not to hold his breath in anticipation as Michael turns the information over and over in his mind. Fuck, he hates this, hates the fact that he’s shuffling forwards with his eyes closed and his hands tied behind his back, no way of knowing whether he’s walking in the right direction.

“I like him,” Michael admits after a moment, and Calum can’t help but smile at that. 

“Yeah,” he says, and he hears the fondness and pride in his own voice. It’s sort of impossible not to like Liam, really. He’s a cunt, but he does it so well and so earnestly and with such an innocent expression on his face that you can’t really hate him for it. Well, if you aren’t Noel, at least. And Michael and Liam both have that kind of anarchy to them, that same spark of joy lighting up their eyes when they spot something chaotic happening. “You’d get on. Well, if-” Calum cuts himself off, smile suddenly dropping off his face as the all-too-familiar guilt churns in his stomach. If he didn’t hate you on principle. 

Michael doesn’t seem to have thought anything of it, though, just nods a little thoughtfully, and Calum can see from the way his eyebrows are drawn that he’s moved past that, isn’t thinking about Liam anymore. Sure enough, after a few seconds of silence, Michael opens his mouth again, and asks:

“What about Noel?” There’s something a little calculating in his eyes, and his tone a touch too casual, and Calum frowns. 

“What about him?” Michael shrugs, the smoothness of the movement belied by the way his shoulders stay a little hunched. 

“What’s he like?” Calum opens his mouth to respond - he’s exactly what he seems like - and then realises that that’s not quite true, and closes it again. Noel’s exactly what he seems, and then a little bit more, and also a little bit less. 

“Complicated,” he says eventually, and Michael cocks his head. 

“He’s a cunt,” he says, which, honestly, is a fair enough assessment of Noel Gallagher. 

“So’s Liam,” Calum points out, and Michael nods. 

“Yeah.” There’s a moment of awkward silence, and Calum feels he might have been wrong-footed by Michael somehow, like there was a second, unspoken part to that question that he missed. It’s too late now, though, no matter how much he replays it in his mind - the way Michael had looked at him, the way he’d shrugged - so instead, Calum clears his throat, and asks:

“What about you?”

“Me?”

“Yeah. I read that you knew Graham through someone back home?” Michael smiles for real this time, and Calum tries not to let it hurt, that he’s smiling about Graham like that and couldn’t manage it for Calum. It’s not like Calum’s done anything to deserve it, is it? 

“Through Luke, actually,” Michael says, all conversationally, like it’s perfectly normal that one of Calum’s closest friends from Sydney knew Graham Coxon and never thought to mention it. Calum stares at him. That makes absolutely no fucking sense. 

“What?” he says. “How- what? Luke knows Graham?” 

“Yeah,” Michael says. “The Hemmings’ went on a holiday a few years ago - that cruise, I think? Remember, y’know, the one where Jack thought he got that girl pregnant?” Calum nods - yeah, he remembers that one. Luke had been beside himself, although Calum still thinks at least thirty percent of that was because it was his ticket into Ashton’s arms. “Yeah, and you know what Liz is like, making conversation with anything that moves. They ended up talking to Graham’s family over dinner, and Graham and Luke became mates over the rest of the cruise, swapped numbers and sort of stayed in contact.” 

“Oh,” Calum says, and tries not to sound bitter. It feels strangely unsettling to know that Luke knows Graham, like the solid image he’d had of his past life is being shaken up. “He never mentioned.” Michael shrugs. 

“He never mentioned to me either,” he says. “Not until I said-” he cuts himself off. “Well,” he says carefully after a moment of awkward silence. “When I decided to move here.” Calum swallows. 

He’s wondered, in the moments that he’s had time to think about anything more than the permanent guilt swimming around in his stomach and the sickening feeling that seems to creep its way around the edges of everything to do with Michael, what had made Michael move to the UK. He’s even wondered, in brief moments of weakness, whether it had had something to do with him. After all, Michael had always said he’d come here to see Calum, hadn’t he? Calum had just never stopped to think that maybe he’d meant coming here for good, for more than just a visit. 

But then Calum had stopped writing as often, and Michael had stopped sending as many letters back, and the weed and booze in Calum’s veins had made him forget that Michael had ever said he’d fly over, and so the brief moments of weakness pass and Calum thinks no, he wouldn’t’ve done that. Not in the state we were in. 

(It doesn’t stop him wondering the same thing the next time he’s staring at himself in a cracked hotel mirror on a comedown, though, doesn’t stop the what if s from floating around in his mind.) 

But since he’s here, he might as well ask. This is supposed to be all about sorting all of that shit out, isn’t it? Calum knows that they can’t move anywhere with the huge wall between them, knows that they’ve got to dismantle it brick by brick before they can see all the possible roads they could travel. So, he takes a deep breath, and says:

“Why did you decide to move here?” Michael cocks his head and blinks at Calum, like he’s a little surprised Calum’s even asking.

“For you.” Fuck. 

A new guilt surges through Calum’s entire abdomen, something that isn’t as well-worn as his Noel-and-Liam guilt, making him dizzy with the suddenness with which it pulls all the blood from his head down to his stomach. Michael had moved here for Calum, even after Calum had stopped writing. Michael hadn’t forgotten; only Calum had.

“Oh,” Calum says, and it comes out barely more than a whisper. Michael looks away, cheeks burning. 

“Yeah,” he mumbles uncomfortably. “Well. Changed my mind after I got here, but stayed anyway.” Calum bites his lip.

“I’m sorry,” he says. It’s the first time he’s said it, and probably the millionth time he’s thought it, but the words still trip off his tongue clumsily, like they weren’t rehearsed often enough, like maybe he should have made it a million-and-one.

“Are you?” The words are harsh, but Michael’s tone is soft, a little sad. 

“I am,” Calum says truthfully. “I- fuck. I’m a cunt, honestly. I just got so caught up in everything, in Noel and Liam and the drugs and the band, and-” he cuts himself off. He’s making excuses, and Michael deserves better than that. 

“You stopped caring,” Michael supplies before Calum has the chance to think about what he wants to say next, matter-of-fact, but Calum catches the tiny grimace that flits across his lips. 

“No,” Calum says hastily. “I just- I thought I did. Or maybe I just hoped I did. Or- I don’t know. But I saw you a few years ago, and I felt the same. And then I saw you this year, and I felt the same. So I don’t think I ever stopped.” He can’t bring himself to say stopped caring, because it feels too revealing. He doesn’t know if he can actually admit out loud that he still cares about Michael, not with all the shame burning hot in his veins. It feels like something he should keep to himself, a burden he deserves to be laden with, the ball at the end of his chain of disgrace.

“You saw me a few years ago?” Michael says, frowning, and Calum’s stomach drops. Oh, fuck. He’s never told Michael that, has he? 

“Uh,” Calum says intelligently, and looks down at his feet. “Yeah. Ninety-two, I think. At the Boardwalk in Manchester.” Michael’s frown deepens, like he’s scanning through memories, trying to find the one he needs. 

“I didn’t know you were there,” he says after a minute, still frowning. 

“I didn’t know you were either,” Calum says. “I mean. I didn’t think it could be you.” Michael shifts, pulling his legs closer towards him, looking like he’s trying to fold in on himself. It looks defensive, and it makes Calum’s heart crack a little. Is it him doing that? Is that because of Calum?

“That was a shit gig,” Michael says after a moment, and the ghost of a smile crosses Calum’s lips, but he can tell that’s not what Michael really wants to say. 

“Wasn’t too bad,” Calum says. “We definitely played worse ones than that.” Michael huffs out a short laugh. 

“Yeah, like LA,” he says, and Calum’s lips manage to twitch in a tiny smile this time. Even though he knows it means nothing, something about the fact Michael remembers that, remembers how awful the gig had been and remembers that it had been in LA, makes Calum’s heart skip a beat. 

“Yeah, like LA,” he agrees, and Michael smiles back at him, something heavy and sad in his eyes. It’s sort of disconcerting to be able to tell what Michael’s feeling but not being able to place why, feels like Calum’s sat here with some kind of Michael-Mike hybrid. It just drives the past five years of distance home, makes Calum realise that the gap between the sofa and the armchair is bigger than he’d wanted to believe. 

Almost like he knows what Calum’s thinking, Michael’s lips hitch up in a small, mournful smile. 

“It’s been a long fucking time, hasn’t it?” he says, and his voice is saturated with so much melancholy that it makes Calum swallow, gulping in a breath of Michael’s air. 

“Yeah,” he says. 

“I sort of keep forgetting,” Michael says. A slightly bitter laugh almost bubbles out of Calum, but he just about manages to force it down - he’s not sure how Michael can forget, when it’s the only thing that’s ever on Calum’s mind when they talk, when he can’t push it away for more than a few minutes at a time. 

“I don’t,” he says, and Michael frowns. 

“You don’t?” Calum shakes his head. He spends all his time trying his best not to think about the gulf between the two of them, trying to relegate it to some dusty corner of his mind, but it always rides back to the forefront of his thoughts on a wave of guilt. 

“It’s hard not to think about it,” Calum says, which is the closest he can get to saying I spend all my time trying not to think about how you’ve changed.  

“I guess,” Michael says, with a tiny shrug. “Maybe I just don’t want to.” Calum gets that too.

"Maybe you're just better at it than me," Calum says, and Michael smiles, tinged with sadness. 

“Maybe,” he allows. “Or maybe I just want it more.” What? Wants what more, to forget? To pretend-

Oh. 

“Oh,” Calum says, and his mouth is suddenly dry. Michael’s holding his gaze, forced defiance written all over his face, but Calum can still see past that, can still see the vulnerability in the way the corners of his lips are tilted down and the way he’s blinking a little too fast. 

Michael wants this. 

“Yeah,” Michael says, and Calum can hear the heartache  beneath the veneer of bravery. “That hasn’t changed, at least.” It’s a little bitter, and it makes Calum frown. What does Michael mean, that hasn’t changed?  

“What d’you mean?” Michael shrugs uncomfortably, his cheeks a little pink. 

“Well. Y’know. I always wanted you more,” he says, and his voice cracks on the you. Calum stares at him for a moment, trying to wrap his head around what Michael's just said. 

He wants to say no, you didn’t, but he can’t. Calum had forgotten, and Michael hadn’t. And maybe now Calum wants Michael more than Michael wants him, can’t push Michael out of his mind where Michael can push Calum out of his, but that doesn’t change the fact that Calum had let Michael slip out of his mind to make room for Liam and Noel and drugs, while Michael had moved to the UK for him. And he can’t lie to Michael, can’t lie to himself either. 

“Maybe then,” he says. "But not anymore." Michael blinks at him. 

“You don’t know that,” he says. "You don't even know how I loved you." Calum swallows, but it doesn’t go past the lump in his throat. 

“I loved you too,” he says. “I did. I really did.” 

“Not enough,” Michael says, and Calum winces, but doesn’t say anything. It’s true. He can’t have loved Michael enough, can’t have loved him well enough, if the Gallaghers and drugs and music and distance could fill the Michael-shaped hole in his heart. 

“Maybe,” he says, and the word sounds heavy and leaden. “But I was seventeen. I don’t think I really knew how to love.” 

“Do you now?” 

“I don’t know. I haven’t- not since-” he stops, not wanting to say I haven’t been in love since you, but Michael gets it anyway. 

“Oh,” he says, and he sounds a little warmer now, like he’s pleased to hear that. “Me either.” Calum’s heart flips, but, for the first time in almost the entire conversation, not unpleasantly.

“Oh,” he says, echoing Michael. He wonders whether the mild, tingly feeling spreading from his fingertips to his toes is echoing Michael too. 

“Well,” Michael says hastily. “I’m not, like. I didn’t stay single for you, or anything. I just- not like that.” Calum nods. He’s the same. It’s not like he hasn’t fucked hundreds of girls and guys in the past few years; he’s just never felt what he felt with Michael with anybody else. 

Suddenly, and a little guiltily, Noel’s face flashes in his mind’s eye. That’s the closest he’s ever got, a hollow echo of what he’d had with Michael. It had only been a night, one that Calum could almost pretend hadn’t happened if he didn’t hear Noel’s pretty little sounds playing whenever he harmonised with him onstage, but Calum knows if Liam hadn’t been on both their minds it could have blossomed into something more. They’d never spoken about it, and Noel would deny it if Calum ever asked, but he knows they both stopped themselves going further because neither of them wanted to lose Liam, the weird, brash little cunt more important to both of them than they were to each other. 

