#i cannot recreate this lighting for the life of me ;u;

[thighonysus]

Sun coming up on a world that's easy now.

[sunflowers-and-scales]

hey!! i draw stuff (and write too. sometimes) :))

u can call me sunny if you like (and i’ll take requests//suggestions but only sfw pls :0)

also pls talk to me abt:

persona 3 and 4

ace attorney (!!!!)

hunterxhunter

animal crossing

tomodachi life (do ppl still play this)

pokémon

slay the princess (!!!!!)

the owl house

spiderverse

the dragon prince

disastrous life of saiki k

deltarune (a little)

other stuff probably too idk what all of my interests have been ever

i put oc art under the tag #sunflowers and scales

if you want to draw them (pls i will love you forever) you can do the same :D

v oc info under here v

main oc intro stuff!! (feel free to skip this, but i draw them a lot so in case ur interested)

from left to right:

ryu:

little sheltered rich kid boy & ambulatory wheelchair user. he lives in a big beige mini mansion on a coastal cliff and is perpetually bored until ian breaks into his home and drags him on an adventure. he’s also kind of part fish (though my ocs have an elemental system so i guess it’s “water element” technically lol)

he enjoys: rain, cats, his friends, the color blue, video games, alone time

he does not enjoy: the color beige, yelling, crowded public spaces, heat, sunburns

ian:

lives in an elemental village taken over by some guy named Duke who also married his mom. he doesn’t know it but he is NOT dukes kid lmao. he’s part plant element, part air element (harpy basically) (hence the shiny silly wings) and he gets kicked out for being the product of an affair whereupon he breaks into ryu’s home and is like “hey help me find my mom again pls”. he is the pathetic wet dog to ryu’s pathetic wet cat.

he enjoys: sunny days, light showers, his friends, sewing

he does not enjoy: fire, small enclosed spaces, extremely coarse dirt

kei:

is ian’s older half brother and is the more emo of the two. he’s part plant-element and part fire-element and can manipulate fire though cannot prevent burns like a typical fire element. he gets wrecked by duke on numerous occasions for trying to have an opinion and/or existing (todoroki/zuko dupe). dw they get him eventually. he’s also shorter than ian and mad about it.

he enjoys: green tea, the beach, studying biology, ample relaxation time

he does not enjoy: loud voices, being alone, not being able to swim, fire hazards

alyce:

part of a second elemental village, this one ruled by her father (and ian’s father (gasP)) who’s an air element (so is she). in line to rule until ian shows up and her dad’s cringe so he gets the throne by default. he does not want it. also their dad gets burned to death three minutes later but that’s kinda irrelevant. she’s extremely well organized and tolerant but also has talons and knows how to use them.

she enjoys: archery, recreational diving, nighttime, quiet

she does not enjoy: cats, molting season, people who talk and/or chew too loud

[saketoge]

GIF REMAKE CHALLENGE! ✨

📩 remake someone's else coloring, sharpening, slowing, and resizing. do your best to get close to the original and share how you did. make a new gif to challenge those you tag to recreate. share the source video if possible! try not to tell those you tagged anything to help them: see what they can figure out and how close they get on their own! if you're tagged in several, you can do one or all, whatever you like! if they have a giffing tutorial, shared actions, etc., you can use that to aid your recreation!

@leewonseo - rachel my belovedest yours is the only one i am the most confident about which i guess makes sense <3 even tho i screwed up the timing :(( so glad u chose joutfit gon she's an icon for sure and it mayyybe opened the flood gates for more vanner content from me 😋

@skz-films - ADRI OMG I ANGUISHED OVER THIS 😭😭 like how did u get his skin to look like that he looks so good i wasn't even close ! ur right tho this was def the worst stage lighting this entire cb but u rly made it work

@chanrizard - i'm also fairly confident with yours too sa! my resizing and timing are a bit off but i think i got pretty close otherwise!! i think our sharpening strategies are also p similar <3

@lee-minhoe - mel i cannot for the life of me figure out ur sharpening ahfdhvshfdk the texture of his jacket in ur gif is entirely different from the texture in my gif i- i don't know what i did LMAO . like the more i tried to come close the further away i got i'm sorry </33

tagging: @shorelinnes @snug-gyu @minchanz @bangzchan @ambivartence @weitual if u want! i think i'm like the last person to do this so no worries if you've already done it !

my challenge for u is the 220409 maniac lee know close-up cam stage (00:58-01:00) 💜

[notthewriteryourelookingfor]

Incloming rant and a thought about MattPatt, his theories, and 5 Nights At Freddy's:

I want to preface this by saying that I have nothing against MattPatt, he seems like a cool dude, a swell guy even, he obviously has fun, and a lot of his ideas are creative and entertaining.

I also want to point out that this is not being said "now that he's retired", I have come into the fandom very late (only really got into it due to wanting to go see the movie cuz the Jim Hensen company made the animatronics and I am an autistic slut for physical props and effects. If I'd been in the fandom earlier, this may have come up before his retirement.

.

.

So MattPatt's first FNAF theory was that the game was referencing a real life shooting that happened at a Chuck E Cheese.

And I literally cannot let that go.

I realise that the internet in general was very different back then, it was more "edgy", I was like 20 at the time, so I was online and I know how the internet was. Im p sure I was on tumblr where shit like that was very common.

But it makes me see MattPatt's theories, all of them, in the light of "this is a man who played a jumpscare video game obviously based on Chuck E Cheese as a concept (tho I'm p sure in like the 70s-80s animatronic restaurants were a big thing and considering Scott's age it wouldn't be surprising if he'd gone to a few for fun/parties/family outings) and went "ah yes this is referencing a real life mass shooting."

Maybe it's cuz I'm not American, maybe y'all are a lil more comfortable with mass shootings than I am (im Australian, we've had maybe 3 since 2000) but that not only seems like a massive reach, it also feels really disrespectful.

I know that MattPatt was very "respectful" in the video and said he didn't want to make light of the event or joke about it but I feel like just making this video to begin with did that.

Videos aren't something that just appear out of the ether with no way to control what it says: he thought it up, sat down, wrote a script, filmed, ans edited it, and never once went "Oh wait I'm making light of an actual tragedy where people actually died maybe I shouldn't put this out"?

Like even if you have no other ideas, just say that? Just be like "wow this is a doozy, guys, let's break down the game play and maybe reference the event but not make a full video about it"?

But let's say that MattPatt was correct and that Scott was referencing a real mass murder that killed real people with jumpscare animatronics: that's a shitty game. That's a shitty idea for a game.

I mean I'm probably going to get people coming at me like "You're too sensetive" "you're reading too much into it" or "you never heard of true crime?" To which I answer, in order, "yes I am very sensitive it's unfortunately who I am as a person I spent too much of my childhood trying not to be and it really hurt me and decimated my mental health. So fuck off", "FNAF fandom is literally 'there is no limit to how deep you can read into it' that's why it's so popular and why there are so many ideas on what it's really about", and "yes I know about true crime, I also have an issue with some true crime, generally those who make light of horrible things and also my general rule of thumb is "if the parents/children/significant other of the victim(s) are still alive and could see your media, maybe don't make it." I mean an average of 50 years is about what I'm comfortable with if it's being used in the "true crime" space. But that does have exceptions based on why it's being talked about. But I think that's another rant."

What I'm trying to say is that I have trouble with MattPatt, and his theories in general, not because of "Gregory is a robot recreation of the Crying Child" (cuz that's fun and interesting and also is actually understandable if u look at the mimic???) But because he likened FNAF, which at the time was a silly lil indie game about animatronic animals (that are possessed by children but rarely actually talk about it) to a real murder spree.

He compared a digital bear, chicken, bunny, and fox, to real people who lost their lives.

And that makes me look at everything he does, even now when it's been like 9 years, and he's definitely grown and changed and maybe even apologised for that, in that lense.

He's like 37 now, meaning that he was 28 at the time. It's not like he was an edgy teen with no understanding of how his actions impact others.

I realise this looks like I hate him, that I'm holding his past mistakes against him, and I want to confirm: I don't hate him, he's entertaining to watch and I'm sad hes not doing theories any more,

But at the same time, I wish he'd not have made that one video and I can't not think about it with every theory he puts out. It's why I can't watch his other channels (also I looked at style theory & some of the ideas seemed lazy to me but that's my own bias) because it has poisoned his ideas slightly in my mind and I'm now very wary of what he's saying.

.

.

.

I will add that I have a similar problem with a fair few theoriest were they're like "I've solved this" and then shill out for a very obvious scam company or a company like BetterHelp or HelloFresh months after we all found out they were trash so it's not like they had a few more contract obligations. It's like "I realise that you need to make money, but you're actively promoting harmful stuff in an Advert (at least it's labelled as that) and it makes me feel like I can't trust your judgement on things."

.

.

.

Anyway, please don't hate on me, this is just something I've been struggling with for a few months now and I'm curious to see if anyone else thinks the same or had any helpful thoughts they would like to share.

Also if MattPatt has apologised for it, please let me know where I can watch/read it cuz part of me feels like if I see him acknowledge that it was probs not a great thing to do, it probs won't feel so weird about it anymore.

It's like our parents always said: we need to be careful of what we put online cuz it could follow us forever.

[snaileo]

Top 5 batshit characters you’ve encountered

in Nooooo particular order...hmmm i really gotta think about this cuz i feel there are Easy ones i could list. but then again this isnt objective, nor do i need to dig deep for this to be a nice list. 1. Umataro Tenma

Of course I feel the first i should mention is Umataro Tenma. like I can't start this list off any other way, this man recreated his own son in the form of a robot and then abandoned him when his senses came to him ( but they left as soon as they showed bc man was back on his bullshit next day) like truly. Batshit King. and thats only his most well know Shit. like this one time he deliberately went back in time, i dont even remember what for, i think it was steal the not Yet Awake atom, and his younger self SEES HIM and LIGHTS HIM UP. theyre BOTH batshit young and old

like. i feel like we dont talk about how tenma was strapped enough.

2. Terry Silver

The next batshit queen on my mind recently is none other than Terry Silver. It Is Very Normal And Well Adjusted Behavior to terrorize a teenager, torturing him physically and emotionally, all because your Bestie, Your Cinnamon Fucking Apple, told you to. You know. Very Normal Behavior for people in their idk. 40s. Dude is a coked up billionaire and he wanted to play the part of Humble Down to earth man so well that he bought a beat up truck, all just to fuck with daniel.

And Oh Totally normal to go through extensive therapy, turning your life around and overcoming it all, only for it all to be undone because?? Oh?? My Wrongdoings CAnnot BE UNDONE??? BY SAYING IM SORRY???" like the moment he realized daniel wasnt gonna accept his sorry ass excuse it was Over. 30 years of therapy down the toilet.

3. Diva

Here's a more tragic one. The me from 6 years ago would kill me right now for even posting her face because I use to be SUCH a stickler for spoilers regarding her but idc right now

ANYWAY shes for real batshit and shes one of those characters who you can be sympathetic towards, the tragedy of knowing how she got to be this way but god you deserve everything coming to you. There are many things she does as truly batshit but an often forgotten one is stealing the shoes of a man she just killed. And she's later shown putting them on, before continuing her killing spree and doing something that altered the trajectory of the story forever

she also has an operatic voice, which her singing alone is an omen for bad things to come

4. The Monarch

This is a more recent one as rock had showed me The Venture Brothers and i hate this man. I hate him and i love him. I don't have much to say other than i want to bully him I genuinely want to bully him

hes just so pathetic. he didnt want rusty getting therapy because he couldnt shit on his day , because well...he was in therapy and theres rules, so he killed his therapist so he'd be free. to. Shit on his day like i dont kno waht to tell you.

5.Hannibal

this one may feel cheap but understand that like. him being batshit is the greatest thing ever .and hes def one of my favs in terms of being batshit. he made the show such a wild ride and like Cookie I am Looking at you we WILL watch Hannibal (tv show) idk wanna say anything else for spoilers but yeah theres some batshit characters for u

[astro-wp]

Recreating Colors

Color is one of the most important factors that lead to woo and ahh when looking at astro images, even pictures in general. In this blog, we’ll dig into the physical natural behind colors, understand how human eyes interpret colors, and explore astronomers’ recreation of colors.

Light is Electromagnetic Wave

Do you know that micro waves are light? You might catch me using the word ‘light’ to refer everything on the EM spectrum (Electromagnetic spectrum) because just like visible light, radio waves, micro waves, and ultraviolets are all electromagnetic waves!

Electromagnetic Spectrum

Above is a spectrum of all forms of EM waves. It’s helpful to know that for waves, speed equals to wavelength times frequency. Since the speed of light is constant (thanks Einstein), the bigger the wavelength is, the smaller the frequency will be.