And now, Calum thinks, here he is, talking to his ex who happens to be his biggest competition, betraying both his best friends and his band, pitting his ex against his fling, pitting himself against the fucking lot of them. It makes his fucking head hurt, makes his eyes sting a little bit with something he thinks might be frustration but could be guilt, because that’s fucking all he seems to feel these days. Guilty for forgetting Michael, guilty for picking the habit of him back up again, guilty for going behind Liam and Noel’s backs, guilty, guilty, guilty. 

He grits his teeth and curls his hands into fists, digging his fingernails into the palm of his hand, hard, hoping none of the shame and guilt in his veins is finding its way to the surface of his skin, betraying him with a blush or a visible, too-fast pulse. Michael’s watching him carefully, eyes searching Calum’s face for the little hints he still knows how to find, and it should maybe make Calum feel a lot more vulnerable than he already does, but instead, it settles him. Michael still knows Calum’s nooks and crannies, still knows where to look to see what he’s trying to hide, and it’s oddly comforting. Michael hasn’t forgotten a single inch of Calum, eyes flitting from the corners of his lips to the crease between his brows, and that’s got to mean something, right? 

“I thought I’d never see you again,” Michael says suddenly. “I never- I thought about it, sometimes, but it was never- y’know.” Calum doesn’t know. At all. He has no idea what Michael’s trying to say, but before he can ask, Michael’s continuing. “And then I saw you on a poster, looking cooler and older and hotter, and I started thinking. About seeing you again, I mean. I wondered if we’d ever bump into each other. And then Damon started saying you were our main competition, and I didn’t know how to tell him about us, and I thought you must know about Blur and you hadn’t said anything, not even hello, so. I just thought that was it.” He speaks half-stilted, half in a rush, like he’s got a hundred things to say but none of the words to say them in, or maybe none of the courage. 

“Did you want to?” Calum finds himself asking. 

“Did I want to what?”

“See me again.” Michael hesitates. 

“Yeah,” he says eventually, softly. “I was angry. I wanted to see you and show you how well I was doing without you.” Calum swallows. The words sting more than he thought they would. 

“Oh,” is all he can say. He thinks it probably says it all, anyway. 

“I thought I’d hate you,” Michael says. “I thought I’d see you and I’d be so furious. You made me-” he cuts himself off, and bites his lip, like he’s thinking about whether or not he wants to say it. Calum shifts, pulls his legs onto the sofa and wraps his hand around his ankle, holding himself in place. He can feel the tension of his muscles under his fingertips, strained and stiff and wanting to move, and it feels fitting, feels like the muscle of his legs is echoing the muscle of his heart, tight and uneasy. But, just like the muscle of his legs can’t slacken until Calum’s hand lets go, the muscle of his heart can’t relax until the grip around it is loosened, too. 

And Calum, loath though he is to do it, knows how to pry that iron fist off.

“Say it,” Calum says. “I- you- we should, like. Just get it all out.” He doesn’t want to, and he’s pretty sure it’s written all over his face, but he knows that they should. That’s the whole reason he’s here, after all, isn’t it? It would have been easy for him to put it off, to stay in Manchester, to say he was busy, but he’s here, because how can they ever move on if there are still things left to say? 

Michael nods, inhales deeply, and tries again. 

“You made me feel so worthless,” he says quietly, and Calum can’t help the small grimace that crosses his lips. “So rejected. Like I was nothing. You left, and suddenly I didn’t matter anymore. To you, to myself, to anyone. It was like I was only ever temporary to you.” Calum’s throat is dry, heart pounding at the words and somehow sinking at the same time. He’d never stopped to consider how Michael might have felt, so wrapped up in his own world. He’d never taken a moment to think about whether he might be hurting Michael. 

“I’m sorry,” he says, and his voice cracks on the words. He doesn’t think he’s ever meant anything more. He feels it in his lungs, in his heart, in his stomach, in his fucking fingertips; the guilt, the shame, the remorse. Michael looks at him for a moment, and then casts his eyes back down to his feet with a small shrug. 

“I wasn’t, though,” he says, even more quietly than before. “Angry, I mean, when I saw you. I thought I’d be fucking livid. I had so many...uh, revenge fantasies, I guess you’d call them. I imagined seeing you again so many times, imagined what I’d say, how I’d feel, but…” he trails off. 

“But?” Michael shrugs again, staring steadfastly at his socks. 

“I saw you up on that stage at Glastonbury,” he says, “and I just felt-” he purses his lips, like he’s considering his next words. “Warm.” 

“Warm?”

“Warm.” Michael doesn’t elaborate, but Calum thinks he understands. It must take a lot, he thinks, for Michael to say that, to admit that instead of feeling angry, instead of all the hurt that’s been simmering for years, he’d felt something almost positive. Calum doesn’t know whether he would have had the courage to say that in Michael’s position, to bare himself and make himself vulnerable like that.

“I didn’t think I’d feel like this either,” he admits. A concession for a concession. Glastonbury in reverse. 

“Like what?” Michael asks. 

“Y’know.” Calum doesn’t want to say it. 

“I don’t.” Michael wants him to say it. Fuck’s sake. But he deserves it, really, doesn’t he, after all this?

“Fond.” Michael blinks at him for a second. 

“Fond?” he asks, voice wavering slightly. Calum shrugs, more of a defensive movement than anything else. 

“Yeah, I guess. I dunno. I didn’t think I’d still care as much as I do.” Michael cocks his head, like he’s considering it. 

“That’s why you wrote that song about me,” he says, and Calum blinks. 

“You heard it?” He can’t help the surprise in his tone. Michael’s never mentioned it, so Calum had just assumed he hadn’t heard it. It’s not like he was about to be the one to fucking bring it up, is it?

“‘Course I heard it,” Michael says, and for the first time in a while his lips twitch in what looks almost like a tiny smile. “You fucking named it for me.” That’s true. Drunk Calum has never made the best decisions. 

(But sober Calum was the one who’d looked the other way.)

“What about the one you wrote?” Calum says, deflecting. “The one about collapsing in love, making it to the end.” 

“What about it?” 

“Well, y’know,” Calum says, waving his hands around vaguely, because he’s not really sure what he’s asking. “When did you write it?” 

“Years ago,” Michael says. “Two, three, maybe?” 

“Why?” 

“I was throwing all your letters out.” Oh. 

“Oh,” Calum says. He hadn’t been expecting that. It smarts, but he deserves it. He’s not even sure if he has many of Michael’s left, and the ones he does have will have survived by accident, not on purpose. 

“Yeah, well,” Michael says, sounding a little embarrassed. “Alex always says the best way to get over someone is to forget about them.” 

“Did you?” Calum can’t help but ask. 

“Did I what?”

“Forget about me.” Michael hesitates. 

“Almost.” Calum can live with that. 

They sit in silence for a moment, but it’s not uncomfortable. It feels a little heavy, a little sombre, but Calum can feel both himself and Michael in it, and Michael’s not pulling away, not holding himself back. It’s almost nice, he thinks, to co-exist like this with Michael, neither of them pulling or pushing. It’s definitely better than it had been ten minutes ago, at least. 

“What about you?” Michael asks after a minute. “Why’d you write Columbia?” 

“I was drunk,” Calum says honestly. “And I saw a picture of you in a magazine.” Michael scrunches his nose up in the way that he does when he’s thinking about something, and it makes something sharp shoot through Calum’s heart, that he still recognises that. 

“I like it,” Michael says, after a moment. 

“Like what?” 

“Columbia.” Calum swallows. 

“Yeah?” he says, a little shyly. He’d never even really expected Michael to hear it, and it’s fucking embarrassing, the drunken words swimming to the forefront of his mind as he watches Michael’s eyes search his own for the answer to a question Calum doesn’t know. 

“Yeah,” Michael says, and Calum sees the corners of his lips twitch in what looks like the tiniest of smiles. “It’s a good song.” 

“Well. Thanks,” Calum says, and then, in a brief moment of courage: “It’s your song, so. I’m glad you like it.” The tiny smile turns into a small smile, and Calum sees the corner of Michael’s eyes crinkle a little, and his heart almost stills in his chest. He didn’t know he could still do that to Michael. 

“I’m glad it’s mine,” Michael says quietly, even shyer than Calum, and maybe Calum’s imagining it, but there seems to be a pink tinge to the top of his cheeks. He really is fucking pretty, Calum thinks dimly; white teeth sinking into a full pink lip, long lashes covering his blue-green eyes. Calum doesn’t know he ever managed to fucking forget that. 

They sit in silence for a minute, a little tense and a little uneasy, until Michael sighs, sags a little, and rests his head against his hand.

“Where do we go from here?” he says. Calum swallows, and shrugs. Wherever you want, he wants to say. I’ll take anything I can get.  

“I don’t know,” he says instead. “What do you want?” Michael hesitates. 

“I’m not- I don’t-” he cuts himself off, and sighs. “I want this,” he says, and gestures between the two of them. “Us. Whatever that is. We’re both different people now, so I don’t- I don’t know whether it’ll work like that again. I want to give it a chance, though. But I can’t pretend the past five years didn’t happen.” Calum nods. That’s fair. He doesn’t think he can pretend the past five years didn’t happen either, can’t fucking forget it in the lines on Michael’s eyes and forehead that weren’t there before, but they’re both different people now. They need to relearn one another, rediscover the familiar landmarks in the new maps on both their faces and feel their way around the new ones.

“Okay,” Calum says. Michael wants this, whatever form this takes. He wants Calum, in one way or another, and that’s enough for him. 

“What do you want?” Michael asks. Calum shrugs again. 

Anything isn’t quite right. He would take anything, but the word is too desperate, doesn’t quite express everything Calum wants it to. Everything isn’t right either, too greedy, too much too soon. Calum’s vocabulary’s a little too limited to get across I want you, I want this, I want whatever you’ll give me in any which way in the exact way he wants.

Well. He supposes he’ll just have to try and get as close as he can.

“You,” he says, quieter than he’d intended.  

“How?” Fucking hell. Michael’s really fucking good at picking at loose threads. 

“However,” Calum says. “Acquaintances. Friends. More.” He tries not to look nervous as he shrugs, but he can tell from the look on Michael’s face that he fails miserably. 

“Okay,” Michael says, gently. “But then we’ve got to stop tiptoeing around each other like this.” Calum nods, stomach churning a little as he thinks about what that might mean. Is this the moment where he chooses between Michael and his band? He’d never thought his fork in the road of fate would come in a beige living room in London. 

“Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, okay.” Michael blinks at him for a minute, and then smiles, small, hesitant, but one that reaches his eyes. 

“Okay,” he says again, smile still on his lips, nothing big and bright and brilliant but the most radiant smile Calum thinks he’s seen in years all the same. “I’ll start by telling you Supersonic’s got the worst fucking lyrics I think I’ve ever heard.” Calum laughs, startling himself with it. 

“You’re telling me?” he says, still a little hesitantly, dipping his toes in before he sticks his foot and then his leg and then his torso in. “Imagine having to hear it every single night and listen to Liam talking about how it’s mega, yeah, fucking mega, Cal, and it makes perfect fucking sense and all, don’t know what you’re on about...eeyar, Noel, what is it about?” Michael laughs, clear and amused, and Calum can’t help the way it makes his own lips quirk up in a smile, something warm spreading from his ears to his heart at the sound. 

“You do a fucking good Liam impression,” Michael says, and Calum snorts, gaining confidence. 

“You would too if you had to spend as much time with him as I do,” he says. “Cunt never shuts up.” Michael grins. 

“Seems like a laugh, though,” he says. 

“Yeah, if you know you can give him back to his handler after fifteen minutes,” Calum says, and Michael laughs again. It’s fucking heady, the feeling of making Michael laugh like that, makes Calum want to dredge up every memory he has and pick it apart until he has a whole fucking stand-up routine just for Michael. 

“Liam with a handler?” Michael sounds amused. “I don’t even want to imagine the salary he’d have to offer for someone to take that job.” 

“Salary?” Calum echoes, with a grin. “Fucking hell, don’t give Noel ideas. The prick gets paid enough already.” Michael cocks his head at that, a curious frown appearing on his face. 

“Noel?” he echoes, and Calum nods. “Don’t they hate each other?” Calum blinks. 

“D’you think we’d be here if they did?” he says, and Michael opens his mouth, then closes it again, and his brow furrows further. 