I won’t go in any more details about the natural EM waves. Here’s a link to NASA’s explanation if you are interested in learning more. The important take away here is light for us astronomers is way more that what we see in every day life, as the visible spectrum is only a tiny tiny fraction of what’s out there.

Eye Anatomy

Understanding lights as EM waves, colors are just a reflection of what the wavelength/frequency is. We perceive long wavelength light as red, and short wavelength as blue. Based on the reverse relationship between wavelength and frequency we just explained, slow frequency means red, and fast frequency means blue.

But how our eyes can distinguish different wavelength/frequency of lights?

There are two types of cells in our retina inside our eyes helps us see lights, rods and cones. Rods are really sensitive and help us to see in relatively dark environment, but they cannot help us in the color department. On the other hand, cones can only see well in more well-lit environment but they make our the world pretty.

Responsivity spectra of human cone cells

There are three types of cones, named as S, M, and L in the above image. Each of them are sensitive to different wavelengths. And the peak wavelengths are how we perceive colors: S peaks in the blue, M peaks in the green, and L peaks in the red. When our brain put together what each type of cones see, we have a full colored vision.

CCD & Filters

To image faint and far away objects, astronomers use CCDs. They are similar to the cameras we have in our smart phones, but way more sensitive to low lights and cannot distinguish colors. In fact, they would register the entire visible spectrum, plus a little bit of infrared.

When you think about it, CCDs are like rods in our eyes! That’s why we have filters to get us colors! Remember looking through a translucent plastic? Everything turns into the color of that piece of plastic. A filter functions exactly like that: it only allows lights within a specific range of frequency (aka color) to get in.

Astronomers made a lot of filters, each cover different part of the EM spectrum. They are not always correspond to what human eyes see. If we pick filters that lets in light similar to our cones, we can make images very close what our eye would see directly through a telescope. Otherwise, we have to tweak colors around in the images, which would be the topic in a later blog!

Jupiter under Halpha(Red), OIII(Green), and U(Blue) filters.

Then, we can just manually assign a color to the image based on what filter is used. Similar to how our brain works, we put all three colored image on top of each other, a process called stacking, to create a colored image.

Composite Colored Jupiter

And that’s all folks! Colors are amazing but can get really tricky and technical sometimes. Catch ya next time.

[sweetandsavageautistic]

Well, I haven’t done one of these in a hot second.

You are "truly" blessed, I have been around & know several "Gifts"/People with Autism & Downs Syndrome, I say "Gift" because their innocence

love

& compassion

is like no other 

I sing a favourite sing when I get anxiety..people with autism have the innocence of children

#LOTSAU it is their resilience but also genuine sweet innocence, kindness and honesty in their hearts that make people with autism so adorable

so many little things occur when raising a child with autism. unless you live with them you simply will never know. they are the most precious people. regular people cannot raise them. i can only imagine what it would be like if my momma didn’t have me here. (Attention, we have a martyr complex here)

SABB has launched a Recreational Sports Program for people with Autism Spectrum Disorder (ASD) under the supervision of the Charitable Society of Autism Families, with the goal of providing the best quality of care and support to this precious group.”

#SABBSociety

Yes, these people are so precious. I am a Autism Substitute Aide & I worked in many of our KCS schools. Teachers do not make that much. They are constantly purchasing items for their classrooms with their own money. I have often done the same thing, but I am on a budget now!

God told me ALL PEOPLE WITH AUTISM ARE ANGELS

THAT WILL CHANGE THE FACE OF HUMANITY

I LOVE YOU ANGEL

Rock the world with your light

People with autism are angels who lost their way to heaven and fell down on earth.#autistic #autisticmemes #autisticmeme #autistickidsrock #autistickid #autisticscreeching #autistickids #autisticartist #autisticboy #autisticdiver #autisticson #autisticspectrum #autisticpride (yeah no)

I would be the Angel of Hope.  I have 3 children with autism and would love to spread hope, that one day people would be more understanding of those that are "different"?? (another martyr complex)

Listen: our functional minds are directly connected to our #soul.   Children with autism think on@an astral level.  Don’t #Stigmatize people with disabilities.  Some are #Angels in disguise.

hello  My granddaughter has ASD , autism and adhd, I will always talk to special angels . I use to work with special Olympics children. special angels are a beautiful bunch of people.

I really think all these signals being beamed everywhere are the cause of autism, after all mothers with phones right on belly all day must be interfering with the delicate electrical signals that grow into human behavior... maybe the smart people there can toss that idea around (let’s not forget the conspiracy nutsos)

The immense and pure Love that these children with Autism have, is wonderful, they are people of immense purity in their hearts and souls

I love people with autism though because their hearts are extremely pure

Autism is unconditionaly love, pure soul, unic characters and amazing people . People who really known a person with autism can talk all day about them and never gets tired . I am one of those people . Lots of love for u

Sometimes I think that this is the true reason some children are born with autism. It is a global awareness that must be shared, and these children hold the purity of humanity in the palm of their hand. Hopefully, people will see and notice the beauty they have to share.

I’ve been the happiest in my life being around people with autism. If you don’t have a friend, brother, or neighbor like them you truly haven’t experience the purity in life. 

People with down syndrome, autism, etc, arent capable of hate, malice, greed, intolerance, etc. They exhibit all the things that those of us "normal" people try to be but cant. They're not equipped to be evil. They can only show purity.

I dont know, that's my take on it. (Someone get me the Darkhold right now)

I have a sibling with Autism, I wish I had a spec of the purity and love they do. My sibling is similar with their hobby; it happens because they often have difficulty connecting with people, so connection through creativity and imagination are what they gravitate towards.

#Love

Arjo’s role is really lovable. Mostly, people with autism have the ability to embrace the purity within any person. They have a beautiful gift to shower love on anyone they come across with. They see the world differently and that’s what makes them unique.

#TGDReportingForDuty

There's a certain purity people with mental illnesses have....more especially autism

People with autism always seem to be full of life and joy thats what i love about them their joy ,smiles and purity

[corpsentry]

do u have any tips on how to start drawing and get better?

hi anon! to be completely honest i have no idea what the fuck i’m doing but my single most earnest piece of advice is to draw. do it. draw. don’t think, don’t stress, don’t exhibit self doubt-- draw.

here’s a list of things that aren’t worth thinking about: - how good everyone around you is - how other people will see your art - your current skill level - what you know you are capable of accomplishing and what you believe you are not - how hard the thing you want to draw is - how impossible it is to create - how you cannot do anything - how you are incredibly new to this and therefore incapable of creating something incredible - how many bodies there are left

drawing is a process, a habit, a mindset, a physical motion, a heartfelt emotion, drawing is: many things. but thinking about drawing isn’t and never will be, like, Drawing.

ok i know i sound like i’m high as fuck so i’m going to contextualize this now dab. i have been scared of backgrounds for my whole life. my entire life. all of my 19 years i have been bitter and resentful and dumb. then at the start of december i decided to challenge myself to do a 15 minute photo study every day because i was tired of being scared shitless of backgrounds and now everything has changed by taylor swift feat. ed sheeran. this worked because 15 minutes isn’t very long and therefore isn’t that intimidating but also because i was forced by my own word to put in consistent work over a fixed period of time. this also worked because i made a firm decision to only use the photographs that the momentum browser extension displays on your new tab screen every day which means i had a choice between exactly two photographs every day (firefox or chrome?) and was forced to confront some of my demons instead of looking for an easy way out. finally, and most importantly, when i sat down each day with my photo reference i didn’t let myself think about how fucked up this photo was. i didn’t let myself think about how completely fucking impossible it was for me to recreate this batshit insane image. i smashed the start timer button before i could get nervous and shut my brain off and focused all my energy on making the canvas look like the photograph and somehow over the course of 26 days my body and brain and soul (???? if i have one) figured something out.

here’s december 7th

here’s december 24th

december 15th

december 26th

december 12th

december 23rd

and then on december 24th i was like i want to try doing something different. i want to draw something from my favorite video game and current obsession the legend of zelda breath of the wild. and so i took a moment away from redrawing scenery and tried to do something different and serious and to my complete fucking surprise it didn’t turn out a disaster. it turned into this

i wouldn’t have been able to do this if i hadn’t done twenty-four shitty 15 minute photo studies before that. i wouldn’t have been able to pick colors, render shapes, account for lighting, et cetera, et cetera, because i only learned about how the shape of your lines and the direction of your movement and the different colors you use can affect a drawing by suffering through making some really shitty choices earlier on in the month. i wouldn’t have dared to try this at all if i hadn’t been fucking around for three weeks before that, getting my ass handed to me every day for no good reason other than that i was mad and tired and tired of being mad. i wouldn’t have thought i could draw backgrounds at all.

obviously i still have a lot of work to do as i’ve only been at this for a month (people are another matter and i do not wish to perceive them) and i have zero technical advice to give because i have never taken a formal art course in my life but i do have something to say and it’s this: if you want to draw, draw. don’t give up. don’t give in to the fear and mindset that you’ll never be able to do something. you can start with fuckall knowledge of how to pick colors, use lighting, draw water, whatever, and figure them all out eventually. you can start out shit and become not-shit. what you need to do is keep drawing, and keep drawing, and keep drawing.

[milktyama]

karasuno boys on first dates pt.2

part 1

a/n: idk about yall but this pandemic making me feel extra lonely </3 LIKE I CAN’T EVEN HUG MY OWN FRIENDS FFFFFF. sucks being a physical person during this time. i’m also procrastinating from math homework, words make more sense than numbers

genre: fluff, lighthearted, g!n s/o, kinda?? cliche??

includes: tanaka, sugawara, asahi, daichi

wc: 1489

tanaka ryunosuke

he is the type to bring you to a movie date

classic and simple

he wants to recreate that oh so romantic moment of casually laying his arm over your shoulder and bring you slightly closer together

maybe if he wants to get a little spicy have you lay your head on his shoulder

but let’s move a few steps back to the asking out part

oh dear god

this man, although he is a mad gentleman, cannot handle feelings for the life of him

and in all honesty, probably took him a little far too long to ask you out

he had this whole scenario out of a movie in his head, all the vibes of a protagonist; boy meets girls moment

and the second he musters his courage and walk up to you during the end of the day, he freezes up

needed ennoshita to give you that sweet insight so you made the first move yourself or it would’ve taken a solid month or two before he could manage to greet you and start some small talk

he does not deal with feelings too well

fast forward to the date

he suggests a a rather romantic movie since he is kinda that type of guy

but you were feeling rather active today and suggests an action movie

and honestly he couldn’t thank you more because although he’s a hopeless romantic, probably could not stand a 2 hour romance movie

he doesn’t like to be called out by a movie </3

anyways, remember that movie scenario in his head? yea that’s out of the question

for one, you two were too hype during the movie; something about superheroes kicking ass is just oh so exciting

secondly, he was wimping out a little

at the end of the movie, you just, shine the brightest smile he has ever seen on you

and oh baby does he feel so HONOURED to be the cause of that smile

but the next thing you do absolutely makes his heart swell

you ask him for a second date

we did it gamers

quite ironically you guys go on a arcade game for your second date, and this mans does not give you an easy time, but you just love that competitiveness in him

sugawara koushi

starting at the beginning, he asks you out

he keeps it simple and straightforward

calls you out right before you exit school buildings, and asks you if you wanna watch practice because he’s obviously trying to woo you a little before his nerve wrecking question

and you gladly agree

i mean who can say no to mr. refreshing sugawara koushi

when he walks through the gym doors and the members seeing you walk right behind him, they would totally kinda misread the situation

i mean no questions asked when it comes to the boys having some insight to the setter’s feelings, however they were just a few steps too forward

saddest part it was DAICHI himself who went “woahh suga you already asked her out? good job man!”

his soul never left his body as fast as that time

like his boys really ruined that one time he wanted to go perfect

but it’s fine

because although you two were in a little of a blushing mess, you lightly grip his sleeve and murmured the cutest “i’m free on saturday afternoon”

saying that he short circuited is honestly an understatement

saturday rolls around and you two unanimously agreed to baking class date

it’s just a really fun and interactive date idea and suga is so in for activity dates

even though you two knew it was gonna get a little messy, yall SIMPS still put on some of your fav outfits

it was so worth it though ‘cause suga’s reaction to your outfit was just all you needed in the world

the date is really fun and playful

totally not at you two flouring each other haha nooo....

he walks you home just before you two part ways, his bold little butt places his hand on top of your head, pecks your forehead and gives you the widest smile

“pottery painting next?”

azumane asahi

asahi is a simple and shy man

i’m pretty sure that’s the obvious

and he would def opt for a simple, at home date

of course only if the other party is comfortable enough for that

don’t get me started at how he asked you

asahi is such a baby and probably has so much trouble with expressing his emotions on the whim/real time

he’ll probably go for a love letter (damn cheesey) just in case he messes up his wording and turns into a blabbering mess trying to make up for the previous mistake

i can imagine his love lever being just the most aesthetically pleasing

like homeboy pulled one of those scrapbooking, journaling people on instagram

plus points he did a wax seal thing (so fancy oml)

most likely put in your locker and then just RAN out of the place like usain bolt

and for the cherry on top, you would return a letter with the same amount of effort (probably not as pretty as his tho LMFAO) accepting his little date uwu

when the date comes, he would set up and clean his house to the tip top utmost cleanliness it could be

at his house, you two would probably watch some movies, play some board games, bake a little and so on

but the highlight of the date is when while watching your like 3rd movie, you doze off into asahi’s shoulder and boy you should’ve seen his FACE

so read and so cute

*insert pleading eyes emoji x2000*

he would gently stroke your hair, careful trying not to wake you up

but unfortunately for him you are a light sleeper

so you would wake up but allow him to run his fingers through your hair

and then when you decide to wake wake up, you tell him that when he strokes your head feels so nice and makes you feel safe AIJFSOLDKRG

and you ask him if you can do the same to him or try styling his hair

and how could he say no to you?

you two spend hours playing with each other’s hair (or only his if you have short hair)

oh and you took so any adorable pictures of him

he got so flustered but it was fine if it was you

sawamura daichi

as a man with the biggest appetite in the series, no surprise that daichi would bring you to a local restaurant for a little date

daichi is also a confident man

so he would puff his chest and put the effort to approach you

though as confident as i make him out to be, there’s still light pink dusted on the apples of his cheeks and hand awkwardly scratching the back of his neck as he makes eye contact with you

he’ll have you watch their practice and right after you two would make your to his favorite local restaurant for dinner

also during practice the third and second years would NOT give their captain a break while the first years are probably either too confused or don’t care (COUGH COUGH TSUKISHIMA)

anyways after practice and walking to the place is literally so perfect because sun in setting and the atmosphere is so romantic

you two probably walk right beside each other and making small talk when daichi is hinting that he wants to hold you hand by brushes that back of your hands together often

BUT YOU’RE PROBABLY SO SHY THAT EVERYTIME IS HAPPENS YOU JUST BLUSH AND APOLOGIZE AND EVENTUALLY U PUT YOUR HAND INSIDE YOUR BLAZER POCKET?????

HONEY YOU CAN ONLY BE SO  D E N S E

n e ways

knowing daichi, he probably goes to this restaurant very often and knows the menu like the back of his hand

so he would ask you for your preferences and then give you his recommendations based on that

he just wants to make sure you will enjoy your meal to the fullest

as a regular, he is also well acquainted with the restaurant owner

so like when mr. restaurant owner sees daichi walk in with another person while sporting a very clear blush on his face, he KNOWS something is up

while serving your orders, he was being sNEAKY by giving yall a freebie

and it turns out to be like the couple special

like those very pretty sparkly milkshakes with one of those straws that has two sides to it branching out

and like he refuse to serve yall other drinks FAGKFHJADH so you two had to with the milkshake and like oopsie moment when you two decide to go for it at the same time

the restaurant owner DEF took a pick of that exact moment and gave it to daichi as a gift AHAHAH

[lucisfavoritedemon]

Almost There

Pairing: Tony Stark x C.I.A platonic!reader (Gender neutral)

Request: The reader is a real life federal agent, and is task to go into the mcu to bring tech out. The reader is given a teleporter, fake ID, money, and a pistol. The plan is to steal a truck full of Stark tech and be transported back. When the reader enters the MCU they wake up in an abandoned warehouse. They spent several months gathering information, practicing and discovering what'sx different inside the MCU. One day they put the plan into action everything goes to plan until the transporter is broken at the rendezvous point. (From the real world point) The reader is then captured by stark and interrogated about them not existing. The reader in the end stays quiet but before they're arrested the battle of N.Y happens and they escape wondering what to do.

Warnings: some cursing, cocky reader, being rude to Tony Stark (sorry to Tony lovers)

Word Count: 1663

A/N: This was requested by @iawaythrown. Thank you so much for the request. I hope you like it. I also tried to keep this as gender neutral as possible. I’m sorry if I did not. This is not Beta read, so all mistakes are mine.

Enjoy!

I had a mission. It was all planned out, all I had to do was follow instructions. Of course things here never seem to pan out the way you want, and of course I was seemingly suspicious. No wonder he caught me. No wonder I’m now trapped here. 

Okay, I’m getting way ahead of myself. I’m not from this universe, reality, or whatever you want to call it. I’m from a world where this character was just that, a character! Now I’m here with no plan, no mission, no escape, and no Stark Tech.

Yes, you heard me right, I was after some Stark Tech, but here I am being interrogated by Tony Stark himself. Now, for how I got to this point, that’s easy. I’m a CIA Agent, and given the almost impossible task of gathering as much Stark Tech as I possibly could in a truck, and bringing it back to my world. Most likely to be used, or improved, to be given to the people in my time. You know, to speed up the process of technological advancement.

I never asked questions though, that wasn’t my place. All I know is that I had to come here with the transporter, gather as much Stark Tech, as discreetly as possible, and meet at the rendezvous point before anyone found out what I was doing.

Alright, enough of me summarizing what happened, and didn’t happen. Allow me to enlighten you a bit. I’ll spare you the details of the full mission brief, not very brief if you ask me, and get down to my adventures here in the MCU.

“You ready for this?” One of my coworkers asked, helping me prepare for my journey.

“I’m so excited. I have studied every single person I will be getting to know in this world. I spent hundreds of dollars, and did lots of bargaining to get every last copy of the comics for the 6 members of the Avengers. As well as all the Avengers comics.”

“You’ve worked hard for this mission. You seem more dedicated than usual.” They spoke, handing me my bag and wallet with fake ID and money.

We walked over to the transporter where everyone else was waiting. I was given one last bit of information on how to get out before I was told where to stand.

“Just a warning, you may feel a bit nauseous, or you might pass out on entry. Just find Stark and the others as soon as you can. We cannot waste any time.”

“Yes sir.” My commanding officer then starts up the transporter, and I’m sent away in a flash of white light.

When I awoke I was in a warehouse. I got up quickly, and walked outside. I had studied every map of New York City I could find. I knew how to get to Stark Tower from every possible place I could land. I started to make my way to the tower. 

My disguise was his new secretary, and I honestly thought that was a genius idea. When I got to Stark Tower, I was greeted by the doorman asking me for my identification. I gladly obliged and he allowed me inside, showing me to Tony Stark’s office.

“You are my new secretary?” He asked, laying eyes on me. He didn’t seem too impressed with me, but that didn’t matter.

“I am. If you have a problem with that, then I will see myself out. Just so you know though, you won’t find anyone better than me.”

“I see your people skills are lacking, but your persuasiveness is impressive.” He smirked, and showed me around.

I was in! This was my chance to get as close to him as possible without him realising why I was actually there. Tony started with his part of the tower. He said that it would be mostly off limits unless I truly needed him. 

The next part was my favorite. He was showing me where he came up with all his inventions, and that’s where I made my first grab. Of course he had to be something small that he would barely notice was gone, and a discarded prototype, which he showed me plenty.

This went on for about a month. I would always end up finding him in the lab, purposely of course. As he would leave, I would sneak a piece of tech. As time went on I gathered bigger and better tech and loaded them into a U-Haul truck that I rented to take back to my world. 

I only hoped that no one had caught on to what I was doing, but I didn’t think so. The day finally came, and I had to tell Tony I had to part ways with him. He seemed to really enjoy the work I was doing for him, but I guess I would just have to live with that I guess.

“Hey there is my favorite secretary.” He grinned, chuckling some

“I’m currently your only secretary.” I said, not very amused.

His grin faded, and he cleared his throat, “anyway, I want to show you something. My latest invention.”

My curiosity peaked, and I had almost forgotten what I came down to the lab for, “latest invention?”

“Yep, granted the project had been set back. For some reason I kept misplacing some of the tech needed to complete it.”

“You misplace things? That’s shocking to me.”

“I don’t usually, but for some reason more recently my mind has been clouded.”

“I wonder why?” I asked, being genuine. I may be stealing him, and making him think he’s losing it, but I’m not heartless.

Tony just chuckles, and brushes off the question. He always liked to share as long as there was a little pity to him, then he would move on. It annoyed me a little, but at the same time, I was used to it.

Tony led me to where his new invention was. He did warn it may not intrigue me, for it was more of an upgrade for his Iron Man suit. When he showed me, I was absolutely amazed. There would be no way that I could sneak this new piece of tech, but you bet I was going to try.

“Tony, I have something I have to tell you, and you probably won’t like it.”

“I knew it! All of my tech started disappearing after you showed up!” He jumped to conclusions.

“Uh, I was going to say I have to leave. My mother has fallen ill, and I am the last close family member to care for her. So, today will be my last day.” I spoke, looking confused at his accusation.

“Oh, I’m so sorry to hear that. What is she sick with, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“She is in severe kidney and liver failure due to her heavy alcoholism after my father left her.” I said too casually, but he did not question me.

“So, where ya headed?”

“Maine. Specifically Augusta, Maine.”

“I see. It will be hard to see you go, but I understand how important family is. Before you go, come up to the penthouse, so I can give you a proper goodbye.” With that, Tony walked upstairs leaving me alone.

I knew him leaving me in the lab alone was a test. He was obviously on to me, and as much as I wanted to steal that new piece of tech, I had to leave it be, but I now had a lot of the tech to recreate it myself.

I of course did not want to say goodbye to Tony properly. He was just a pawn in a bigger game. I knew that I wasn’t playing a better, or bigger role, but more important than him. I made my way outside, and back to the abandoned warehouse where I kept the U-Haul truck. 

I climbed in and headed to the rendezvous point. I was of course nervous about everything going wrong now that I was so close to getting back home. I made it to my point, and it was almost time to head back. Though, when it was time to head back, something went wrong. I couldn’t get the transporter to work.

That’s when I heard a car heading my way. I couldn’t help but begin to panic, and I kept hitting the transporter button. That’s when I heard the car stop a few feet behind me. The car door opened then closed, but I dare not turn around.

“This is the opposite direction of Maine, sweetheart.” Of course, this was just my luck.

“Yeah. I realise that.” I was extremely frustrated at this point.

“Open the truck.”

“Absolutely not! You do not have the authority to search my things.”

“I could get the proper authorities involved.”

I glare at him. I was not going to be threatened like this, but I could not use my authority here in this world. I technically didn’t exist. Not to mention I would blow my entire cover and mission.

“Or you could come with me, and explain what you’re doing with a truckload of my tech.”

I had no choice but to follow him. I had to remain as innocent as I could until he had enough evidence to prove I’m not.

Now you are all caught up to now. Nothing else has happened since then. Tony has since left me alone, and hasn’t returned. I think I hear something happening outside. This may be the only chance I would have to run. You bet I will be making a break for it. If I no longer update on my story, assume I made it back home, or I haven’t been captured by Stark and his posse of weirdos. 

That’s it for now. Thanks for listening to my weird story. Just make sure to burn this once you have finished. Unless you’re Tony Stark, then you can suck it. Y/n out.

[adabassist]

NOT EXACTLY THE SUMMER OF ‘69, BUT I WAS NEVER AS COOL AS BRYAN ADAMS ANYWAY

Recently someone asked me how I ended up a bass player. I forget what I told them, but it was short, sweet, and long on understatement. The real answer is a lot more complicated.

My earliest memory is from before I was 2 (yep, 2 - believe it or don’t), sitting at the 70-year-old upright piano we got for free from a garage sale down the street, pounding on the low keys, because they made this GLORIOUSLY ENORMOUS SOUND… To this day, I cannot recall ever hearing an upright piano where the notes were as big sounding, although I’m sure my small ears had a skewed sensory experience compared to later years.

We (I have an older sister and brother) would play a musical piano game called “Thunderstorm”, where we would try to recreate the thunder (lower 1/3 of the keyboard), lightning (middle 1/3), and rain (higher 1/3) associated with a big storm (our parents were thrilled). I remember trying to pound on the higher keys in desperation, wondering why they lacked a powerful sound no matter how hard I hit them. I began to see the notes played in terms of size, with the lowest notes “appearing” to be largest in my mind’s eye.

Before long, I could hear how certain notes sounded good together - just octaves and fifths at first, then other “hip” intervals like a minor 7th (though I had no name for that interval in my head - I just liked the sound). I even wrote a song called “Dun” somewhere along the line, played with the index finger on each hand; left hand stayed on G (same pitch as a G string on a bass), and right hand moved between D, E, and F. “Dun” got its name because I played it so often that my siblings would mock me by singing that song back to me: “DUN DUN DU-DUN DUN DU-DU-DU-DUN DUN….”