“Huh,” he says, sounding a little surprised. “But- y’know.” Calum does know. He knows what it looks like to anyone who doesn’t look closer than the black eyes and split lips, which is exactly where Liam and Noel both want people to stop looking. Neither of them can stand to be weak or vulnerable, and their greatest vulnerability is each other, so it’s better to keep everyone else at arm’s length, stop them from seeing how to get to either of them. That, and they really do hate each other half the time. 

“Well, they don’t, and they do. But you can’t really spend a lot of time with Liam or Noel and not hate them,” Calum says. “And you can’t spend a lot of time with either of them and not love them, either.” Michael hums, like he’s mulling it over. 

“Your band shouldn’t work,” he says, and Calum laughs. 

“I know,” he says, and Michael grins back at him. God, it feels oddly surreal and yet like the most natural thing in the world, laughing and joking and listening to Michael chat shit about his best friends like that. “But imagine what we’d be like if Noel and Liam were normal.” Michael pulls a face. 

“You’d be like, U2 or something,” he says, and Calum scoffs. 

“U2?” he echoes. “Fuck off. Bono’s mental.” 

“Yeah, but what about the rest of them?” Michael points out. “Bet Larry Mullen goes home after a gig and sits in front of the fire with a pipe and a cup of tea.” 

“Larry who?” Michael grins. 

“Exactly,” he says, and Calum just grins back at him, relishing the way his fingertips are tingling at this new rapport, this foray into new and yet familiar territory. His stomach feels lighter now, too, almost empty, even, and- oh. Yeah. He hasn’t eaten yet. 

As if on cue, his stomach growls loudly, and Michael snorts. 

“Fuck off,” Calum says, but he’s still smiling. 

“What d’you fancy for lunch?” Michael says, stretching his arms out in front of him, a comfortable, trusting move. It catches Calum off-guard, making him reply a moment too late, if the frown on Michael’s face is anything to go by. 

“What’s going?” 

“Fish and chips?” Michael suggests, as he stands up. “Can’t go wrong with fish and chips, can you?” 

“You’ve clearly never been to America,” Calum says darkly, getting to his feet, and Michael laughs, and Calum’s stomach feels like it’s soaring and sinking at the same time. 

“I’m just not stupid enough to try and get any there,” he says, grinning at Calum as he heads for the living room door, pausing halfway there to look over his shoulder at Calum.

"Coming?" It's just one word, but Michael says it so casually, says it like he used to when they were skipping school, or when they were going to get drunk in the park, or when he was about to get in the shower, and it sends something exhilarating and powerful coursing through him, washing over him from head to toe. It's a little slice of them, the first peek at what was and what could still be.

"'Course." He always would. 

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[night-dragon937]

I need to share my experience from a few hours ago (writing this at 2 am aug 24 2020) yesterday but first I'm going to slap a huge tw: abuse, Christianity/gay stuff, anxiety attacks, and yelling/screaming, transphobia/homophobia, self harm/cutting and a lot of cussing/swearing onto this. Like this is deeply religious and I'd rather not have discourse on my beliefs.

That should cover it...

Okay so it started out fine, my mom and i were just talking. She was drunk, and attempting to convince me that my asexuality meant that i was straight... But since she was drunk, I'mma give her that. There was a lot of aphobia but that's not what this is about She started telling me about her experience, and best i can describe it, she's a closeted demisexual biromantic lady with a preference for girls and a shit ton of internalized homophobia ("being sexually attracted to women's bodies more than men's doesn't make me lesbian, I'm still straight")

It was a mostly civil conversation, but it was adding onto my bad feelings from my dad the past several weeks making snide hurtful remarks about our religion and my sexuality and gender. Also using the f-slur against me when i had explained to him in the past how badly that word hurts me, to which he apologized profusely and said he'd never have used that word if he knew how it affected me. Obviously a lie, because he's still using it with full knowledge of the effects.

Back to my mom. She started getting into the religious side of it, but we managed to keep it civil, until the very end when she said she'd be praying for me and i said I'd be praying to help figure out who exactly i am, and she remarked "make sure you're praying to the right person" with a really threatening tone to her voice. At that point, i lost it, let her know that her saying that made me want to go back to cutting (in case she wasn't aware) and said that i needed a moment alone (or something along those lines, i was thrown head first into an anxiety attack and can't quite remember very well).

I ran upstairs as she tried to grab me and pull me back, but i managed to make it to my room. I went into a fetal position, because safe, but she came in and all i remember is her screaming repeating some question, i think, at me, me not being able to breathe, her hands squeezing my wrists way too tight, my wrist pinned to the carpet with her knee, the other with her hand as she tried to grab my jaw and force me to look at her.

Her touching me made the attack worse (hours later i still have marks and scratches) and i couldn't talk, think, or breathe. Somehow i was able to choke out repeated pleas for her to stop touching me because it was making everything worse. I don't know how long that lasted. But at some point she stopped grabbing me and just placed her hands on me and started praying in tongues. Like i was fucking demon possessed. Because i had an anxiety attack. Which my parents have been triggering in me for as long as i can remember.

I managed to sit up and get her to stop touching me, but she refused to be less than a foot away from me, even though i was going through a sensory overload and needed personal space. She finally trapped me into a corner of my room and put her arms on either side of me, one of them holding the door closed. She was screaming in my face and i was yelling over her, asking her to give me personal space and stop being so loud so that i could calm down, which she refused. I ended up very trapped and very uncomfortable and doing my best to not have another anxiety attack while replying to the most outlandish of her accusations, but mostly keeping my mouth shut in an attempt to get her to do the same.

She kept using my deadname, like usual, but it was worse for me for some reason at this point. I mentioned that and got yelled at more. I mentioned her pinning my wrists to the ground and got called a liar and she tried to make it so that i couldn't leave and grab a Kleenex until i admitted she was right and that i pinned myself to the ground (???). So i just started describing what i remembered until she got sick of it and let me go wipe my nose. She must have closed my door when she first came in. My dad (stepdad) was standing outside the door, eavesdropping, apparently.

I got a Kleenex but then my mom started yelling at me again, but i mostly just pretended to listen because i didn't want to have another anxiety attack. My dad started piping in and making me feel so much worse. He ended with saying "you're not a Christian. You don't believe in God. Even the devil believes in God." (Implying that I'm worse than the devil). At which point i started breaking down crying. And then i ran outside to have another anxiety attack but this time my mom just stood on the porch because the grass was wet and she was barefoot, but i curled up under the stars for who knows how long as i forced myself to do breathing techniques, and stim by rubbing the wet grass, which really helped ground me.

I went back inside when i was feeling better and got a drink of water and a Kleenex. And they started telling me how much they loved me and that i might not see it, but they were doing this out of love, because they were concerned for my eternity. I kept pointing out things they were doing that hurt me and better ways to do it (constructive criticism, so they know what's bad for me) and they repeatedly told me how much worse they could make it for me and that i should be glad they didn't make it worse. I pointed out that this didn't make their actions better and they said "doesn't make them wrong, either." Which ????? Victim blaming, abuse, what?

I brought up the times I've cried out to God for answers and the few times He's responded, (refusing my request for Him to kill me, telling me I'm not going to Hell for being gay/queer) bc they kept bringing up a few dubiously translated verses of the Bible and they told me that i was listening to the wrong person. That i was worshipping the wrong one. They heavily implied that i pray and worship the devil (disclaimer: i don't judge those who do, that's your life, I'm not gonna try and decide it for you, also i can admit that the church of Satan makes valid points and treats people right, from what I've seen, this is just a huge insult for them to throw at me specifically because of what I've been taught my whole life). Also invalidating my whole experience just because they don't like it.

They keep bringing up me being involved in the community (following queer people on social media, having one queer shirt, going to gsa-which they told me I'm not allowed to be a part of anymore-, having queer friends) as me seeking validation and attention, and that i shouldn't need validation and it shouldn't be about validation if I really think that this is who i am. Aka, because i am human and seek human things, i must be a total fake and fraud about all I've told them (very little). Meanwhile they do the exact same thing with their friends and social media and each other and everything.

My dad kept piping up with totally unrelated, totally unhelpful comments and tangents while my mom recited the same 5 min spiel for at least half an hour. My dad was saying how my grandparents aren't actually Christians because they agree with me that the world isn't black and white and there are some shades of gray, and because they believe once saved, always saved. That there is nothing you can do, as an imperfect human, to remove yourself from the infinite and unconscious love of God. (... I can't believe he fucking believes that humans have the ability to overrule God because it makes it easier for him to blame and condemn people he sees...)

These are the grandparents who have loved me regardless of my sexuality and gender, even tho they don't agree, and made me feel loved and gave me a place to go when i need to escape from my parents. They're the reason I'm keeping my mom's maiden name (since it hasn't been legally changed) because it's their last name, and it's them i want to honor, not my abusive shitty hateful stepdad. Unfortunately they are moving into assisted living because my papa is in a wheelchair, so i can't move in with them.

He ended that tangent with repeatedly telling me that i was not saved. That i was not a Christian. That i didn't believe in God. And that i was going to Hell. Repeatedly.

My mom made me hug her and made me tell her i love her. I ended up exercising to stop myself from becoming suicidal. I don't know if I'll tell anyone irl apart from the one irl friend i have on here. I'm not sure if I'm going to tell my therapist or not. I reached out to two of my christian friends after everything but they were both asleep. I needed to write this all down and put it somewhere public, just to be safe. I'm not safe in my own home and i can't move out because I'm a. Under 18 and b. Broke as hell

There was a lot more that happened, this lasted several hours, but i honestly can't remember all of the details besides what i typed out. Anyway so yeah i kinda wish i were dead but i also wanna stay alive for spite and show them that i can be a fabulous queer Christian and that the world is colorful, and you can't reduce that to monochrome and expect to have an even partially accurate view of the world. I want to help others like me, and help them feel better about myself.

I'm setting this as a queue so that if my parents take my phone away, they can't stop me from posting it (they have no clue how to look at queued posts) and also so that i can go to bed now and look at it again later and edit it

[revengeisalwaysanoption]

FICS: PROPOSTE INDECENTI + AMO GIA’ IL FINALE

I posted these on AO3 back in January. And I really wanted to have something brand new for today, but I am trying as hard as I can to have the fairy tale AU finished by tomorrow, so... Hope you’ll like them! They are BOTH IN ENGLISH ;) !!

PROPOSTE INDECENTI Seconds  

10 - 9

The longest ten seconds of his whole fucking life. Maybe Niccolò really is considering turning it down, given the time and setting.

3 a.m. McDonald's. Sitting on plastic chairs. Lazily eating cold fries and a hamburger that tastes like cardboard with one hand, stroking each other's thumbs with the other. Feeling like the last men on Earth, in a deserted place that would normally be buzzing with life in the daytime.

He should have sticked to his plan, given him his scripted speech this Sunday at the Bioparco. But he didn't, and now...

 8-7

… now he's screwed, isn't he? He fucked it up, and Niccolò is going to carry on and pretend this has been nothing but a bad dream.

He couldn't help it, though. Not when Niccolò was glowing with pride and elation as he showed Martino his first - published, finally!! - illustrated book.

The one Nico had lovingly renamed 'our baby' - and damn if Marti's heart didn't skip a beat at that -  even though all he didn't do much but offer his moral support.

How was he supposed to resist?

 6-5

He looked more beautiful than ever, in an old tracksuit and with a ridiculous headband holding his wild curls at bay. Buzzing with enthusiasm, while he told Marti about how Naima the giraffe who had her head too high in the clouds learnt from Mabel the red panda that she shouldn't fear what's in her heart. That her feelings are never too much, like so many others have been telling her.

Niccolò had always been very secretive about the plot, saying 'It's a surprise' with a mischievous glint in his eyes whenever Martino asked for more details… and right in that very moment he could see why.

"Children emotions tends to be heightened, and therefore often dismissed. I hope this can tell them that they matter, you know? That they're gonna find someone willing to listen, someday. Just like I found you."

It was their story. Edited, tweaked but still the same at its core. Shared to offer some hope to whoever might need it.

How could he not stop Niccolò right there and fumble for the box in his bag?

 4-3

Flinging it into his hands and dropping on one knee felt too predictable and cheap, however.

"I… I think I'm gonna get a milkshake. Would you like me to get you anything? An ice-cream cone? A Flurry?" Then, raising a voice a couple of octaves to make it sound childlike he adds "A Happy Meal?"

"Ahah. You're so funny, have you ever considered a career as a stand-up comedian? Get me a Happy Meal, you ass." And he would have sucked on that raised middle finger, without any shame, had it been a night like any other.

But it wasn't.

 2

Niccolò kept on gloating, until he opened the Happy Meal. His face fell, indeed, when he found the giraffe and red panda wooden figurines connected through a red silk thread and carrying a ring.

Ebony black, like his hair. Adorned with amber and aventurine, which both reminded Martino of his eyes.

Eyes which were now boring into him with a mixture of confusion and… disappointment?

Not exactly the reaction he had been wishing for. The silence between them felt a bit uncomfortable, for the first time in maybe ever, but Martino forced himself to speak.

"I know that I told you, so many times and in so many ways, that nobody knows a fucking thing about what's gonna happen tomorrow but... I am certain about ONE thing and ONE thing only: that I love you and I want to spend the rest of my life with you, as your HUSBAND. Don't you wanna spend the rest of your life with me?"

"That's two things, Marti. Maybe even three. I believe so… but let me just have ten seconds to think it through, okay?"

 1

"Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. " He finally says. Each yes said before a kiss, his smile getting brighter and brighter as they both start crying. Tears they brush away with gentle fingertips, with soft lips.

"A thousand times yes, Marti." Niccolò reiterates, resting his forehead against his fiancé's. Not an old fashioned to say 'boyfriend' when you significant one is not exactly a boy anymore, but the real deal now.

Fiancé. Betrothed. Soon to be husband. He can't wait to refer to Martino using those term with friends, colleagues, guests, relatives. With all those random people he ends up talking to while queuing up at the post office - on the bus, on the train, on the subway. The whole world needs to know, and he is certain that Marti feels like the same.

"Once is more than enough."

-----------

   Minutes  

It still doesn’t feel real, even though he has had some minutes to let it sink in. Despite the weight of the ring dangling from his necklace - "how very Frodo of you…" "Are you calling your future husband a fucking hobbit, Mr Rametta?" - and his proposal still echoing in his ears, he fears he might wake up any minute now. Alone.

He has to take refuge in Marti’s arms, grounding himself in his warm and tight embrace. Nothing can touch him, when he’s there. Nothing can reach him, apart from Martino’s smell and the palpable solidity of his body.

"I can take it back, if you’d like." Marti mumbles, against his helix piercing.

"Don’t you dare!" Niccolò protests, first jabbing his ribs with his forefinger and then flicking his nose.

"I mean… you don't sound positively thrilled about it…" He points out, puzzled to hear Niccolò chuckle.

"Well, we're talking about spending the rest of my life with the most boring gay I've ever met…" Nico sighs dramatically, but then he gets dreadfully serious. He is so overjoyed, so full of love he could burst, and Martino better not end up thinking otherwise. "I couldn't be happier… You know that, right? I simply wanted to be the one to propose."

"Well, maybe you still can. Fifteen or twenty years from now, when we'll feel like renewing our vows or some shit…" Martino suggests, standing up and cleaning their table. They must go now, if they want to have some time left to spare to celebrate home before heading out again to work.

"Sounds lovely. You have such a way with words, Marti." Niccolò shoves him playfully, but files that piece of information into a secured corner of his brain. Might come in handy, in the future. "And how do you know about renewals, anyway? Don't tell me you've been bingewatching 'Say Yes To The Dress' on RealTime!"

"Whaaat? Me? Nope. Never. Must have heard something from Filo. Or was it Edo?"

*************

AMO GIA’ IL FINALE

Hours  

Hours have gone by. It took them twice longer than usual to reach their flat, unable to walk more than a few steps without stopping for a quick peck. Or a full on make out session against a couple of closed, sturdy, doors.

Clothes were discarded on the floor as soon as they stepped inside, and they had made love until dawn. Exhausted, by then, they had fallen asleep.

Fear has had time to come knocking, and with it the painful reminder that people always leave. Or get sick of each other, and stay together only to keep up appearances.

No. That's not gonna happen. Not to them. Not when they are perfectly aware that gonna have to make a promise to each other not only on that day… but every second, every minute, every hour they spend together. Or apart.

Not necessarily with words. Which little gestures, too. Cherish their love. Never take it for granted.

"I promise you that we can make it. From now, to infinity." Martino says, softly, as he lays a kiss on Niccolò chest. Right where his heart is, just like Nico did so many years before under those red lights.

"To infinity and beyond."

"Don't start quoting Toy Story when I'm trying to be deep, Ni."

"It doesn't suit you. Now, up up up. Put something on and come with me... I don't want to miss watching the sunrise and cuddling with my betrothed on my cozy balcony."

"You are unbelievable."

"And you love that."

"I sure do, don't I?"

   Imagination  

This is absolutely not what Niccolò or Martino had in mind.

The unnecessary opulence, the stifling atmosphere in spite of the marvelous outdoor venue.

"It's not like you had a clear picture of what you wanted, anyway." Anyone would argue, and they would be right.

It had been easy enough to picture it back in Milan, where having a wedding in their birthday suits had sounded like the coolest idea he had ever had… But now Nico can't really see how that would go down, can't imagine it wouldn't be a complete catastrophe.

Like any other scenario they came up with. Some are too over the top, and would make Martino feel uncomfortable. Some are too dull, and would be an ill match to Niccolò's eccentricity.

Someone had to take the matter into their hands, and it wasn't like Silvia had done a bad job with the very little input she had from the grooms.

Maybe they could settle for this?

***************

   Instinct  

Or maybe not.

Martino refused to make this day, their day, about anyone else but themselves.

His in-laws were probably going to hate him for this, as firm believers of a time and a place for spontaneity, and their own friends were surely going to hold it against them for the next fifty years or so… but who cared?

Not him. Not when he was witnessing the first real smile of the week from Niccolò, merely by showing up on his old bike.

"Get on." It took him some fumbling, since a tight fitting tuxedo wasn't really the best attire for riding a bike, but eventually he managed to sit comfortably behind Martino.

"Where are we going?" He asked, presuming to be filled in about Marti's plan for the next few hours.

"Wherever the fuck we want." Martino said, instead, refusing to tell Niccolò anything concerning their destination. Or what they would do, once they reached it.

It didn't take too long to get to a church that Niccolò knew all too well. He had often joked about getting married in its crypt, surrounded by skulls and chandeliers made of human bones. Too bad it was hardly ever opened to the public, and totally unavailable for any kind of celebration.

"And how exactly are you planning to get in?" He inquired, walking over to the locked door.

"I might have asked Filippo to make me a copy of the key, when he got one for his photography project. Off the record." Because he knew Niccolò would love to stroll through the building undisturbed. Taking in its macabre allure, appreciating the fleeting nature of his own existence.

"Uh… Martino Rametta breaking the law by owning something he's not supposed to? A man after my own heart, I must say."

"I thought I already had it. Your heart, I mean." He commented, offhandedly, as he cursed and kicked against the rusty old door. "Oh, come on! Jesus! You were working just fine last time!"

"And this wonderful hint of blasphemy, right in front of a church. Wow." Niccolò reached out for him, then, pinning his open palm onto his own chest. "You're not mistaken, by the way. This has been yours for years."

"Same here." Marti turned to take his hand, and l let him feel how fast his heart was beating.

And then, as Marti was leaning in for a kiss, Nico moved back and brazenly snatched the keys.

"You know I've got the magic touch. Don't know whether it's in the fingers on in the wrists…"

"You better leave those innuendo at the door, Ni."

"Or what? You'll punish me, Father? You'll drag me into one of the confessionals and…"

… and he might had been tempted to do that, to drop on his knees and worship this man… Before he was basically challenged to reign in his wildest fantasies. Oh, he knew Niccolò wouldn't even try to play fair but still… He was so going to win this.

******

   Memory  

"... and then?" The kids asked, trying to get Mr. David's attention.

"Mh?" He had been distracted by an old lady coming to congratulate him on finally tying the knot a couple of weeks before. Shoelaces were a challenge for anyone, indeed, so it made sense he got praised for achieving that goal… Even though it took him so many years.

And that hadn't been the only interruption. For same weird reason their parents kept butting in to tell them shouldn't bother Mr. Fares. Or his 'partner'. They don't say 'husband', for some reason. Despite it being the word David uses for Michelangelo.

Grown up are so, so dumb.

"You ran away from your own wedding, got to a spooky church… and then? What happened?"

"Did you find a body and have to solve a murder?"

"I'm afraid not. We walked inside, and I read him my vows. He gave me his. I can show them to you, if you'd like? I always carry them in my pocket." Most didn't quite understand what was so great about two stick figures on a badly drawn giraffe, but the words written on the side sounded nice. Especially the closing line.

 Per quanta strada abbiam fatto, e per quanta  ancora ce n'è da fare… Amo già il finale.

"Booooring! I bet you went back to the ranch for the actual ceremony, after that?"

"Wrong. Remember that I started telling you all about this day because Meni asked what was the biggest prank I've ever pulled on my friends and family… That's it: making them all believe they would see US getting married and then have two other people saying 'I do' that afternoon. And this day I'm still quite proud I could pull that off. And so is my husband. I mean, our old folks were THIS close to believe we had been kidnapped."

Impressive. Kind of. Perhaps grown up can be cool, once in a blue moon?

"Ni? Nico? Earth to Niccolò Fares?" Not fair! He was a grown up! Why was he getting sweets before dinner?

"Yeah yeah, I can hear you loud and clear Marti." He gulped down his candies in a heartbeat.  And then gave him a quick kiss, saying "Thanks, love."

Huh? Nico? Marti? Then why their moms - and a couple of their dads - referred to him as Michelangelo's David?

Grown ups are so, so weird.

[eastasianfeelings]

all those other wolves: Jooheon

— based on Monsta X as jealous boyfriends

Summary: You just want your Stray Kids bias member to sign your lightstick. It’s not like you’re in love with him. But your boyfriend Jooheon doesn’t seem to get that.

Words: 2.4k

Warnings: jealousy, some angst, making out

*

It’s the first K-pop awards show you’ve been to since you started your new job as an executive assistant to Monsta X’s lead manager. Glittering ice, gleaming velvet and flashing lights saturate every corner, while screams and cheers fill the air at various intervals as the fans hype themselves up. The atmosphere is almost overwhelmingly upbeat.

So why is your boyfriend standing next to you in a quiet corner of the backstage wing with the darkest of glowers on his face?

“Jooheony.”

He doesn’t respond, just folds his arms tighter and pouts into the distance.

You give him a little prod. “Heony, I’ll just go over for a minute, okay?”

“Why bother asking me?” Jooheon sniffs and pulls away. “You already made up your mind anyway.”

“I’m not asking,” you say, torn between laughing at his childishness and knocking some sense into him. “I’m telling you because I don’t want you to think whatever you’re thinking right now.”

“How do you know what I’m thinking?” he retorts.

You give a little sigh, then reach up and cup his cheeks. “You’re thinking that I’m going to ignore you so I can go talk to Bang Chan, and you’re mad about it.”

Jooheon purses his lips even more. “Noona. You brought a Stray Kids lightstick for him to sign! You don’t even own a Monsta X lightstick.”

“That’s because I don’t need a lightstick. I have you.” You glance around to check if anybody in the darkened wing is paying attention, then rise on your toes and press a buss to his pouty lips. “Understand?”

His frown starts dissolving as his gaze falls to your mouth. “Mm.”

“Good.” You move your palm to his lips to keep him from going in for another kiss. “I’ll be right back, okay? Go hang with Changkyun.”

“Noona,” he whines, but you pull away and wave in parting.

You turn around and scan the sprawling backstage wing, where groups are waiting for the cue to walk to their seats before the show starts. You hadn’t actually expected to see Stray Kids today; you’d brought your lightstick because it was the only one you owned. But now that you’re standing in the same room as them, you aren’t going to miss an opportunity to have your bias sign it.

You spot Hyunjin’s head and make your way toward him through the bodies. As the Stray Kids members come into view, you take a breath to calm your heartrate and remind yourself, Just talk to them like human beings. You’re asking a small favour, not sacrificing your liver.

You carefully twist past Hyunjin and Felix to find yourself face-to-face with Bang Chan. “Ah, Bang Chan-ssi?” you blurt.

He looks at you curiously. “Yes?”

As calmly as you can, you hold out your lightstick and a permanent marker. “Could you please sign my lightstick?” you ask. “I’m a fan of yours.”

“Oh — sure.” Bang Chan accepts the marker from you and leans over to scrawl on the lightstick. You lean back, trying not to breathe on his extremely sculpted hair.

He suddenly lifts his head and meets your eyes from ten centimetres away. “Sorry, I forgot to ask, what’s your name?”