You could say that my fate was sealed.

I would regularly sit down at the piano and play whatever my heart desired. Back then I had never taken piano lessons, and had no idea how to read or even what was “proper” to be played on a piano. I just figured stuff out when I felt like it, and otherwise just had fun learning the sonic relationships between the keys. But I thought I was pretty good anyway. I even used to make “tickets” for the family (markers, scissors, and construction paper) and make them “attend my concerts” from time to time. Let’s just say I wasn’t a big hit.

I auditioned for the school talent show in 1st grade, figuring I was a shoo-in, regardless of what my family thought (lousy philistines). I got through to the 2nd audition, and upon completion, the music teacher said, “That’s not what you played for the first audition. Can you play that song?” I said no, because everything I play is all off the top of my head. I didn’t make the talent show, and I remember thinking how “rinky-dink” the songs were by the people who did get to perform…

Somewhere along the line, I learned the names of the notes, and even found out that I could do a neat trick: if my sister played a note on the piano, I could name it - every time. I was so good at it that she was sure I was cheating or peeking, so I was marched into the next room to continue the game. This of course changed nothing; I had discovered that I could simply name the notes upon hearing them. I didn’t know what perfect pitch was, but I had it. When my cousin - well-recognized at his school for being a talented violinist - came to visit, and couldn’t do the same trick as I could, he got more than a little annoyed. But that’s the nature of perfect pitch; you can develop it to a degree, but largely, you either got it or you don’t.

I was about nine when I found a harmonica in a box in our garage, brand-new, no idea what it was doing there. I began to play with it and discovered that the same scale I played on the piano was also recognizable on a harmonica! I had never played another instrument before, and I was enthralled. After a while I got the idea that I could play the harmonica and the piano at the same time, so I went into the living room with the harmonica and sat down at the piano. Blew a C chord on the harp, and played a C note on the piano.

YUCK. That sounded AWFUL.

I couldn’t understand it - the harmonica was clearly marked “C” (this might be what gave me the idea to try them together). But the “C” on the harmonica didn’t sound good at ALL with the “C” on the piano.

Turns out the piano was tuned exactly one half-step flat. Possibly because it had spent most of its life in the salty air near the San Francisco Bay, and the soundboard had rotted just enough that it couldn’t keep strings at tension or pitch anymore. Tuning it so it at least played in tune with itself was a logical decision.

But it forever skewed my sense of what a “C” actually sounded like in my head. To this day, I refer to my condition as “IMPERFECT pitch”.

I did figure out that if I played a Db scale on the piano, it worked well with the harmonica, but it was too difficult to wrap my brain and hands around all of that when the piano was ten feet from the front door, and comings and goings were a constant distraction. So the harmonica went the way of the bread machine you got as a gift sometime around the turn of the 21st century: stashed away in a box, likely never again to see the light of day.

Not long after that, my mother asked me if I’d like to take piano lessons. Just out of the blue. I don’t even remember why she asked, or how she knew the person I was to take lessons from, but I thought it was a brilliant idea! A little structure, a little edification, learning to read and play actual songs instead of the meandering stuff I already knew how to do. Great! I’m sure I was one of the very few kids in my town who was excited about piano lessons. But I enjoyed them, and there’s no doubt they helped me many years down the road, as any professional musician who took piano lessons as a kid can attest to.

One day I was visiting a friend, who had been gifted an old nylon string guitar. He didn’t play it, keep it in tune, or want much of anything to do with it, really. I started messing around with it, and I realized that the frets were the same 1/2 steps I played on the piano! As long as I accounted for the “black keys” by jumping 2 frets instead of 1, I could play a major scale on any single string, no matter how it was tuned or not-tuned. It didn’t matter that I didn’t know how to tune a guitar; just seeing the relationship between frets and 1/2 steps was enough to make me see notes in a whole new light.

When I was trusted enough to ride my bike downtown (about 3.5 miles from home on roads with sketchy bike lanes), I began renting instruments for a month at a time to see if I could make them sound good. Woodwinds, mostly - clarinet, flute, alto sax. There was that same major scale, easy to play in one key, difficult to figure out in others, plus the weird keys weren’t logical - if I wanted a note to be sharp or flat, I had to press some random key that seemingly had nothing to do with the order of notes. It made no sense to me, I had no idea what I was doing, and at the end of the month, I traded it in for another instrument. This cycle of “lather, rinse, repeat” went on for several months until one day when my brother arrived home with a bass, a guitar, and a big amp.

The sound coming out of his bedroom was INCREDIBLE. Warm yet exciting, like a smoldering fire with a little bit more residual energy than is safe. I was totally enthralled - here was an instrument that I could see made sense already, sounded fabulous, and vaguely reminded me of the lowest notes on the upright piano. I said, “THAT’S what I wanna play!” But my mom said NO - she was not going to have her sons fighting over the same instrument, especially because we already fought over everything else. My brother chose bass first; I got to play the guitar instead.

Playing guitar was pretty cool, actually - it was a cheap japanese red Flying V knockoff, difficult to wield, barely stayed in tune, but it was COOL. A little distortion, a little reverb (only used sparingly because I hated hearing my mistakes echo), and I had a good time. I had my little practice area in the basement next to my brother’s bedroom, and I played an awful lot. But to be honest, it always felt a little… weak. Like trying to throw a cotton ball. Yes, you could get angry and loud, but there was something missing. And every so often, I’d get the urge to sneak into my brother’s room and play his new bass (the first was apparently just a rental) when he wasn’t around. And every so often, I’d get caught, and I’d get “scared straight” for a month or two (my brother was built like a Sherman tank, and I looked more like Chunk with long hair). But the urge would always return, and the cycle would repeat itself. Until one fateful day…

I was in 8th grade, and I took the bus to school. My brother went to the high school half a mile away, so he was always home first. So when I walked in the front door, I could hear his bass booming through the ductwork like always, and like always, that made me want to play my guitar. So, like always, I dumped my school bag, full of assignments that would be ignored until morning like always, by the door and headed for the basement.

I never noticed that the bass notes stopped at some point; all I remember is descending the short staircase that led to the lower level, making a sharp U-turn as I prepared to go down into the basement, and jumping back out of the way because A BASS was flying through the air, up the stairs, right at me. I was fast enough to avoid it, and it hit the floor HARD in front of me. I immediately peeked around the door jamb down the stairs, and saw my brother stomping towards his bedroom door.

So I called down: “Hey - do you want this bass anymore?”

My brother hollered “NOOOOOOO!” and slammed his bedroom door behind him.

I looked back at the bass, and thought, Great!  So I grabbed it and ran downstairs, plugged it into my guitar amp (quietly, I knew better), and for the first time in recorded history, played a bass in my house with something tantamount to permission.

And it was GLORIOUS. Bottom end! Like the piano upstairs, but BIGGER! Notes made sense, I could find my way around because I’d played guitar, and the stuff I’d been trying to play on those other instruments - piano, guitar, clarinet, sax, flute, recorder, even the harmonica - was much better suited for the electric bass, and I finally GOT that. Here was the sound I’d heard in my head for 10 years married to the notes I wanted to play for 10 years, and my fingers were causing it to happen.

And somewhere in that 23-minute span, I remember feeling - not hearing, feeling - a Voice in my head, and it spoke to me with absolute clarity: you remember this moment, because this is what you’re going to do with the rest of your life.

I say 23 minutes because I always got home at 3:20, it took about 2 minutes to shed my coat and bag and head downstairs, and my practice area clock said 3:45 when my brother tore open his door and came around the corner, snarling, “GIMME MY BASS BACK.” And so I did. But the wheels had been set in motion; 23 minutes of bass playing versus years of piano, guitar, and everything else… there was no contest.

So I talked things over with my mom (and mentioned in passing what my brother had done with his beautiful new bass), and that Christmas there was a wonderful new Ibanez Roadstar II bass and a Fender Bassman 20 amp. Within a week I had nickel-sized blisters on 7 different fingertips, and that wasn’t enough to get me to slow down. They started calling me Froggy Fingers when I went back to school after Christmas break. I didn’t care. I finally had to take a scissors to my blisters because callouses were forming over the top of them, the swelling wouldn’t go down, they didn’t hurt at all, and I could barely pick things up because my fingertips were so deformed. But away I went on the bass, spending 6-7 hours every night playing in my corner of the basement (and watching my already piss-poor grades get even worse - I graduated with an academic GPA of 1.6).

This was my solace; this was my everything. All the other things that had gone wrong or were currently going wrong in my life mattered a lot less once I had a bass to play. Maybe that’s why I played so much. There wasn’t much else going on for me to be excited about at that time in my life, and playing music - playing a BASS - gave me an outlet for my passion, my frustration, my energy, my creativity, and created a drive to improve and be really good at something for a change. And I knew it was going to happen because It Made Sense. It still does. Nearly 4 decades later, and I wouldn’t trade it for anything.

[rayj-drash]

Berlin Sketches pt 1

by T. Frank

My grandmother cannot fathom entering Germany. She was a child of the Great Depression and lived through the war safely from the Catskill Mountains of New York while her husband fixed radios on home turf. However, Germany represents a taboo in history for my grandparents as Jews. They would no sooner visit the Brandenberg Gate than they would try scuba diving without an oxygen tank.

 I constantly reflect on the trusted feeling of Home since I lived in Berlin for six weeks in fall of 2018. Previously, the longest trip I took was a ten-day tour of Israel through the organization Birthright: from the peak of a mountain overlooking three desert countries, to the crowded rush of the Jerusalem shuk, and my aversion to a display of American-Israeli nationalism on a military campus. The scenes and feelings form a whirlwind of hazy memories, much like any experience on new land. 

A few days after I arrived back in the Bay Area, I sat in Strawberry Creek Park watching the sun go down and the light blue sky grow faint as night approached, seeking those moments of "awe" that came so suddenly in Berlin. This bright green park reminded me of the open recreational space I loved over there, even though the grass was literally greener on this side of the pond!  I distinctly remember the moment when I scarcely had to look up at the street signs and felt like whichever path I took, I would find my way. Nevertheless, five months ago, I had sent in an application for an unusual art residency, an immersion into the study of grief. I reflected on those periods of my life that had led to some of my deepest creations. Drawings of cancer cells and lungs, struggles to breathe and heal in the midst of choking emotion, flowers and vines winding through the dark themes. I yearned to express my observations of the world through whatever moved me, again.

~~~~~

The journey to Berlin was a three-legged trip with two layovers, leaving Friday evening and arriving at 10:00PM on Saturday. A huge, crowded economy flight, cheap and minimal. I tried to rest as the crew turned off all lights on board. No sooner did I close my eyes than it seemed like the sun was creeping over the horizon, and we touched down to a windy, barren tarmac. It was 9:00AM, as all the passengers disembarked in Reykjavik, Iceland, we felt the chill burrowing through our thin layers and shivered.

On the second leg, as the plane glided to the lowlands, I appreciated the bucolic farmland. I was alone in the Copenhagen airport. The crowds in Reykjavik were more diverse, like a burgeoning metropolis.  By contrast, everyone arriving in this Danish terminal looked alike: tall, blond, and, permit me, Aryan. They traveled in clusters of family groups, chatting, gesturing, smiling. I dragged my suitcase past designer boutiques to a desolate, unfinished terminal, where passengers awaited their flights without customary notice; but learned to say, Takk, Danish for "Thank you". When I finally reached Germany, I connected to the U-bahn, the underground subway. The ride was over an hour long, and I gazed at the subterranean signage, lost once more. Until I arrived at Rathaus Neukölln, and my new roommate Shimon met me outside in the rain.

The next day, I left the mattress that our hostess Amelia had set up on the floor, staggering about with jet lag. Luckily there's oatmeal, my favorite companion. Shimon and his friend Devorah from Tel Aviv are home. We discuss the neighborhood. ‘What if I get terribly lost, not only physically, but mentally, too?’ I thought. ‘Is this a dream? Why am I so far from anyplace I know?’ Devorah suggested a walk to the canal, with a Sunday flea market. Late afternoon, I ventured outdoors and discovered a slice of paradise.

At the end of the block, a large mosaic mural adorned a staircase which I took to have the impression of a rooftop. A large concrete lot surrounded a beautiful community garden. Raised flower beds were home to a bounty of colorful flowers, tall green vegetables grew under the sunshine and painted poles flanked handmade structures. I spotted a concrete ping-pong table, and mustered up the courage to join two men playing. One of them wore a baseball cap with "Cal" emblazoned in blue and yellow; by chance, he attended law school at UC Berkeley, and lived several blocks away from me! After a few rounds of ping-pong, the Germans drank beer and suggested that I check out a nearby landmark before sunset.

Cheered, I walked along and found an "I Love SF" sweatshirt at a pop-up flea market. More surprises awaited. I heard music, and pushed aside brambles to emerge in Hasenheide Park, where a large circle of guitarists and drummers jammed for casual onlookers. I saw an ornate mosque with blue and gold trim, a wide courtyard, and an outdoor faucet for washing hands or drinking cool, crisp water. Next door was Tempelhof Field. A former airport utilized during World War Two to fly-in supplies from the West, the unused tarmac was reinvented as an open recreational wonderland. I entered the gates and was met with flocks of activity: bicyclists, joggers, even a pair doing synchronized roller-skating. Dry, dull grass covered the fields, but a victory garden shined under the setting sun, and the barista of an on-site cafe recommended finding a good perch. 

I joined two boys from Afghanistan, Hasan and Muhamed, watching the sky from tall ladder-seats. Muhamed and I grinned, struggling to hold a conversation between the lack of a common language. Google helped, but broken English got us farther. "Do you know there are still American police in my country?,” he exclaimed. My conscience bristling, I say that most people do not speak of the Afghan-American war anymore. The sun set in deep purple and vivid pink hues. Hasan saw my eyes light up at the sight of his bicycle, and offered me a ride--so, I sat sideways on the frame, clutching his black leather jacket, and answering "Ya" when asked, "Alles Gut?"until I grimaced from discomfort and Hasan laughed--"Kaput!" The two friends saw me off at a bus stop, and I stumbled on board as the passengers stared.