“Ah, it’s fine if you just sign it,” you say quickly. It’s not like you’ll get in trouble if you associate with other companies’ idols, but you don’t want anyone getting wind that you were panting after Stray Kids, just in case.

Chan cocks his head. “Why, are you going to sell it?” he jokes.

You let out a surprised laugh. “Of course not. I’d be fired if I did that.”

“Oh?” Chan’s smiling. “Why would you be fired?”

Uhhh… “It’s a secret,” you say, and break out your cheesiest smile.

“Ah, is that so?” Chan nods and fortunately doesn’t press for more. He scribbles on one side of the lightstick, then flips it over and writes on the other as well.

When he’s done, you take it back and squint at the writing. To my mysterious fan, says one side. The other says, Love from Bang Chan.

Well, you’re not complaining. “Thank you very much.” You bow your head and then waste no time ducking away into the crowd.

“Noona.” Jooheon rushes over to meet you. “What took so long?”

“Was it long?” You check your watch. “It was only five minutes. You guys haven’t gotten the cue yet, have you?”

“You said you’d be right back,” he grumbles, grasping you by the waist.

“Well, here I am.” You squirm in his hold; he’s slipped his hands under your oversized jacket and under your top, to your skin.

He slides a hand down your side and pries the lightstick from your hand. “‘To my mysterious fan’,” he reads aloud, “‘love from Bang Chan’?” He looks up at you with incredulity all over his face. “What’s this?”

You frown. “It’s not like I could give my name, right?”

“No, this is — why is it ‘love from Bang Chan’?” Jooheon splutters. “Why didn’t he just sign his name?”

“Hey, I don’t know,” you defend yourself, “I didn’t ask him to write that.”

“You should’ve told him to just sign his name and be done with it.”

“It’s not like I knew he was going to write that until he did it.”

“Then you just shouldn’t have asked for him to sign it in the first place!”

“Honestly, what’s the big deal?” You snatch your lightstick back. “It’s a few words on a lightstick, that’s it! Seriously, Jooheon.”

But he’s mad now, you can tell. He drops his hand from your waist, narrows his eyes and sets his jaw. “Fine,” he sniffs, “if that’s what you think.”

“Jooheony…”

He turns and walks resolutely back to the rest of Monsta X.

You sigh. Oh well, you have to do your job anyway. So you stick your lightstick back into your pocket and return to your manager’s side. Might as well enjoy your time here while you wait out your boyfriend’s sulking.

*

Two hours later, you’re running to the dressing room to grab bottles of water. Monsta X has just finished their performance for the night, and they have less than five minutes to get rid of their sound gear, change outfits and return to their seats in the audience.

By the time you’re back with the water, the next group to perform has already queued up as well. You trot down the line of Monsta X members and hand out water bottles as you go.

“Y/N-noonim, isn’t it heavy?” A sweaty Shownu accepts the bottle and looks at the bag you’re carrying.

“Don’t worry about it.” You smile at him and keep going.

“Thank you, noonim,” Minhyuk chirps as you twist open the cap for him.

Beside him, Kihyun snorts. “You can’t even open a bottle by yourself?” he pokes.

“I’ll open yours for you, too, Kihyun-ssi,” you say brightly to prevent the bickering from starting up, and push the bottle into Kihyun’s hand before he can protest.

The very last member is Jooheon. You hesitate for a second, then make eye contact and offer the bottle silently. He takes it, holding your gaze with a look you don’t quite understand.

Someone speaks up, breaking the moment. “Hey — it’s you.”

You look over to your right and literally hop backward in shock: Stray Kids’ Bang Chan is standing right there, next to Jooheon. Looks like his group is up next. Past him, you can see the rest of his members lining up as the sound staff affix mics to their costumes.

Bang Chan’s looking at you, and you instinctively side-step in case he was talking to someone behind you. No luck. Chan keeps smiling your way, and now you can see Jooheon staring at Bang Chan too. Yikes.

“Hello,” you say in as neutral a tone as possible, and dip your head politely.

“You’re my mysterious fan, right?” He quirks an adorable grin. “You ran off so fast.”

“Ah, yes,” you say with an awkward chuckle, and sidle another step away.

“Do you work here?”

Before you can answer, a hand clamps down on your hip. You look round in alarm and find Jooheon next to you, arm wrapped firmly around your waist. He’s glaring at the younger boy as though he committed a crime. It is, literally, the least discreet thing you’ve ever seen.

Now Bang Chan’s looking curiously between the two of you, so in a desperate attempt to distract him, you whip out another water bottle and offer, “Would you like some water?”

His face lights up in surprise, and then amusement. “Sure, thank you.”

But as he reaches for the bottle, Jooheon grabs it from you. “Yah, that’s for Changkyunnie,” he scolds you, and turns to stuff it in a startled Changkyun’s hands.

Both you and Bang Chan stare for a moment. “Uh, I gave Changkyun water already…?” you say.

“He’s sick, he needs to drink more. But you know what?” he says to Chan. “You can have this.”

He plunges his free hand into your jacket pocket. You shy away on instinct, but he’s already got what he wants: your Stray Kids lightstick.

He holds it out to Chan and says, “For you.”

Bang Chan stares some more, puzzled grin frozen on his face.

“Ah, hang on a moment, Jooheon-ssi,” you say with a nervous laugh. “I don’t think Chan-ssi wants his own lightstick — ”

Jooheon’s hand glides across your ass, shutting you up effectively, before reaching out to grab Bang Chan’s wrist with force. “Here you go, Bang Chan-ssi,” he says, and slaps the lightstick into Chan’s hand.

“Ah,” Chan says, one hundred percent bemused. “Right.”

Just as you’re about to die from the awkwardness, the sound engineers finally get to Bang Chan, and his attention is pulled away. One of the staff takes the lightstick from him as another begins setting up the mic.

“Monsta X, this way please,” someone else calls. And like that, Jooheon’s gone, off to do idol-ish things with the rest of his members.

You stand in the middle of the suddenly-empty hall for a good minute, bewildered, before you finally regain your senses and head back to the dressing room. Sheesh. 

*

At 1:30 am, the show’s over. The ice and velvet and lights are all gone, and the Monsta X dressing room is empty save you and one other executive assistant. The two of you are gathering the odds and ends that the crew has left behind when the door opens and Jooheon enters.

You look at each other; no one speaks. You don’t know what he’s doing back here by himself, you don’t know if he’s still mad at you, and at this point you’re a little too tired to care.

“Eonni, I’m going to move this stuff to the van,” you say to the other EA, and brush past Jooheon to carry your box of things out the door.

You get to the company car and begin wedging in the box alongside all the others. Footsteps make you look around to find Jooheon approaching. Face expressionless, he leans into the trunk and adds his strength to yours, and together you manage to stuff the box in.

Straightening, you look him over once, but hold your tongue. If he wants to get in trouble by wandering around without his manager, you’re not going to be his parachute. You nudge him away and close the trunk, then lock the car.

As soon as you turn around, Jooheon’s stepping in front of you, a little closer than necessary.

“Noona,” he says, low in his throat.

“You’re talking to me now?” Okay, not the most mature response, but he started it.

From his jacket pocket, he pulls out a Stray Kids lightstick.

You raise your eyebrows at it.

“I got you a new one,” Jooheon says, a little gruffly. “That Bang Chan kid signed it. Just his name.”

You take the lightstick from him and inspect it. Yes, there’s Bang Chan’s signature on one side of the lightstick. Nothing else.

“How did you get this?” you ask, turning it over in your hands.

He grimaces a little. “Staff were handing their lightsticks out. I asked that punk to sign one.”

“You asked him?” Your eyebrows lift higher. “I don’t suppose you managed to apologize while you were at it.”

Jooheon scowls harder. “No. Why would I apologize? I told him to keep his love to himself and never talk to you again.”

Facepalm. “Jooheon-ah, really?”

“He’s my hoobae, he better listen to me.”

What did you expect, honestly. “You know that’s so not necessary. It’s not like I’ll ever see him again — ”

“Yah, noona.” Jooheon steps forward, crowding you against the car. “All men are wolves, don’t you know that?”

You back up prudently and manage a scoff. “Including you?”

“Yeah.” He leans in, tone lowering. “Except I already caught you. So everyone else can stop trying.”

His head angles, his lips part, and you know you’re one second away from making out in the middle of a parking lot at two AM in the morning.

By sheer force of will, you tear your eyes away from his mouth and plant a hand against him to preserve some distance. “Hang on, hang on.”

Jooheon looks down slowly. You realize you’ve got the hand holding the lightstick pressed against his chest, the Stray Kids logo visible against his black shirt.

He looks back at you. 

He reaches up, yanks the lightstick from your grasp and lets it drop.

In shock, you watch it plummet to the pavement. “Joo — ”

And then your hands are pinned to the car by your head and he’s kissing and kissing and kissing you, like he wants to be inside you, like he needs you to breathe, like he’d eat you up if only he could. With a weak whimper, you succumb. How can you not? It’s Jooheon. Jooheon.

“Jooheon-ah.” His name slips from your lips breathlessly when he finally releases your mouth to nuzzle into your neck.

“Y/N-noona,” he murmurs back, and the way he says your name into your skin sends a shiver through your body until you’re shuddering. “I love you.”

Oh, Jooheon.

*

So. You did end up making out in the middle of a parking lot at two AM in the morning, after all.

[tsukishima44]

For you, I give my all

It’s Hizashi’s birthday in a month. After knowing the blonde for more than 10 years, he didn’t know what else to give for his wonderful birthday. A scandal gave him an idea though.

=============================================================

1 month before H day

=============================================================

‘It’s Zashi’s birthday soon’

THWACK!

‘What should I get for him this year?’

A sounding yell from the right.

‘Should I buy him another cake?’

“YOU FU-“

POW!

‘Maybe Mochi want to wear a suit again?’

“OUCH OUCH! FUCK! DAMN! YOU WIN LET GO!”

“Nope. Not until the police came”

‘We have groom suit last year’

“Eraserhead-san! Thank you for your work! Please leave him here and we will send the fee as usual”

He nodded. He looped his capture weapon into one of the streetlight and made his way back home.

‘Mermaid?’

=============================================================

2 weeks before H day

=============================================================

“Shota!!”

Aizawa looked up from Jirou’s work. He was very glad to see more black rather than red. Very refreshing or as refreshing as it could be for his dry eyes. Certainly better than Kaminari’s.

“What?”

His best friend of 15 years must have seen the happiness radiating from him. She casually slung her arm on his shoulders. She looked up, glancing right and left. Then she whispered.

“Have you find a present for your hubby?”

They have been married for more than 5 years and magically keep it quiet despite their jobs. Nemuri, Tensei, and Nedzu were the only people there and the only people knew about it.

“Nope. I was thinking about getting a cake”

“Cat cake?”

He nodded.

“And-“

“-Mochi catwalking in a suit”

Aizawa glared at her. Of course being best friend for years meaning understanding his circumstances.

“You shouldn’t make things easy to guess, honey”

“Don’t call me that!”

Nemuri moved out of the way when Aizawa’s hand about to slap her arm.

“Well you better search for something better because it’s two more weeks”

Aizawa huffed.

“I know, I know”

Nemuri sauntered to her next prey.

=============================================================

3 days before H day

=============================================================

Aizawa placed a full stop on his last sentence, or might be what he last wrote in 5 minutes. From outside he looked as calm as a still lake. Inside he was burning with firy passion or what he ashamedly called jealousy.

Just yesterday, when he was searching for a venue to celebrate his secret spouse birthday in the newest tabloid, Hi Hero!, rather than a great cafe or family restaurant he found the picture of his husband in his full in hero costume. Underneath it was a big headline “PRESENT MIC OR PRESENT WED!?!” Let’s just say it didn’t take him 5 minutes to double read it and tore it to pieces. It was only a gossip column about a beautiful woman with black long hair and curves in the right places was seen having a deep conversation. Said journalist also mentioned about the many intimate touches during the meeting.

He had think about it again and again. Was it right for him to get mad? Afterall, Hizashi only heeded Aizawa’s wish to keep their marriage under the table. He was the one who asked to place the ring on a necklace than in their ring fingers. He was the one who decline one invitation to another invitation of Hizashi’s radio party. So was it wrong for Hizashi to find a woman, to cheat him? There must be someone out there who deserve him more that Shouta did. Someone that look amazing, eye candy than dry eyes and baggy clothes and unruly hair. Someone with perfect curves than big muscles. Someone funny enough to match his comedic side. Someone who— someone who wasn’t Aizawa Shouta.