~~~~~

The following Monday, I walked twenty minutes from the apartment to arrive in front of a white-painted gallery, and no one around. Feeling nervous that the entire program was a hoax (just like my parents thought when they read the acceptance letter from the dubious-sounding organization),  I noticed a middle-aged man at a computer in the corner. I knocked on the window, and he let me inside. Here was a room devoid of decoration, save for a long rectangular table and six chairs, three of which were filled by women. Soon, another man entered the room and offered tea, introducing himself as our "mentor". We never referred to him by any name other than his own, even when I suggested “Alek”. He's over six feet tall, shaved head, and wore all black from his long-sleeved turtleneck to his sturdy dress shoes.

The participants introduced themselves. Sarah researched environmental grief, such as the devastation left behind from man-made disasters. Gwen studied grief theories in graduate school. Jasmine hoped to connect to refugees of war. And Sara--no error, there are two--prepared to make an installation honoring a departed friend. Linda would join us the following afternoon and plunge into an exploration of feeling othered through found objects. After we went over studio policies, we shared a bit on why we study grief, bringing several girls to tears. It felt like a group therapy session--and it wouldn't be the last. 

~~~~~

Dear Talya, Gone to synagogue. It's a short walk from the canal. I forget the street name-'Pflug'-something. Come join me for Yom Kippur services. Love, Devorah. Without consulting a map, I asked for directions from three different shopkeepers to find the synagogue. Luckily, they understood English and didn’t express unsavory reactions to my Jewish-ness. Once I found the path parallel to the Canal, the temple came into view: a large building curving around a tranquil block, with stained glass windows and a grand façade. Security officers were stationed outside, and I was screened before entering. "Are you Jewish?" they ask.. "Yes." Unmoved, they question, "Do you pray?" 

In August, I went to Washington, DC for my cousin’s wedding. Her family and friends are modern orthodox, or, religious. The day before the wedding, we were in shul for Shabbat services. During the long morning prayers, I read the English version of the Torah portion. The text alluded to the treatment of rape by virtue of marriage or the punishment of execution. By coincidence, this was the same chapter I studied for my Bat Mitzvah twelve years ago, but I must have been too young to grasp such explicit content. I left the room and spent the rest of services out in the hallway, tending to the potted plants as a distraction. 

Did I pray? Not willfully on that day in the synagogue. Internally, yes, throughout my life: the inner dialogue between my spirit and the spirit of a G-d. But in practice, only with family over Shabbat blessings. So I answered, "No. But my Israeli friend is in there, can I go in?" 

Yom Kippur services were surprisingly welcoming in Germany. Although the congregation was divided amongst the men and women, the dress code was more relaxed (jeans, white t-shirts), and several of the men held babies on their shoulders as the rabbi sang in Hebrew. I found Devorah and stood beside her. I recognized the somber prayer, "Avinu Malkeinu", and it felt no different than my family's congregation. The prayer books here were German on one side, and Hebrew on the other.

 After the ceremony, we passed by plenty of people enjoying the balmy weather at dusk. Devorah was reminded of holidays in her country, riding her bike freely while everyone took time off to relax. Shimon met us to break the fast with noodle phơ. I was lucky to connect with "my people", thousands of miles away from home. As a child, I remember feeling like my relatives’ religious differences divided us. However, my cultural upbringing is something I've retained and appreciate. Joining Israelis in Germany for Yom Kippur, the Day of Atonement, was akin to sharing a secret amongst friends.

~~~~~

  As the weeks went by, I developed a habit of visiting the community garden, mornings before heading to the studio and nights on my way home. One weekend, I felt antsy as I read a book called The Truth Will Set You Free by Alice Miller. There was a campfire at the garden as they observed summer changing to chilly Autumn. I surveyed the party scene before resting into a corner of a homemade wooden bench under the dim glow from industrial lights around the lot.  Although the setting was not condusive to reading, I was shy to join the group. But, when I repositioned myself next to the fire, it was apparent that these young, hip, multinational guests preferred to speak in English. Rosa asked what I’m doing in Berlin. When I told her I’m studying grief, her voice got excited and she invited her friends into the conversation.

Annika was vivacious and full of life. I noticed her wisps of fuzzy blonde hair, bright in the glow of the fire. She was working on a memoir, and was also the subject of a photoshoot documenting her journey with cancer. As she spoke, I folded a paper crane and gave it to her, provoking a sense of delight. My idea for the residency then was to make a handmade book for participants to share their experiences of grief, and to make origami together. Annika agreed to be interviewed the following week.

~~~~~

I took the S-bahn, the above-ground trolley, several miles northwest where the buildings  are close to the city center. Annika told her story: how, at age 26, she discovered the cancer in her breast and rushed into several months of intensive treatment including antibody therapy, anti-hormone medicine, and chemotherapy. She ultimately received a double mastectomy and chose breast implants. For a month after surgery, Annika couldn't lift her arms over her head. It was painful, but her energy was focused on how to function normally again. Now, she was in recovery, undergoing radiation and daily physical therapy. She wholeheartedly embraced her body, and I felt a mixture of awe and love for her resilience and positive attitude.

I encouraged Annika to leave her mark in a communal scrapbook of stories. She drew a breast in pastel colors with words circling the nipple, such as "soft"-, "round"-, "hope"-, and "loss".- After I left the apartment, I boarded the train and closed my eyes. In the dark, I envisioned a bare, cream-colored orb, shiny and wet, like a peeled lychee fruit. Perhaps, I reasoned, this represented Annika's true self.

Back in the studio, I was at a loss to contribute during our group discussion. I almost broke down, overcome with emotions that arose from the interview. So I took a break from the sterile white walls, and sat under the chestnut tree in the courtyard. I picked up a spiny shell, cracked it open to reveal a creamy-brown belly. I wrote a meditation on the seed of the tree. I reflected on impermanence, on patience, on Annika taking her time to heal yet reveling in every healthy moment. I like taking my time.

"Hey Aleksander," I remarked in the midst of studio time, "Since the interview with Annika, I’ve been feeling down.” My mentor was sitting at a desk, drinking tea and writing in one of his many small notebooks. "Do you feel your own grief surface?," he replied. "No, more like I put myself in her shoes, and feel compassion." He advised, "Keep a journal--one just for yourself, your thoughts and daily experiences. And one for your work in the residency; write down everything you're thinking. It'll help, trust me."

----- Talia Frank lives in the San Francisco Bay Area. She contributes to the Donut Club, an East Bay writer’s group. Visiting Berlin in 2018 inspired a love of community gardens and allowed her to re-examine Judiasm within a global context.

Reach the author: tfrank@cca.edu 

Visual art: www.cargocollective.com/taliafrank

Blog: https://wanderlustblumen.wordpress.com

[agonybow]

CHARACTER SHEET repost. do not reblog.

𝐛𝐚𝐬𝐢𝐜𝐬 !

FULL NAME.   sebastian castellanos NICKNAME.    seb, asshole, detective. GENDER.    cis male HEIGHT.   6′1″ age.   38 / 41 ZODIAC.    gemini. spoken languages.  english, broken bits of spanish.

𝐩𝐡𝐲𝐬𝐢𝐜𝐚𝐥 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐜𝐬 !

HAIR COLOR.       dark brown, bordering on black. EYE COLOR.         dark brown with lighter hazel flecks. SKIN TONE.         light, faintly tanned. BODY TYPE.         mesomorph, athletic build. broad, muscular in chest and upper body, tapering down into lean well-muscled legs. ACCENT.         he has a cleaner american accent, with nothing notable to it. VOICE.       gravelly, gruff, deep. always sounds a little angry somehow. DOMINANT HAND.         right handed. POSTURE.          slightly slouched, his posture gradually fixes itself by the end of tew2. SCARS.         most notably he has a scar over his lip, and over his left eye brow. he is otherwise covered in scars from the collarbone down from his time with the police. TATTOOS.        none. BIRTHMARKS.          just the occasional mole here and there. MOST NOTICEABLE FEATURE(S).        the scarring on his face is a feature most are quick to recognize, but his perpetually disheveled hair that always manages to remain the same vague sort of dishevelment is likewise noticeable. i’m looking at YOU, bangs.

𝐜𝐡𝐢𝐥𝐝𝐡𝐨𝐨𝐝 !

PLACE OF BIRTH.     krimson city hospital. HOMETOWN.          krimson city. BIRTH WEIGHT.         this is weirdly specific BIRTH HEIGHT.         i’m too lazy to research baby size for this what even is this MANNER OF BIRTH.         his mother had a c-section. it was a very unfun experience for her and changed her mind on having a second child, as much as sebastian’s father tried to convince her otherwise.  FIRST WORDS.        no. SIBLINGS.      nope. PARENTS.       passed. PARENTAL INVOLVEMENT.        in the beginning, they were incredibly involved with him in school activities, homelife, and otherwise. however, as sebastian grew old enough to have a bit of independence and was able to be left alone at the house / wouldn’t drive the nanny up the wall, his parents dove deeper into their work in order to support their family.

𝐚𝐝𝐮𝐥𝐭 𝐥𝐢𝐟𝐞 !

OCCUPATION.      krimson city crimes division detective. after being discharged for mental health reasons, he does freelance work.    CURRENT RESIDENCE.          verse-dependent. anything prior to union, he still lives in krimson. after union, he packs up and leaves town, which can vary depending on who i am interacting with. CLOSE FRIENDS.           joseph oda, the only one who stuck by him in all of his severe up’s and down’s. RELATIONSHIP STATUS.          estranged / widower. his wife vanishes to figure out the mysterious ‘death’ of their daughter, and later, he has to leave her behind in the revitalized STEM to save himself and their daughter. she presumably dies with STEM’s collapse.  FINANCIAL STATUS.         middle class / lower middle class.  DRIVER’S LICENSE.     he has a standard license and post-union, when he gets his motorcycle, he gets his motorcycle license as well. CRIMINAL RECORD.         from all of his time spent being a brat kid in juvie. most of it is from graffiti, petty theft, and generally being a menace. VICES.        pride, alcoholism, smoking, wrath.

𝐬𝐞𝐱 & 𝐫𝐨𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞 !

SEXUAL ORIENTATION.         bisexual. ROMANTIC ORIENTATION.        biromantic. PREFERRED EMOTIONAL ROLE.       submissive  |  dominant  |  switch. PREFERRED SEXUAL ROLE.       submissive  |  dominant |  switch. LIBIDO.         he used to be an absolute nasty horndog that had zero shame in feeling up his wife even in a work atmosphere. after his daughter’s fabricated death, he lost complete and utter interest in sex and anything relating to it. post-union, it exists more than it did prior, but he isn’t nearly as interested as he had once been. TURN ON’S.       romantic chemistry. dirty talk. a little bit of feistiness is appreciated. biting / clawing. a loud partner is a partner he appreciates. TURN OFF’S.          anything with bodily fluids / fecal matter. anything that is Real Endangerment (you gotta talk him into bringing knives into the bedroom because are you a crazy person wtf u on). please do not call him d/addy that is weird.  LOVE LANGUAGE.  physical touch. RELATIONSHIP TENDENCIES.     stupid expressive in his affections. pet names may not happen, but he certainly will find ways to inform you of how absolutely smitten he is.

𝐦𝐢𝐬𝐜𝐞𝐥𝐥𝐚𝐧𝐞𝐨𝐮𝐬 !

CHARACTER’S THEME SONG.     UHHH idk man HOBBIES TO PASS TIME.        crosswords. cooking. reading. cat videos. it is less so a hobby, but he keeps a journal when lily comes back to try and help better process his trauma, whether it be writing things out and keeping track of reoccurring themes, or drawing it out. MENTAL ILLNESSES.     prior to STEM, sebastian suffers from generalized anxiety, depression, and a mild form of PTSD from the tragedy of his daughter’s death. all of this amplifies after STEM, and he likewise develops paranoia after being kicked from the force. PHYSICAL ILLNESSES.        n/a PHOBIAS.   sebastian does not have really any ‘phobias’ so much as he has new fears developed from STEM that are not as severe as a phobia, but still impact his daily life and make it a struggle to live as it once had. he develops a mild fear of fire after STEM. cannot handle the dark / sleeps with a light on for a period of time. he varies on how he can handle silence, where sometimes he prefers it so he can listen to his environment, while other times he needs white noise in the background (especially while sleeping) to drown out his own brain’s tendencies of recreating noises that terrified him in STEM. he will absolutely break at the sound of a chainsaw or anything similar. even if it is coming from the tv. even if it is nowhere near him. he cannot handle it and will snap. SELF CONFIDENCE LEVEL.      sebastian will rock full on confidence one day and have zero the next. he is a swinging pendulum depending on how that day is going. VULNERABILITIES.      he has deep, profound trust issues even after getting lily back. he was betrayed over and over, and cannot handle the idea of being betrayed again. he likewise struggles with forgiving himself for things out of his control, and takes loss especially hard.

tagged by.  @grimfacedbear thank you!! 💖 tagging. @fidelicide @garrotejima @0xa00001 @fractempyreal @destructivour @apheleon @wraithelike @atrophid @vojvode @bloodheels @n7soldiered take it from me and tag me my dude i rly enjoy reading these!

[seokeros]

A Ticket to the Sun — 2

GENRE — dystopia / best friends to lovers au.

PAIRING — min yoongi / jeon jeongguk / feminine reader.

WORDS — 17.7k words.

SUMMARY — in a world where your life is determined by a piece of paper on a monthly basis, love is practically impossible. but there's always an exception, and with that exception, there comes a price.

alternatively: yoongi gets punched in the face by a girl who believes she is cursed, and he stupidly, helplessly, falls in love.

INCLUDED — time jump. strong pining and angst. recreational drug and alcohol use. implied sexual content. metaphorical references to weapons and death. kind of unhealthy relationships? hinted infidelity?

Yoongi has never been without her for more than a week.

The only time he can think of is that one August, four years ago. Her father had to take her on a business trip, nine days abroad in a northern city. Yoongi had wondered, at the time, whether she would look different; act different; be an entirely divergent person after spending such a time apart from him. After tasting the flavour of a life untainted by his presence.

Though when Yoongi had rode to her house on the day she arrived home, he had realised that his concerns were groundless. She had been lugging her belongings out of the car boot, but the sound of his tyres skidding to a stop at the end of the driveway had hooked her attention. At once, she had dropped everything and clambered over to him, toppling their bodies onto the grass in a fit of laughter and whispers of I missed you, hidden in the dip of his neck.

Nothing about her had changed. She still had eyes that swallowed him whole. She still had a mouth and tongue that crafted angel’s lullabies. She still had a touch that surged enough electricity through his bones to bring him near death; forever teetering on the edge of ascending to her heaven, or keeping his feet grounded for a few moments longer. A constant tug-of-war with his soul, since she never went too long without knocking his knee with her own, or poking at his shoulder.

Now, Yoongi wonders how different somebody can become after three years. Surely, days upon days must bend and manipulate one in the long run.

Time does not fly. Without her, it slows to a near halt. Like wading through thick mud and never reaching the other end of the puddle. The sludge sinks into Yoongi’s pockets, dragging his feet down until he is neck deep, barely breathing, and she is still nowhere to be found.

Her hand does not part the clouds. It does not reach from the crystal clear skies, offering to pull him out and up into the stars where she sleeps, and no laws of such inhumane genocide are imposed. Where Yoongi can brush his fingertips over her cheeks, kiss the rosiest of lips, and feel the softness of her sigh tickle across his collarbone. He can love her without the fear of losing her to a mint green envelope, reeking of death, in her letterbox.

It is difficult to find somebody when they do not wish to be found. Or, more so, it is worse when you know precisely where they are, but they would rather have their spine twisted until it snaps in two than see you.

That is how matters go after their lips touch in flawless harmony, as if made for one another. She runs, and runs, and never comes back. She hides like the truths Yoongi keeps beneath his carpets, wedged in the crevices between the floorboards, tucked too tightly away to ever be properly found again. It is a game of hide and seek where nobody is found. They stay trapped in their bedroom. They never stray down the street. They never message, call, or provide an inkling of something. Anything, to at least hint that they are still alive and breathing.

Not necessarily okay. Just managing enough to live without you.

But Yoongi does not persist. No matter how much he misses her. No matter how desperately he wishes to, at the very least, hear her voice whisper that she is okay, that she is doing just fine. Because even if he were to knock at her front door until his knuckles were shredded bloody, or throw stones at her window until the glass pane smashes, or leave her cell phone to constantly vibrate with fifty-seven missed calls and texts, he knows it would only drive her further away. She would dig deeper into the grave of their friendship, just to keep the distance.

Instead, Yoongi did all of the above once, and then ceased to engage further. One visit to a door left unopened. One phone call that rang through to voicemail. One text message that never even received a read-receipt. He was too late. She had already taken to the axe and hacked the tree of their relationship to a stump, because the flowers that were blooming smelled of anything but death. They blossomed in glorious shades of hope and devotion. The tree bore a forbidden fruit that she let rot because the taste was too bittersweet; too intimate on the tip of her tongue when she took the smallest of bites in the shape of his lips.

Yoongi accepts, but refuses to forget. He cannot bear to be without the memories that are taped down in the photo album of the past seven years, albeit faded of their colour and eaten at by moths. A vanilla milkshake shared between them at the diner bar, no qualms about sharing saliva; no thoughts of indirect kisses. A hand clutched firmly at the hem of his school shirt until he would grin and throw an arm over her shoulders, tucking her into his vessel; not noticing the peculiar stares aimed at her shy eyes or his careless affection. A whisper, stolen by a midnight breeze that had the dead leaves in the gutters dancing, and encouraged her to wriggle deeper into his sweater which adorned her figure. All the while, he shivered with a smile, oblivious to the gentle knocking against his heart that did not belong to the tune of living. Rather, they mimicked the symphony of beating in time with another.

No. Yoongi cannot forget. Such memories are not poisonous. They are not tainted by her sudden, yet expected neglect of the truth that she so arduously demanded. That she received barely a glimpse of, though it was still enough for her to cower away.

Anger boils his stomach raw with its vicious tongue of flame as the days pass on; as the earth rotates without her. But forgiveness has been ready to extinguish the fire since the very moment she spun on her heel, and ran with no expectations of him trying to catch up.

They are not selfish. The world made them this way. Soulmates thrown into a war zone that was bound to tear them apart from the beginning.

Yoongi leaves for college two months after the great contretemps that severed the red string linking their pinkies and hearts. A new chapter, his parents insist. A time to start anew and breathe a fresher air that no longer tastes of honeysuckle and her laughter. A city that does not remind him of her cum on the back of his throat, nor her heartbeat in the silence of his bedroom.

Little do they know that Yoongi makes sure to bookmark the pages of her with the remnants of their scarlet thread. Horribly tattered at the ends. Nothing that a needle cannot mend.

THREE YEARS LATER...

Yoongi is dying. An overdramatic statement, but he would not be surprised if it were the honest truth.

An earthquake is taking place in his head. Sandpaper has replaced the surface of his tongue. Sunlight that drips between the drapes like honey feels akin to daggers against his squinting eyelids, rather than drizzling sweetness. Draped across his bare stomach is an arm that holds no familiarity. Yoongi has little to no recollection of what happened after he lost a game of beer pong with Seokjin last night. Cue internal damnation.