“Sensei?!”

Aizawa looked up.

‘When did he sit?’

“Fuck! Get the teachers!”

“I’m on it!”

“Why is he crying?”

‘I am?’

“Did-did we do something?”

“Oh no, poor sensei”

‘It’s not me. It’s poor Hizashi’

Just then, the door to he classroom opened and a pair of hands holding him.

“Shouta? Hey, what’s wrong?”

Aizawa saw blurry mess of black and yellow. Two big and familiar hands cupped his face tenderly. He smelled the most amazing scent in the world, a mix of leather and pine wood. He wanted these. He wanted Hizashi to be by his side forever. Until they have white strands, until it bald, until they retire into old men, until the day they went to heaven together.

The day ended with half lesson, a worried pack of students, a lecture followed with hugs and kisses from Hizashi.

But still with no present.

=============================================================

6 hours before the H day

=============================================================

Knock! Knock!

“Oh hey, Ochako-chan!”

“Hi, Izuku! Sorry for bothering you. Did you get the message?”

“Yeah. Rikido has climbed down the stairs and Bakugou’s cussed was heard even from here. I’m about to go to supermarket to buy other supplies. Momo and several others are going with me”

“Can I join you guys?”

“Sure”

=============================================================

H Day

=============================================================

A flurry of footsteps was heard in the one of U.A’s empty hallway. It has been an hour and half since the last students passed the front gate and went back home. The afternoon light painted broken white wall into a beautiful mix of orange, yellow, and red. One pro-hero was on his way to the supposedly empty classroom. When he opened the classroom, another pro-hero, underground, stood in the middle, looking as shabby as he usually did. But in his green orbs, his husband always a sight to behold, a pearl among trash. Stunning, wonderful, an eye candy. He was blessed to have the honor and call this man his.  

“Sho? You’re ready?”

Hizashi didn’t need to give his everyday Present Mic’s greeting. His raven beauty of a husband always knew when he would arrive to go home each day. But today he was surprised to find his spouse of 5 years message him to come and get him, 30 minutes before their appointed time.

“Zashi...”

Shouta called him, beckoning him closer.

Like a moth to a flame, Hizashi was attracted.

“What is it? Are you sick? Something’s wrong?”

Hizashi arrived in front of Shouta, hands immediately took others without any preamble. One of them quickly assessed Shouta’s health.

Was he sick? He looked fine today. Was something amiss? He had made sure everything was okay and ready today.

“Zashi..”

Shouta placed his hands on top of his which were planted on both of Shouta’s perfect cheeks.

When did they move there?

“Happy birthday”

“HAPPY BIRTHDAY, SENSEIIII!!!!!!”

It was a loud popping sound, colorful triangles, and so many cheers around him. He looked to his left and right and found the kids, their unofficial kids, stood before their hiding places and clapping and yelling and cheering. A glance from Shouta’s shoulder was a decent size cake with yellow frosting -his favourite color!- and adorning it were several radio-shaped fondant. On the top layer, he gasped aloud, were two fondant, created to shape like chibi version of him and Shouta. They were holding hands together and below it was several small figures, their handful kids. Then he looked straight once again. His husband, Aizawa Shouta, was sporting one of his smirk which quickly melted into his fond smile when he realized that Hizashi’s eyes were upon him.

“Oh wow.... Shou, I-God, If we haven’t married yet I would marry you again and again in a heartbeat”

Shouta thrown his head as he laughed freely.

“Me too, Zashi, me too”

Then he had a line of students queuing to shake his hands, given him small trinkets and other things they thought pass as a gift. On the end of the line was Shinsou and Eri, giving him a new headphone and a handmade bracelet.

After the party started, he went to find the conductor of this surprise birthday party. As expected, he was standing in the corner of the room, still trying to blend in the dark. Not very effective as every corner of the classroom was filled with color from a disco ball hung in the middle, how he missed such a big decoration was amazing.

“Hey, husband”

Shouta smiled.

He casually slipped his arm into Shouta’s waist.

“Hey yourself”

Hizashi kissed Shouta’s cheek.

“Does that mean that we are out?”

Shouta nodded

“I also told your colleague in the radio station. Now they can put my name on the invitation party”

“Are you sure?”

“You know I will not do anything I am not sure of”

Hizashi smiled back and kissed Shouta deeply and as less sensually as he could.

“Happy birthday, Zashi”

“Thank you, Sho!!”

[fandammit]

With sorrows to impart (1/2)

[One Day at a Time. Prompt fill from @actuallylorelaigilmore: schneider goes to penelope's door in the middle of the night, instead of the other way around. Way more angsty than I had initially intended, but there you go.]

It’s 11:30 at night by the time she gets through the thick stack of her pathophysiology flash cards, which is a full hour sooner than she thought she’d be finished with them. She’d had nearly three and a half hours of blissful, uninterrupted silence and she makes a mental note to thank her mom and Alex and Elena for basically leaving her alone since the end of the dinner.

She neatly files her flashcards in the plastic flashcard keeper Elena got her, tracing her fingers over the letters in “You can do it!” written in Elena’s firm, slanting script. She smiles as stacks her books on top of the each other and goes around and tidies up the living room. She’s about to turn the lights off when she hears a soft knock on the door.

Given how late it is, she figures it can only be Schneider, so she just waits for him to come barging into the room since the knock is only ever really announcing his entrance rather than asking for permission.

He doesn’t, though she can hear him shuffling back and forth in front of her door.

She furrows her brows and opens the door.

“Wow Schneider, actually waiting to be invited in? You feeling ok?”

He waits a beat too long before he reacts, just stares at her with this intense mix of relief and bewilderment. It’s so disconcerting that she immediately reaches out for him, grabbing his forearms and pulling him inside.

“Hey, what’s going on? Are you ok?”

He looks at her and then looks around the room -- the dim lights, the stack of books on the kitchen table.

“I’m sorry it’s so late. I know you have a test tomorrow.”

It doesn’t answer her question at all, and she wonders if he even heard it. She chews on the corner of her lip and steers him towards the couch, pulls him down to sit next to her.

“What’s wrong, Schneider?” Because at this point she knows that something must be. For all that he comes in and out of their house during the day, she can’t recall him every stopping by their house late at night.

If anything, it’s been her showing up announced at his door in the middle of the night. But it doesn’t escape her notice that every time she’s done that, it’s because something major has gone on in her life.

He doesn’t say anything for a long moment, just sits there with his arms crossed in front of him. He has an almost faraway look in his eyes, and that scares her more than anything. The Schneider she knows is always so present in the moment, always so intensely there, that to see him looking so absent throws everything off-kilter.

She leans closer to him to see if she can catch the smell of alcohol coming off of him, but all she can smell is his shampoo mixed with the scent of those lavender candles he always likes to burn in his apartment.

She’s about to ask him if he’s been drinking, even though she doesn’t think he has been, and even though she isn’t sure he’d tell her if he had relapsed, when he clears his throat and leans forward with this elbows resting on top of his thighs.

“So, my uh --.” He clears his throat again and glances over at her, fully present in the moment for the first time since he walked into the apartment. “I just got a phone call that my mom died.”

She covers her mouth, then instinctively reaches forward and takes his hand.

“Oh my God, Schneider. I’m so sorry.”

“It’s ok,” he says quickly, like it’s an automatic response queued up in his brain. “I mean, I guess she’d been sick for a while -- cancer -- so this didn’t come as a surprise to anyone.” He clears his throat again and shrugs. “Anyone but me, since I didn’t even know she was sick.” He licks his lips, then takes a deep breath in, lets it out slowly. “Guess she forgot to mention that when she made her yearly Christmas call.”

A wave of sympathy rolls through her at his words, and she moves closer to him as she wraps both of her hands around his.

“Maybe she didn’t know then. I mean, cancer can spread fast and -- .”

He shakes his head.

“She’d been sick for the last year and a half, Pen. She just never bothered to tell me.”

It’s as close to bitter as she’s ever heard him be.

"You know, I've been up in my apartment, trying to cry for the last hour. Wanting to cry. But -- ." He makes a slicing motion with his hand and shrugs. "Nothing." He glances at her from the corner of his eye. "That's weird, right? That has never really happened to me before. Remember that Lowe’s commercial that used to be on all the time? Sob city."

She nods, but doesn’t say anything because she can tell he has more to say. She just sits and keeps ahold of his hand in both of hers, her thumb gently brushing back and forth against the contours of it.  

“But now?” He shakes his head. “Nothing, not a single teardrop, not even that burning in your eyes when you want to cry but are trying not to because you’re sitting in your doctor’s office and Mulan is on mute on one of the tvs and it’s that scene where she reunites with her father at the end the movie.”

“That scene does always get me.”

“Right? It’s so good.” He huffs a laugh, though it’s more hollow sounding than anything. “But now, even though I know I’m never going to reunite with my mom, I still can’t.” He sighs. “Nothing, Pen. There’s nothing there.”

He runs his hand over his beard, one side, then the other, and shakes his head.

"That's wrong, right? I shouldn't -- that shouldn't be the way it is."

"Your mom just died, Schneider. Nothing needs to make sense right now." She wraps her arms around him. He immediately drapes his arm over her shoulder and tugs him closer to her, rests his cheek on top of her head.

“I wasn’t going to come down -- I know that your test tomorrow is a big deal.”

She shakes her head.

“That test is just a test, Schneider. You’re a big deal. This is a big deal.”

He’s quiet for a long moment, and she can hears him swallow thickly.

“So, I was sitting there, with my phone in my hands, trying to cry. And I started thinking -- I bet I could cry if I had a drink. I was a really emotional drunk.” He clears his throat. “I figured I should head down here rather than to the liquor store.”

She squeezes him tightly.

“I’m really proud of you that you did.” She breathes in deeply, then reaches up and takes her hand in his. “And I am just really, really glad you came down here. You’re not going to have to go through this alone, Schneider. Whatever you need, we got you.” She lifts her head to look at him, so that he knows just how important this is to her, how important he is to her. “I got you.”

The corner of his mouth quirks up as he nods.

“Thanks, Pen.” He takes a deep breath in. “You know, just telling you all that -- it made me feel better. Or, you know, not as weird.” He squeezes her hand and shifts away from her. “I should probably let you sleep though.”

She hears the sound of metal rings sliding across a metal bar, and turns to see her mother silhouetted in the dark behind them.

"You will sleep here tonight, Schneider.” She walks over and gives him a gentle stare, her hand resting on Penelope’s shoulder. “I will sleep with Lupita and you will sleep in my bed."

Schneider puts his hands out in front of him.

"Lydia, you don't have to do that."

"It is done."

She walks over to him and brushes her hand through his hair, then kisses him very gently on the forehead.

"Go to sleep, mijo. And in the morning, we face it together."

She sees Schneider swallow thickly, then nod.

“Ok,” he says quietly.

Her mother squeezes her on the shoulder, then shuffles quietly down the hall.

Penelope stands up and holds her hand out.

“C’mon, Schneider, you heard the woman.”

He looks at her, then looks at her hand before he takes it and lets her pull him off the couch.

She keeps hold of his hand, leading him around the couch and to her mami’s bed like he couldn’t navigate around this entire apartment with his eyes closed. He doesn’t seem to mind though, if the firm grip on her hand is any indication. He lays down and pulls the covers over him, his long frame just barely fitting on the pullout bed.

“Get some sleep, Schneider,” she says, reaching over to pluck the glasses from his face and set them down on the nightstand. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

He nods, squeezes her hand once before letting go.

She turns to go, already trying to create a list of things in her head that she thinks might help him get through this.

“Hey, Penelope?”

She stops at the edge of her mami’s room and turns around.

“Yeah?”

He squints in her direction and she knows he must not be able to see her from this far away, so she moves back over to the bed. He looks up at her, his blue eyes wide, guileless as always, soft and uncertain in a way that makes her heart ache.

“Do you think the fact that I can’t cry...do you think that makes me a bad person?”

She shakes her head firmly, without hesitation.

“Absolutely not, Schneider.” She reaches down to cup his cheek, as though she can transfer her certainty through the tips of her fingers. “I actually think you’re one of the best people I know.”

He smiles up at her, his cheek scratching up against the palm of her hand, his eyes bright in the dim light of the room.

“Yeah?”

She nods again, once, decisively.

“Yeah.” She brushes her hand across his cheek, then pushes a few flattened strands of hair away from his face.

He closes his eyes at the sensation and leans into her touch, sighing quietly. She smiles and indulges him -- because his mom has just died and he’s wondering if he’s a good person and he deserves to understand just how much he is -- and runs her hand through his hair a few more times before she reaches down to take his hand.