When he subtly shifts against the foreign mattress, the aroma of honeysuckle and vanilla arises from the lithe body laying facedown beside him. Bird nest hair conceals her make-up smudged face. A shiver that is neither unpleasant nor welcoming irritates his skin. He wonders if that is the reason why he ended up going home with her last night. The perfume of his nightmares.

“Morning,” croaks from beneath the midnight fluff, and Yoongi stills in his motion of exiting the situation. He fixes his eyes on the girl, vaguely concerned that she thinks this might have been more than what he was intending. It would not be the first time.

“You don’t mind me heading out, right? Got things to do.” Yoongi half-smirks. He spots his shirt draped over her desk chair and decidedly makes a beeline for it, stumbling when his hangover decides to drag his head by the nails down to Hell. “That was a lie. Jus’ hate awkward morning after shit.”

Yoongi almost gets down onto his knees to praise whoever is watching him from above when he discovers his underwear tucked nicely into the crotch of his jeans. He slips the both of them on, and then grabs his shoes.

“You and me alike,” the agreement is followed by a chuckle, which quickly dissolves into coughing. It seems like her night was just as rough as his own. Her heaving lungs sound like cigarettes.

“Well, it was nice fucking with you,” Yoongi says as a way of goodbye, and the girl, once her partial asphyxiation has calmed, half-heartedly lifts her hand in a wave. She does not bother to remove her face from the pillow and reveal her identity. He wonders if she even remembers who he is, too.

Thankfully, no other housemates are spotted on his Walk of Shame out of her room. All of them must either be still in bed, or in the same situation as he, but elsewhere. Yoongi, in a true streak of unbelievable luck in such an unlucky world, spots his cell phone upon the kitchen counter. Lighting up the screen, he discovers four missed calls from Seokjin, all sent in the earliest hours of the morning. There is a single message from Hoseok, received eight minutes ago.

Received [11:12AM]: Jung Hoseok

need me to come save u from some persistent hoe, damsel in distress?

Delivered [11:20AM]: Jung Hoseok

eat my ass

Received [11:21AM]: Jung Hoseok

oh baby don’t tempt me

shake shack on 5th?

This is not an unusual morning for Yoongi. Truly, it is his every single Saturday and Sunday (sometimes Thursdays, as well) since branching out and making friends within his Engineering major.

Jung Hoseok, of chocolate brown locks and a billion watt smile, is the campus known partygoer. He is greeted to every frat weekend, and welcomed by every night club within a twenty-mile radius of their university with open arms. He is gifted all of the VIP tickets, he receives all of the free rounds. Duly crowned as the royalty of their university party life.

Kim Seokjin, on the other hand, hones popularity within his charm and phenomenal appearance of slicked back blonde hair and a physique refined by hours at the gym. He is the A-grade student who finishes his assignments weeks before they are due, while still having enough spare time on the weekends to get absolutely smashed. Well, until he is sobbing and calling Hoseok and Yoongi. Or, on the other hand, is waking up the next morning with three unknown figures tangled amongst his sheets and limbs.

There is another, Park Jimin, who has been Hoseok’s best friend for the past four years. He can compete with a flute of champagne for effervescence. Since he majors in Theatre Arts, Yoongi only sees him amongst sweltering bodies while they are drunk or high, or both. But that is the thing about Jimin, with his misleading half-moon grin, and his jet black hair that frames a baby face. He is in the thick of the student body drug scene. All actors do it, Hoseok had once said, and Yoongi never questioned it. He is unsure if he has ever seen the guy without blown pupils or reddened scleras; a jitter to his voice and an incessant urge to be moving. Jimin is a nice person, nonetheless.

When Yoongi stumbles out of the apartment complex, he is not sure whether he should be concerned about the fact that his car is parked (albeit very crookedly) in the student parking lot, directly across the footpath. He is usually never prone to drink-driving. The boys always ensure that everyone catches cabs to their homes, or to their one-night-stand home-away-from-homes. But Yoongi must have managed to sneak around them.

Or, they were simply too intoxicated to even realise.

Delivered [11:27AM]: Jung Hoseok

I drank and drove

Received [11:27AM]: Jung Hoseok

fuckin idiot

Received [11:28AM]: Jung Hoseok

come pick me up then I’m at home lol

Ever the delight, that guy. Yoongi makes a mental note to cross Hoseok off the funeral attendance list for when his car bends metal around a tree trunk, or runs through a red light and finds its driver side crushed by an oncoming heavy-loader because he was too drunk on vodka or high on molly to swerve and brake.

Opening Google Maps on his cell phone, Yoongi is provided with three routes to get back home. He also notices that the campus he is currently on rings painfully familiar with a dream that was held by a girl deep in his past; never far enough to forget. The bitter acid that forms in the back of his throat at the memory is quickly swallowed down, burning less painfully in the pit of his stomach. He is beyond used to feeling flames eating away in there. The walls went numb long ago.

Driving back to his own college only takes ten minutes, and then another two while waiting for Hoseok to exit their apartment building. He, alike Yoongi, appears crippled by a hangover. Chocolate hair is mussed into a whirlwind; usually glowing skin dimmed down to neutral. The black shirt he wears is on inside out, the tag flapping beneath his chin as he somewhat skips over to the passenger side of the car, forever wrapped in delight. Even when the guy feels as though he has been dead for a century after a night like the last.

“You look like you made a pitstop at Hell and Satan fucked you ten ways to Sunday,” is the first thing Hoseok comments as he gets into the vehicle with his bright smile. The kind that somehow manages to glare like real, golden sunlight, and encourages Yoongi to wince away from the luminosity. His head seems to be splitting down the centre.

“Likewise,” Yoongi weakly mutters back, putting the gear into second and taking off. He ignores the indifferent comment made by Hoseok of: Wouldn’t mind that. Bet the Devil has top dicking game.

The drive onward is silent of words with their hangovers thick in the air. Only the radio plays softly between them. Yoongi mentally attempts to piece the fragments of his vague memories from last night together.

It started at a frat party, held by the fraternity that this one overly nice guy, Wang Jackson, currently leads. He was also the guy that gave Yoongi two ecstasy pills, which he popped roughly twenty minutes before the game of beer pong that Seokjin insisted they both play. Normally, Seokjin is not one for such party games, but the exception was that they were versing two girls he wanted to fuck. From then on, everything was lost in murky rivers of being too drunk, feeling too high.

Yoongi wonders how on earth he was able to score a night in an anonymous girl’s bed whilst in such a state. She was probably just as plastered as him.

Hoseok suddenly screeches when Yoongi almost rear-ends another vehicle as he distractedly tries to park in front of the restaurant. He swears to every entity that the sound makes the world end within his head. Aspirin and at least a week of sleep is required, pronto.

“I wasn’t going to hit it,” Yoongi grunts as he switches off the ignition, unbuckling his seatbelt.

Hoseok, as if to make the current struggle of living more of a damnation, slams the door with mild indignation. Glass shatters inside of Yoongi’s skull, and he tries to not collapse into a ball right then and there on the bitumen. Hitting his head against the gravel and falling unconscious sounds like less pain than the pounding migraine that inhabits his brain right now.

“The fuck you weren’t. Your headlight would have clipped the boot of that car if I didn’t help you pay attention.”

Normally, Yoongi would bite back until his point won. But his internal struggle to stay standing overrules all persistence to argue. “Whatever.”

The restaurant is particularly full for a Sunday, mostly with college students, some that the pair can partially recognise from their own campus, other parties. Everyone, of course, is either deadbeat hungover or hitting their comedown. Just like them.

A girl seated near the counter sparks Yoongi’s familiarity as one who he has been inside of beneath sweaty bedsheets. He barely manages a nod at her when they pass to make their orders, more out of pain than shame. Hoseok flirts ostentatiously with the young man at the till, offering a lewd wink that causes roses to blossom upon the cheeks of the employee. Yoongi wonders how on earth this guy has the energy to be so amorous when he is currently dragging his feet through a hangover. And ordering the greasiest meal on the menu.

As always, Yoongi skims past the words vanilla milkshake, ignores the gentle tug at his heart, and orders an iced tea. The three minutes spent waiting on the orders are ones of silent, slow-build regret as the hangovers claim their souls. Quicksand of the mind.

Once Hoseok grabs his tray of grease and Yoongi takes the perspiring plastic lidded cup of liquefied hangover cure, the pair find an empty table by the windows. Immediately, Hoseok launches into conversation, simultaneous with wrapping his mouth around the burger dripping with melted cheese.

“So, how was Seulgi?”

Yoongi cringes at his lack of memory, faintly assumes it may be the girl he abandoned no more than an hour ago to her asphyxiating lungs of smoke. “Who?”

“The girl you went home with last– Fuck, how can you not even remember that?” Hoseok drops his burger, throws his hands up in exasperation and then slams them down on the table. Yoongi swears something implodes within his head at the splitting sound. Probably his brain. “You really don’t give a shit, do you? Just fuck and leave. Rinse and repeat. What about feelings, man? Ever thought about making a connection?”

“As long as it feels good, that’s all that matters right?” Yoongi shrugs, sipping at his iced tea. “We’re all dying anyway. No time for love in this world.”

Hoseok blanks. “You’re really depressing, y’know? A serious downer.”

“Sorry that the sunshine doesn’t shoot out of my ass like it does with you, pal.”

“Maybe you should start learning from me.”

“I’d rather die.”

Hoseok slams his hands on the table once more, and Yoongi genuinely thinks about slicing them off. “There you go with death again. Do you really want to live your life being so miserable? Pessimism will send you to your grave sooner rather than later. It’s a proven fact that optimists live fuller lives.”

At that, Yoongi grins razorblades. “My one true wish.”

“Okay, enough,” Hoseok shivers, lips pulling into a pursed, triangular shape that flags down the end of the morbid subject. “Your obsession with ceasing to exist is going to start rubbing off on me. That girl who made you this way must have been a real shocker.”

Yoongi, at those simply spoken words, blanches. Ice water rushes in a flood over his skin, halting his motion of lifting the plastic cup to his lips. “What did you just say?”

But Hoseok only blinks, wedges four crinkle cut fries into his mouth, speaks before swallowing, “The girl. ___? You told–” Then, he is choking on the fried potatoes, eyes tearing up before he determinedly drinks his whole glass of water to clear the airway. Yoongi, all the while, continues to stare in shock. “Fuck me, man. I almost died and you just sat there like–”

“What exactly are you saying?”

Hoseok, after a few laboured breaths, sighs. “Jesus, you really don’t remember anything from last night, do you? It was after beer pong, right before you went home with Seulgi. When she walked past, you turned to me and started freaking out, blabbering how she smelled just like this ___ girl before you stormed over to her and began angrily making out with her against the kitchen table. She seemed pretty into it, so I guess that’s how you ended up at her place.”

Oh, shit.

The finer details are coming back to him now. The moment the girl, Seulgi, had strutted past was while Yoongi was attempting to control his rolling eyeballs from circling all the way back into his head. The aroma of her perfume, distinct honeysuckle and vanilla, had straightened him out within an instant as it wafted from her skin and into his senses. His dilated pupils had flicked back to attention. The drug and alcohol infused fog that was looming heavy around his mind had cleared for the faintest of seconds, because he was so sure that it was her, it was her, it was her.

The ocean of bodies had barely parted when he charged himself between the waves of limbs. Yoongi had pushed and shoved and waded his way to the home of the scent that his mouth watered for; that his every fibre craved. When he grabbed at her wrist, it was with the expectancy of her face. But when it was not her that was watching on with an oblivious, mildly curious expression, his heart had plummeted to the core of the earth. Shrivelled up and burning within molten lava.

Yet it did not stop him from taking her lips between his teeth. An unfamiliar kiss against his tongue that was dirt in comparison to the succulent heaven he knew, belonging to a girl he had bookmarked with torn red strings. He grimly wonders if he had moaned her name while he was fucking the poor girl, Seulgi the smoker, last night. That would not be another first.

Hoseok finishes wolfing down his chips and takes a large gulp of his shake. All the while, Yoongi is having this brain splitting revelation that makes death truly not sound all that bad right now.

“Do you wanna talk about it?” Hoseok asks.

In response, Yoongi drops his forehead to the table with a bang that resonates around the restaurant. The sound catches the brief attention of the customers seated around them, until they realise he is just being dramatic. Unfortunately, not collapsed into an unforeseen coma. Or, you know, dead.

“I’m a great listener,” Hoseok encourages, all sweet and singsong. Yoongi presses his forehead harder against the wooden grain of the tabletop. “I already know part of it from what you were moaning and groaning about last night. The love of your life, or some shit.”

At that, in a quick movement that makes him lightheaded, Yoongi sits back up straight and lays his palms flat against the table. His gaze rests firmly on Hoseok, who suddenly pales, as if aware that he might have accidentally dipped his feet in poisonous waters. Ones that Yoongi would have no qualms about dousing Hoseok’s entire body in until the acid disintegrates the bones of the sunshine man.

Suffocating golden beauty was his speciality, after all.

“We were the same. Morbid and sad. But she was lovely. Born in the Culling year and everything. We were best friends back home.” Yoongi speaks quick in a mutter, nervously tapping his nails against the tabletop before running the same hand through his hair. The incessant pounding of his head has worsened, thumping in time with her name as it loops in a continuum through his mind. “But that’s all she thought we could be. Anyway, don’t mention her again. That was a mistake, she’s not worth talking about anymore.”

Hoseok nods, shrugs indifferently. “No worries, I get it. My lips are sealed.”

The conversation stalls to make way for silent eating, and Yoongi allows himself the smallest of moments to indulge in the sober thought of her after so long. He wonders what she must be doing right now. She would have finished up high school, endured the blood and sweat of exams, earned a score that can become meaningless once the clock strikes midnight on her eighteenth birthday. She would be twenty years old now, three-years-aged from the seventeen-year-old girl that taught him curses are not all so bad. Especially when they taste like the sea on his lips, and can moan so beautifully just by the work of his fingers.

But she was much more than that. Greater than a feeling induced by numbness. She was delight singing off-key in the passenger seat of his car. She was comfort tucked beneath a blanket upon a vanilla-flavoured diner, with the moon to keep them company. She was love curled in a calm smile, in star-strung eyes that always searched for him in the crowds, where nobody else mattered but each other.

Yoongi loathes how they screwed up so badly. How they ruined themselves to a split second of lust that felt more driven by their hearts than their desire. That may have been to forget the momentary pain, though was in fact their bottled up feelings, spilling all over his bedsheets where they soon after lay. And it was there that they were able to dwell in it, mull it over, become consumed it by until they were convincing themselves that it was wrong, wrong, wrong.

For more than the hundredth, even thousandth time, he wonders what would have happened if they had never hit that kink in the road. If they were never set on that collision course. If he had reached out and grabbed her wrist before she could sprint into the shadows and out of his heart. If he had whispered don’t leave me against her lips. If she were not so afraid of love in a world that suffocates honesty.