“Good night, Schneider.”

He breathes in deeply but doesn’t open his eyes, just squeezes her hand once before letting go.

“Good night, Penelope.”

[braindamageforbeginners]

A New Doctor

Cycle 9, Day 10

So, I now have at least a half-dozen physicians on my case. If you believe the BMJ stat that “medical misadvenure” (which is a broad category that includes, but is not limited to, doctor error, nursing error, pharmacy screw-ups, misdiagnosis, accidental overdose/drug interactions, opportunistic infections - the list goes on) is the third-leading cause of death in America (according to the same study, heart disease is #1 and cancer is #2). So, for those for those of you setting odds on my life expectancy (and, frankly, I’d be disappointed if you didn’t), it’s been an odd, extended game of “Clue,” except I’m Mr. Body, to see if disease, side-effects, or my possibly-insane physicians will get to me first. I hate to say it, but I think I’ve finally figured the odds-on favorite in this one: my GP.

This isn’t a plea for help, or even a serious medical development on my part, it’s a warning for you, the readership, as insurance enrollment comes around. First of all, if you can’t pay, hospitals or physicians can throw you out on the street (this is something able-bodied people are so disbelieving of that took a poor black woman freezing to death on-camera in Baltimore). They are only required to treat you if you in an emergency situation, thanks to some federal laws called “EMTALA.”If you have a disease that drives you to the emergency room, the prognosis gets worse. People tend believe that just because it’s the healthcare industry, the health insurance industry isn’t a corrosive force that has a vested interest in denying care and killing you. Which is odd to me; you don’t get this anywhere else (or I haven’t experienced this sort of self-delusional attitude); you don’t see people defending McDonald’s or Nabisco or RJ Reynolds or Exxon as having their best interests at heart (and, to my friends who think they’re bullet-proof because of their health insurance, read the fine print, very, very carefully; you don’t want to get a nasty shock as you’re being rolled into the OR). So, thanks to my parent’s generosity/desire not to see me die, I rolled in last year with a very expensive PPO (there are a lot of acronyms to keep track of, but PPOs allow the patient to see anyone in a preferred provider network, which tend to be large and give the patient lots of choices, so you can directly get a referral to a neurologist if you hit your head). Unfortunately, because I have pre-existing conditions (and to my bullet-proof friends, read through the list of pre-existing conditions that’ll disqualify you, your jaw will drop)(also, it’s telling that Congressmen and Senators have the option to buy into a separate, federal employee health insurance option that’s not available to us serfs)(it’s also telling that the ACA required Congresscritters, for the first time ever, to tough it out and find health insurance like their constituents)(which is why I assume all the GOP higher-ups had melt-downs over the ACA - a slight removal of privilege to help sick constituents isn’t a part of Congressional ethos, let alone job description), my premiums went from “expensive” to “leasing a sports car” within a few months. I’m extraordinarily grateful to them for providing that financial backing, because it allowed me to continue getting treatment during the crucial 6-10 week GBM post-diagnosis period that might turn this from “Guaranteed doom” to “far too close for comfort.” So, this did give me some time to do my homework (in writing about this, I’m realizing I really should consider applying to law school, because I’ll know more about medical and insurance law and ethics than some lawyers before this is up)(Hell, I probably know more than some of them right now). Anyway, I found that all the specialists I see for cancer, do take medicaid (even the specialized pharmacy I use at the cancer center). Which is good for me, especially since being on disability in California is an automatic qualification for Medicaid. Now for the bad news; although all the specialists there take medicaid, the GPs don’t. AND the specialists only take medicaid if it’s done through an HMO carrier that the state sub-contracts with.

Great Kraken’s Balls.

There are a number of documentaries and documents (including an “Adam Ruins Everything” segment) on why HMO’s are unnecessary and lethally incompetent (like many other aspects of a for-profit medical system), but here’s the most basic deal: They act as a gate-keeper for the entire medical-industrial system. You can get your care at any of a dozen pre-approved hospitals, and nowhere else. Now, if an HMO or their doctors can’t treat you (or refuse to treat you - which is still the case for a lot of GBM patients), they are required to send you to a specialist who can. The economic incentive is to give less care, and keep all the patients in the system for as long as possible.

I suspect that delaying tactic is why heart disease and cancer are considered so deadly - you can’t sit long on either of those.

So, based on the financial folks at the cancer center, I picked one, and promptly forgot about it; because I’m already in the system there (the receptionists and pharmacy staff recognize me on sight)(which is comforting, until you realize it’s a cancer center, and then the panic briefly cuts in until you remember you’ve gone eight months without regowth or metastastis). I only remembered it when I got a call from the medicaid HMO telling me I should schedule an appointment with one of their physicians. This isn’t a big deal, I just need them to sign-off on any further black magic-based treatments with the Warlocks or Radiation Oncologist.

Now, before I go further, let’s talk about the people who go into medicine. Like anything in healthcare, we tend to give assume that an entire industry is moral, and just; when people go in for a variety reasons (as recently as 20 years ago, the vast majority of medical students said it was for money), and it’s worth noting that cuts across a vast majority of demographics and motives. And, for better or worse, that cuts across vast swathes of competence - for far too many folks, it’s a job - a rewarding job, but just a job. My father recently inquired about board exams and recertification as a way of guaranteeing some basic level of competence from everyone. He’s right, but the key word there is “basic.” Again, “basic” is fine for first aid and most major medical issues; it’s unacceptable if you have a disease with a 90% fiver-year mortality rate.

I bring this up because I think I chronicled my first appointment with my insurance-appointed GP five or six weeks ago and seemed perfectly satisfactory to my ongoing addiction to experimental chemotherapy. I’m certain it was within that time frame, because I had schedule a six-week follow-up. Which, sadly lands on my “week off” chemo. So, yesterday, after infusion #2 for this cycle (for those of you wondering what I’m doing to stay busy during infusions these days, well, rewriting Christmas carols for cancer patients)(”On the first day of chemo, the nurses gave to me, zofran in an IV”). I also convinced dear old Dad to take me out to lunch, because, again, when the Marizomib side effects hit, you do not fee like eating. This was in the neighborhood of the latest addition to my collection of medical people, so I thought I’d reschedule then. And was told by the receptionist to wait for everyone behind me to check in lest they be late for appointments. That would be fine, but it seems a fundamental misunderstanding of how queus work. And, any time post five-ish hours on infusion day, even though zofran might keep me from puking, it does give me an odd, oily, queasy sensation. I think I deserve some sort of gold star for not puking on this woman right away (again, if you have unconventional problems, feel free to start with an unconventional approach)(my next writing project will be titled, “Life Lessons from Necromancers”). I eventually - using the traditional method of looking down the reception counter, noticed someone not otherwise occupied, and manage to get an appointment more amenable to my schedule. For a physical.

Again, I’d love to use some four-letter words here, but even Finnish fails to meet the requirement. Now, it should be noted that, even though I’m well-aware that I’m physically Adonis-like; I am in chemo and recovering from radiation treatment, Radiation Oncologist implied a few months ago that, even though my scan was clean and looked good for someone with brain cancer, anyone unfamiliar with my case would probably freak out about them. Same thing with my abnormal, uh, “lab sample” I wrote about recently - the nurses agreed, a single abnormal test is hardly unexpected toward the end of chemo, especially since I’m now on a diet consisting mostly of protein, fiber, cafeine, and dangerous, experimental substances. However, I’d prefer not to have to point all that out to a new medical person who has the power to yank the plug on me (sadly, my original GP will be on vacation that week. (I’ll also be on Temodar, so there’s a solid chance my brains will be thoroughly scrambled and incapable of comprehension).

ANYWAY… WEIGHT: 198 lb CONCENTRATION: Pretty good, APPETITE: Normal (but this is 24 hours post-infusion. ACTIVITY LEVEL: Not great; the fatigue side effect definitely caught up with me and chewed me up last night. SLEEP QUALITY: Okay. although I’ve noticed that I definitely thrash around on chemo days. COORDINATION/DEXTERITY: Lousy. Thank Gods I don’t need the walker, and I don’t even think I need my magic ankle support, but my left leg is definitely unreliable today. MEMORY: Not bad, although I did forget my sheets were in the wash earlier today (although I recall stripping the bed and tossing them into the washer). PHYSICAL: Tired and kind of wobbly, but still a lot better than this time a year ago.. EMOTIONAL: Okay. It might just be that I spent yesterday next to my zofran-and-CDB salt-lick, but I’m starting to think I might make it through all this somewhat intact. Hang on. Am I really starting to believe my own bullshit? SIDE EFFECTS: Tired, somewhat sore (either chemo or increasing the difficulty of that stupid elliptical), and in the wrong time-zone, but, other than that, not much.  CURRENTLY READING (For Donna): Gonzo Girl, and The Explorer’s Guild (A Passage to Tshamballah)

[televinita]

I posted 549 times in 2021

267 posts created (49%)

282 posts reblogged (51%)

For every post I created, I reblogged 1.1 posts.

I added 234 tags in 2021

#queued - 130 posts

#lmao best - 24 posts

#accurate - 16 posts

#glee - 15 posts

#this blog needs more animals - 10 posts

#amazing - 8 posts

#library triage - 8 posts

#glee related - 8 posts

#revolution - 8 posts

#glee music feels - 7 posts

Longest Tag: 140 characters

#though i am pretty sure editing that header into place took all the time i saved by being able to simply screenshot 24 book covers at a time

My Top Posts in 2021

#5: QUESTION

Has it ever been a rich-person thing to like...build your own library? Not the standard library inside a house, but an actual freestanding building that’s just rows and rows of shelves expressly to hold books? I feel like if I had enough money and land, I would build an outbuilding or two just for this purpose.

I just find it hard to imagine a house, even one with a lot of rooms, ever having enough wall space to hold all the books a person might want to own, while a room filled with aisles of shelves inside a home feels...not aesthetically pleasing, even though it’s amazing in a space designed for that purpose.

6 notes • Posted 2021-09-02 15:20:50 GMT

#4: Should you change your name when you get married? NOT IF IT’S DURING A PANDEMIC.

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6 notes • Posted 2021-01-05 22:40:40 GMT

#3: I HAZ A CAT

6 notes • Posted 2021-06-02 03:57:19 GMT

#2:

Despite being a totally indoor cat, our poor kitty has managed to get very sick -- sneezing 5-10 times in a row several times a day, eye discharge, seems to have a very stuffed up nose and a bit of trouble breathing through it. She didn’t greet me this morning, staying in her paper bag den for hours instead, and didn’t even react to catnip, which is unsettling (though she’s still eating okay, and happily accepted Treats).

She’s been like this for a couple of days and Google tells me that indoor cats can in fact catch colds and that they might go away on their own after 4-5 days, but she seems SO miserable that I feel like I should make a vet appointment now. But also IDK. Any cat owners want to weigh in?

7 notes • Posted 2021-12-05 20:59:00 GMT

#1

“When you receive this, list five things that make you happy and tag the last ten people in your notifications” 

I have been tag-summoned by @empress-of-spooks ...

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16 notes • Posted 2021-10-17 15:20:37 GMT

Get your Tumblr 2021 Year in Review →

[tgwltw]

Headcanon: Damian Wayne

At first, I only combined two of similar requests asking for a Damian headcanon and as I was queuing the post, I received another request that I think is similar. Since the last request did not tell me specifically if they wanted a headcanon or imagine, I decided to just combine these three requests together instead! Thank you for sending in your requests and hope you guys enjoy this! Again, updates are going to be slow because I am sick and I spend my day recuperating though I will try to get through the requests! Thank you for being patient! 

One of Damian’s redeeming qualities is that he is an excellent kisser. He has got years to practice – may have followed after his father’s footsteps of being a playboy but it’s mostly just for show. He really knows how to use his tongue too.

If Damian likes someone, he would try his very best to learn little details about the person he is interested in – their likes, dislikes, favourite food, favourite flowers – every single thing he can think of. He likes to be prepared so that if the person he likes is ever having a hard time or a hard day, he can drop by their place to cheer them up with their favourite things.

Might even be the type of person that may have to lock up his s/o in case of a very dangerous situation. All he can think about is keeping them safe – locking them up is not always a good idea but he does it anyways – because his first instinct will always be to protect his s/o and keep them safe until he can eliminate the threat. Damian will eliminate the threat.

Damian likes giving his partner back-hugs because he knows he can sneak up to them and startle them. He always showers his s/o with affection during the times where they are unprepared. Damian only ever shows affection when he is at home – never in public because he doesn’t want his s/o to be labelled as one of his flings because his s/o is probably more than a fling.

Damian is very creative when it comes to going on dates with his s/o. He doesn’t like doing the same thing as everyone else because it just doesn’t appeal to him so Damian tries to think about dates where the both of them can have fun and be themselves without the prying eyes of the public and the gossipers. 

For a first date, Damian may even book an entire paintball place so the two of you can have some fun without other people.

We all know Damian has a soft spot for animals and this has not changed one bit. He may even decide to take up veterinary as a side thing because he’s smart enough to be able to go through school. 

Damian just loves being around animals and almost every single time he would want to save a stray animal and nurse them before releasing them back to a safer place – or brings them over to shelters.

Damian is really good at guessing his s/o’s emotions – reading people is another redeeming quality that he has. He knows you like the back of his hand. He knows that when you are nervous, you always play with the ends of your hair or when you are tense, you are most likely angry. 

Though the same cannot be said for Damian. Often than not, you might have to convince Damian to talk about his feelings instead of bottling them all up.

One thing about Damian is that he loves to cuddle when in private. He likes the feeling of you holding him too. He often pulls you in to his lap and wrap his arms around you, doesn’t even let you leave unless you want to go to the bathroom.

Not that you mind. Being in his embrace is really nice and comfortable too. But if you ever bring this up in front of his family, Damian will deny this a whole lot.

“I don’t know what you are talking about, beloved. I do not cuddle.”

Not that anyone in his family buys his excuse at all. They have come across Damian cuddling with you many a times whenever they are at the manor. Jason teases him all the time though. 

[ninthfeather]

@ladynorbert tagged anyone who was bored, so I took her up on it, though I queued the post, so this shouldn’t show up for until a while after hers.

Is there a snack you like to eat while writing?  

When I’m super-into working on something, I have a tendency to zone completely and forget the food is there, which is a problem since sometimes I write near dinnertime and it gets cold.  If I’m not quite that focused, sweets are good, especially things that aren’t sticky or crummy so they don’t interfere with typing.

What time of day do you usually write?

I work 9-5 during the week, so only in the evening on weekdays.  On weekends, it’s still usually late afternoon, since I tend to try to run errands or go on outings during daylight when I’m not sick.  Sometimes inspiration just happens in the morning though.

Where do you write?

Dining room table, almost always.  My computer lives there.  (I live alone, so no one else is bothered by this.)

How often do you write a new fic?

A few times a year at least, if you don’t count very small false-start WIPs.

Do you listen to music while you write?

A lot of the time.  Especially when I was younger, I would make fic playlists to get into the mood for writing a certain story.  I still do that to some extent, but I’m also more at peace with my tendency to just sometimes need to loop a specific song for a few days.  Also, I get migraines more now and sometimes I am okay enough to write but maybe not enough for music.  (Especially since I really like high-pitched techno which is, as you can imagine, not the best for migraines)

Paper or laptop?

Laptop!  I like being able to write and rewrite a sentence rapidly if the first phrasing doesn’t work right.

Do you have a special pre-writing ritual?

Nooooope.  I write for my job, too (professional/technical writing there, though), so I’ve gotten used to just plunging in.  I pretty much I just clear my head of anything that might be distracting me, focus on what I wanna write, and go.

What do you do to get into the writing?

Maybe put on a playlist, possibly read through the last bit of the fic I wrote if it’s a WIP.  I have friends in various fandoms who also enable my ideas that sometimes help with this process.

What do you always have near the place you write?

My kitchen table is a mess, so: my phone, 1-2 potholders, a DVD case, some mail, all the medications and vitamins I take, some pencils, and a cup. None of these particularly help with the writing process, I’m just bad at cleaning.

Do you have a reward system for word counts?

Not for word counts; I have word quotas at work, so that would be distinctly stressful.  I have occasionally bribed myself to finish chapters with snacks and/or the chance to watch anime, but that’s usually only in cases of “this fic is more than a week behind the update schedule.”  For me, the writing I do at work is work, and creative writing is recreational, so if it’s not at least somewhat fun, then I just stop for the night.

Is there anything else about your writing process your readers don’t know?

I usually have one or two scenes clearly in mind when I start a fic, and I often sketch them as part of the prewriting process. I usually don’t clean up and post those sketches since often they aren’t very neat or done on paper that is meant to scan well, and also sometimes the fact that I rarely use references for them means that I actively screw up the character designs.  

[someaulone]

“Top surgery” is usually associated with lads beaming triumphantly as they post selfies and show off their bandages and later their chest, lads feeling victorious and having a joyous recovery. My mastectomy experience was definitely nothing of the sort and was honestly really fucking awful. I’m a month short of being a year post op and I finally feel able to talk about it. It’s nearly two thousand words so if you read the whole thing thank you, I appreciate it a lot.

 For starters, there was a long waiting list, I mean a really long waiting list. I was referred to James’ hospital in July 2013, I had my consultation December 2014 and the operation was then in July 2016. Not only that but after my consultation I had zero contact with the hospital apart from the odd letter from administration asking me to confirm I still wanted the operation. I finally got an offer of a date. It was a Thursday and she said I could have the operation Monday. This was less than a week post abdominal hysterectomy so I had to decline. The secretary was abrupt and hung up on me quickly leaving me barely able to get a word in. In June 2016 I got a letter saying I might be able to have the operation in July if there was a bed available. I had to call on the day and ask if there was a bed available. If yes the operation was happening if not I was back in limbo. Yeah that month fairly fucking dragged by. Between December 2014 and the day I had the operation I existed in this fucking awful soul destroying, spirit crushing, demoralising limbo. My entire life was on hold and I felt unable to make even short term plans never mind long term plans. Every day I waited for the phone call to say I’d be getting a date.  

Secondly I didn’t even fucking want to go to that surgeon. She has a long history of people being unsatisfied with their results (I am most definitely unsatisfied) as well as having a reputation of being cruel and demeaning to their patients. But I felt like I had absolutely no other choice. I had no means of saving the money to go privately (unable to work and I have been on disability for a number of years). Saving to go privately would have taken me a decade or more. I absolutely could not have waited that long. I had to have the operation before I was 30 there was no two ways about that. So I was simultaneously really excited to finally be post mastectomy and absolutely fucking dreading my results.

I called on the day I was supposed to and miraculously enough there was a bed available. I had to go in that afternoon for 2 and the operation would happen some undetermined time the next day. I had to leave my house pretty early to get there so the only meal I had was breakfast (cereal) and the only food I brought in was some chocolate because the hospital is pretty strict about what food patients can have in their rooms. I spent the day isolated in a private room, I guess that contributed to my state of mind as well even though I am super introverted being alone on the eve of such a major event isn’t ideal. The few interactions I had that day didn’t help either. The doctor that took my bloods cocked it up and it was the most painful blood taking I’ve ever had, actually near fainted and I’ve never had an issue with needles or getting blood before or since. The doctor that came in with my consent forms got super thick with me about me requesting they leave me with no nipples and was reluctant to let me sign the forms.

Then the caterer came in in the evening and she told me the dinner options and I was like “uh I’m a vegan so I can’t have any of that” and she said “we can’t cater to special diets, we might have something for you tomorrow”. So I had no food for the entire day apart from the bowl of cereal and a bar of chocolate. I had no money to order takeaway and nobody to ask to get me a takeaway. By the next morning when I was getting ready for the operation I hadn’t eaten in nearly 24 hours. My blood sugar levels had crashed so I was in a pit of depression. The rational part of me knew it was the hunger but it’s hard to listen to that rationality when you’re in the depths of depression.

I was told to be up and ready to go by six am. The nurses didn’t have any idea when I would be called down but it ended up being around noon so I had a whole six hours to stew in my misery and nerves and become increasingly depressed about how I knew the surgeon was going to do a shit job. The real icing on the cake was around 8 am when the surgeon came in to mark up my chest. She brought a couple of doctors with her including the one that had gotten thick with me about my nipples. I really didn’t want to take my t-shirt off in front of them but thought it would be silly to make a fuss as the doctors would be seeing me practically naked on the operating table. So I went ahead and pulled off my t-shirt and the surgeon stared marking me up while the two doctors peered over her shoulder. Then the surgeon suddenly loudly announces “wow you’ve put on a ton of weight since I last saw you. You’ll have to do something with yourself”

I just wanted the ground to swallow me whole and then I had four more hours to stew in what was easily the most mortifying moment of my life. So you can imagine the kind of state I had worked myself into by the time the nurse came to bring me down to theatre. I had to be wheeled down in a trolley bed and even worse had to leave my glasses behind in my room. I feel extremely vulnerable without my glasses. I was wheeled down to the waiting area where there was lot of other people queued up for operations. It was a busy very public place with doctors and nurses running in and out and there I was in this ridiculous paper gown with no glasses feeling totally exposed and then the chap next to me kept trying to engage me in conversation. I also realised I really needed to fucking pee and I was stressed out of my mind over it. I mean I was fucking bursting but too socially awkward to ask a nurse if there was a bathroom available. Then I was wheeled off to be prepared for the operation and I realised it was too late and I started having visions of me pissing myself on the operating table.

I was depressed going under and when I came out of the anaesthetic I was even more depressed.

In terms of pain there wasn’t much and my mobility wasn’t nearly as severely impacted as it was with my hysterectomy. But it was a very different experience in terms of how much attention I got from the nurses. Holles street hospital is a maternity hospital so is obviously a lot quieter then James street (general hospital). I never had to ask the nurses for anything in Holles street as they were in and out so much. They came in the morning after the operation (can’t stand up for 24 hours after abdominal hysterectomy) got me out of bed and dressed me. I had to ask for assistance in James but I was too depressed and miserable and ended up rarely asking for help. I wore the same dirty underwear and shirt for 3 days. The nurses only came in the morning and evening so I felt very shy about asking them anything as I didn’t get familiar with them. Nobody assisted me to get out of bed and go for a walk and I was too embarrassed to go out into such a busy corridor and have to walk up and down past tons of people. As a result I ended up having to be in the hospital until Saturday. The operation was Tuesday, I should have been out Friday when the drains came out (they don’t discharge you until the drains are removed) but the drains weren’t ready to be removed until Saturday because I hadn’t been moving around enough.

So I  lay around in the hospital in dirty clothes with unwashed teeth (took me ages to ask a nurse to get my toothbrush out of my bag) stewing in my misery sinking deeper and deeper into the depression. The food situation didn’t improve. They gave me a lot of dry toast and this grey slop (I have no literally no idea what it was supposed to be) on rice every evening. It was too disgusting to stomach so I was barely eating so my blood sugar levels continued to be at a dangerous low. So it was not surprising that my brain then got stuck on the track that it did.

Ireland has a huge shortage of hospital beds and massive overcrowding and under funding. People get stuck on trolley beds in a&e for days. Sometimes elderly people get stuck on chairs overnight and people have even died in corridors without any privacy or comfort because there wasn’t any beds available. Just a quick google search will confirm what I’m shitteing on about. So this is all I could think of when I was in that hospital room. Kept thinking of all the people in the a&e in this hospital as well as all the hospitals across the country waiting desperately for a bed. All the elderly people and the very sick denied beds while I, a disgusting, rotten transsexual freak, was hogging this precious resource from people who truly deserve it. ­­

That’s why I didn’t call a nurse for ages when I started experiencing a sudden severe pain in my chest. I tried to sleep it off and then paced the room (as best as one can pace such a tiny room) then tried to sleep it off again. I just kept thinking I didn’t want to disturb the nurses or take up their precious time because there were people who really needed them and I didn’t really deserve to be treated.

Anyway eventually I did call a nurse. She got a second nurse in, they took my bandages off and they stood around poking and prodding me. It was a dark room with just a really bright overhead light beaming over the bed which gave it this surreal alien abduction feel to it. Unpleasant to say the least. Eventually they concluded I was going to be fine but I needed a stronger painkiller. I had been only taking paracetamol up until now due to my previous codeine addiction. The nurse told me it wasn’t a codeine based painkiller but I said it still felt like falling off the wagon and it scared me. She talked me through it and I reluctantly agreed to take it.

That was my last night in the hospital and I cried straight through till morning. Once I got home and started getting proper food again my mood improved drastically. I’m not happy at all with my results but I’m learning to be ok with it. This is nearly two thousand words now so I’m just going to stop here. Thanks if you’ve read this far, I appreciate it.