Too many if’s that he wasted time on; enough to let her escape.

Knives slice through his back and drive into his heart. Here, Yoongi remembers precisely why he never thinks of her when his mind is not clouded by white dust on the tip of his nose, or the acrid burn that stays slick on the back of his throat. Maybe, that is why he is content with spending the later end of his weeks in a drug-and-alcohol-induced illusion, since he becomes numb and invincible to the blades and spears that the memories tainted with her bear. He can think of her without the agony that the pair of them lived within. He can remember her touch without feeling as though her fingertips will shatter him like glass.

Hoseok suddenly severs the reverie straight down the centre. Yoongi, for once, is grateful.

“Jimin wants to smoke weed at his place. Wanna join?”

Usually, Yoongi would immediately be up for such an activity. He has nothing to lose anymore. Nowhere else to be. He left everything behind in his backyard, within the shadows that the large oak created. Right where he tasted infatuation and honesty in the crevices of her lips. Right where he realised that love in such a godawful world would be completely worth it if he was spending such affection on her.

But today, something holds him back. Whether it be the desperation for a shower, or this murderous hangover, or the unnerving memory of her bloody knuckles amongst ocean waves, Yoongi is unsure. The straw poised between his lips loses the watered down taste of tea, and starts to suck at air and chipped ice.

“Nah, I need aspirin and fifteen hours of sleep,” Yoongi huffs, dropping the empty cup and grinding the heels of his palms against the burn that thinly veils his eyes. “If I hang out with you any longer, I may fall into a stress-induced coma.”

“I’m delightful,” Hoseok quips, and Yoongi cannot help but twitch his lips. “You know what makes aspirin work quicker?”

“What?”

“Snorting it.”

Yoongi barks out a short, fierce laugh. “Pessimism may kill me, but drugs are gonna bury you.” There is no malice in his tone, no matter of care for wellbeing, just genuine fact. He stands up, jostling his keys. “And after the shit that went down last night, I don’t think I will be doing lines ever again.”

“Don’t eat your words, man,” Hoseok waggles his eyebrows, pushing away his tray and standing up. The pair begin their departure, but not without Hoseok blowing a kiss to the flustered cashier. “Ten bucks that on club night this Friday, you will have your nose pressed to a dirty basin like a cheap crack whore.”

Yoongi, amid his head-splitting ache, manages to file away the mental note of ensuring he brings a ten dollar bill this weekend. He reaches out his hand to the deal and clasps palms with Hoseok, shaking on a bet that he has already lost. Both of them can see it from miles away.

“Deal.”

Well, you only live once, they say.

“Jesus fucking– Hey asshole, your cutting game is weak,” Hoseok whines, forefinger pressed to the side of his powdered nostril. He inhales hard and winces as the rocks catch on the flesh. “It feels like I just sniffed shards of glass– Ugh, yeah my nose is bleeding now. Douche.”

“Shut your ass up or your free line days are over,” Jimin grunts, licking his dry lips and bending down to the basin to shoot up his own line. He tosses his head back with a hiss, blocking his nose and sniffing repeatedly. “Okay, alright, you’re right. But excuse me for not being able to crush this shit into baby powder on a goddamn basin.”

While the pair argue without malice, sweat gathers in Yoongi’s palms. His mouth waters as he stares into the dimly lit mirror, cracked right down the centre and separating his face into two. The pounding bass that thumps on the walls of the bathroom; the light bickering between Jimin and Hoseok; all of it becomes background noise as he squints, blinks, observes the saucers of his black pupils. The slight buzz that coats his hearing translates into his vision, and his surroundings attain a shimmering quality.

The pill that he popped two hours ago is already reaching its comedown. A dud. Or maybe, the ratio of ecstasy to dishwashing powder, rat poison, and all of the other toxic filler that was used in it (and is clearly stated on a package somewhere to not be consumed) was minimal in this particular batch. A cheap tactic to produce more product. College dealers are becoming stingy as fuck, lately.

“Move,” Yoongi mutters, elbowing a giggling Jimin out of the way.

He retrieves a small baggie of cocaine from the bottom of a cigarette packet, and takes to the credit card to start sorting it into thin lines. He licks the pad of his forefinger and swipes up the white dust that still clings to the plastic edge, rubbing it into his gums. Already too far gone to react when the acrid taste hits the back of his throat.

“Yoongi, what was it you were saying the other week? Never gonna do lines again?” Hoseok jeers, poking at Yoongi’s ribs as he rolls up the ten dollar bill and blatantly ignores the comments that bounce about the bathroom. Hoseok is practically tripping over his own words, sentences blurring together. “And look at you now, going at it like a pro! Didn’t you drop only two hours ago? Fuck me, this shit is working quick. I feel like I’m spitting bullets. Hey, that better not be the ten dollars you owe me–”

“It is,” Yoongi bluntly remarks. Then, he is positioning one end of the rolled up note to his nostril, aligning the opposite opening to the first line of cocaine, and quickly inhaling it all in a refined, unpleasant hit.

Yoongi makes quick work of the second and third lines. Not able to dwell too long on how many germs this dirty basin must be swarming with, for the intensity of his high slams into him like a truck. Yoongi’s eyes roll as he throws his head back, loudly exhaling.

Hoseok snatches the crumpled bill out of his hands. “Thanks, asshole. My hard-earned money is not only covered in drugs and bacteria, but also your blood. Go clean yourself up.”

Yoongi wipes his bloody nose on the back of his hand. He has no time to dwell on crimson rivers and cleanliness. It is time to drown in the sound that is leaking underneath the bathroom door and sliding across the tiles. Grabbing him by the ankles. Luring him into the heat of bodies and the dazzling strobes that intensify the ecstatic craze of his mind.

Effortlessly, Yoongi lets the techno notes take control of his limbs. Barely dancing, just simply swaying. Allowing the blood and bone that surrounds his form to shove him side-to-side. Head tilted back, he gapes at the fluorescent rainbow that drips from the black ceiling in brilliant, over-exposed colour.

The night at the club is alike any other. Hoseok and Jimin are dancing with more coordination, more momentum than they should be capable of after consuming so many drugs. Seokjin is wedged into the corner of the leather couches, a girl straddling his lap and very obviously grinding against his crotch, while another latches her mouth to his neck, fiddling acrylic nails down the first three buttons of his black dress shirt. Yoongi, as always, lets the numbing hum consume his being. Lets it drag him into the limbo betwixt life and death; reality and imagination; heart screaming against his ribcage while the lights entertain, distract.

He distantly believes he might have taken it a little too far tonight. Forced too many toxins through his bloodstream. Overworking the vessel that has barely kept him standing as it is since she left.

Oh. Oh god, that is right. Her. Herherher. Yoongi can think of her right now in this near comatose state where his body becomes invincible. The knives that stab through his back turn into plastic rather than metal, rebounding against the muscle. Or perhaps, still cutting through, though he cannot feel a thing.

Star-shine smile against a backdrop of pale blue sky. Laughter of the gods. Red dirt knees washed by a backyard hose. Electricity fizzling between joined palms. Lips like vanilla milkshakes and eyes drowning in expanses of infinity.

We will always protect each other.

Shallow insults made out of adoration. A car swimming in the salt of tears. Four hands touching dusty ivory keys and performing the sound of their love in terrible harmony. Blue icy poles licked up from wrists where they drip, drip, drip.

Your laugh sounds like home. Is that weird?

Her tongue, behind his teeth. His tongue, pressed to her cunt. Bloody knuckles cradled in his hands like the truth exposed. A cello and viola, they are. The End of The World by Skeeter Davis. Vicious stench of bleach.

The bleach didn’t work, Yoongi.

It’s grey, ___. It’s fucking grey.

Maybe this means you really will live until your old.

Jesus I hate you, shut up.

You are such a terrible liar.

It feels so good. Yoongi feels exhilarated. Alive. His heart is about to burst out of his ribcage and be trampled by the bodies that push and shove. He wants to die by these thoughts, he truly does. How pathetically unromantic. Hatred tastes like love. Another lie. Could never hate her. She just wears feet that betray the truth.

Wait.

There.

In the crowd.

Yoongi thinks he must be hallucinating, that he really did take it too far this evening. For there is a face across the dance floor that he has not seen, has nonstop thought of, since his feet were rooted to the earth in the shadows of his yard three years ago. When the face was turning away, never to be seen again.

He blinks, grinds the heels of his palms against his bloodshot eyes, looks again.

Has he died?

Lipstick clings like blood to a mouth. Smoky eyes of burned out charcoals, smeared with sweat, reside beneath arched eyebrows. The kind that have always had a querying angle, as if constantly doubting. Thick tresses are styled into a mess that he is all too familiar with; that has stirred his own heart into a whirlwind alike too many times for him to count. The dress that clings to the figure is all black, strapless, dipping in a tempting arrow between breasts and glorifying legs that sheen with sin. Hunched shoulders are cloaked by a leather jacket that screams bad intentions, yet hides a heart of gold.

If this is a hallucination, Yoongi never wants it to end. He wants to stay high for eternity and a day.

If he truly is dead, then he is more than glad to be welcomed through the gates of Heaven. Or maybe, this is closer to Hell.

She delicately sips her cocktail and glances between the half-circle of people that huddle close. Friends. Her crimson lips move to seemingly form responses.

A helpless bout of hope suddenly starts to bloom poison ivy inside of Yoongi’s chest. Because that is the thing, he has hallucinated not once, but twice in the past. So, he understands a little of the logistics. He knows in the dot points of the symptoms that imagined bodies may interact with life, but life will never legitimately return the favour.

Though the people surrounding her like shadows, without a doubt, respond to the shapes that her lips create. They laugh in perfect harmony when her chin tilts back, eyes scrunch, and she looks fifteen all over again.

Convenience plays its hand when Hoseok walks within arms reach, heading straight for the bathroom, fists already rummaging in his pockets for the next hit. He stops stock-still when Yoongi clasps a hand around his elbow. For a brief second, Hoseok stares him down with wide eyes, almost as if he cannot recognise the person that the hand belongs to. But then he is frowning with familiarity, and the boy of silver hair and a stone heart is scrambling to find words.

“Hoseok,” Yoongi barely manages, suffocating on his own voice. “H-Hey, man. Tell me, can you see that girl over there?”

“What? In the leather jacket? Yeah, why–“

Before Hoseok can even finish his sentence, Yoongi is throwing himself into the clutches of the crowd, parting the sea of bodies and wading over to her. She is real, this is no hallucination, she is real and here and oh my fucking god, she looks precisely the same. Nothing has changed, nothing has changed. They never kissed, they never fought, they never nearly fucked and ruined everything.

Yoongi does what he should have done three years ago before she was swallowed up in the oblivion of a black hole. A place where she could look out and see, but he was only ever faced by thick banks of darkness.

Yoongi reaches out, can feel every fibre of his hand, the movement of his knuckles, the stretch of muscle. Time seems to thin and extend, pulling out until seconds drag into minutes, where his movements are ones of underwater. Glacial and paced.

Contact is made, and she turns. No, whirls, like a tornado set on destroying him where he stands. A storm that he embraced to be ruined by long ago, though she was too kind; too selfish to let her rains come crashing down on him.

Her skin, beneath his palm, is searing flame. The pulse that flutters in her wrist is absolutely genuine.

When her eyes land upon Yoongi, it is as though she is seeing the ghost of the ouija board they did when they were kids all over again. Her complexion drains, bloody lips parting in silent horror. She seems to shrink into nothing but a speck.

Before Yoongi can tell whether she is going to speak love or claw out a scream, her wrist is being yanked from his grip and she is running away. Just like the first time.

Yoongi wonders if this is what dying feels like. If this is how it must feel to have someone dig their nails into your chest, cutting through flesh and bone to reach the vessel that only thrums because it avoided the monthly sentence. To have it yanked out from where it pulses, disposed in the dirt where it turns black and forgotten.

A rush consumes him. Before he can completely grasp onto any sense of abandoned rationality, his feet are moving.

Instinct, more than anything, directs him. Yoongi shoves and ignores the empty accusations made by those who are pushed, squinting and blinking when his eyes start to betray him; shuddering figures into doubles before they become single solid beings again. The strobes that soak everything in violent pink and deep ocean blue do absolutely nothing to help him.

Yet still, he surges. Must appear like a desperate fool when he bursts out of the club entrance, gasping and gulping for air. There, he realises that, from the moment she ran, he had been holding his breath as though he could not bear to let the oxygen they momentarily shared escape his lungs.

A stranger swathed in shadows asks if he is okay, and blindly, Yoongi waves them off. He stands up from his hunched position to take a few paces forward, right into the line of action where other club-goers stand to smoke, or wait for the bodyguard to allow them entry. He keeps still and stands on his toes, despite that his body jitters and seems to bend and wave beyond his own command. Surveying. Searching.

There.

Standing on the curb, she hunches into her jacket as though she is hiding, rather than feeling the chill of the air. Blue smoke plumes around her, dancing in a veil until it disperses. Though by that time, another curtain of toxins has already risen to take its place. Yoongi, for all his feet were worth in the club, is cemented to the pavement. His bones are now of lead, blood like tar.

Go to her. He urges himself, lifts his left leg and barely manages to plant it forward without toppling over. Gotoheryouneedtogogogo.

She looks over her shoulder, eyes locking.

But she does not run.

And just like that, his limbs become air, drained of all their weight. As if the consent of her willing to stay is all he ever needed. A ticket to approach the sun in all of her might and maybe (just maybe), she may not sear him into ash.

Yoongi comes to a stop five feet away. He firmly closes his eyes, and when he opens them again, she is still there. Watching on with an expression that he, in all of his years of knowing and not knowing her, has never seen before. Familiar, yet unrecognisable.

The cocaine sharpens her every feature. It defines the slope of her nose, the angle of her cheekbones, the arch of her brows, and the dip of her cupid’s bow in unadulterated clarity. Refined beyond a perfection he once saw her as, beneath the gentle light of the moon all but three years ago.

She appears to tremble. Yoongi is unsure whether it is the piercing cold of the evening, or the quiver of his pupils with the high. Perhaps, it is consternation over the boy she so earnestly escaped, now standing mere feet before her, high as a fucking kite. Soaked in the unfair stench of lost love that she long ago decided to associate with the putrid scent of despise.

She is the deer. He is the headlights.

When Yoongi parts his lips, the inside of his mouth feels like a volcano. Bone dry. Threatening to erupt with the slightest misplaced movement, to spew vulgarity held dormant since she decided to cut the ties with her bare hands.

“Say something,” Yoongi manages, taking a tentative step forward, ignoring the pain that fleets through his heart when she shuffles slightly back. “Anything. ___, please.”

In silence, she observes, analyses, swallows him in from head to toe. Yoongi wonders if she is more deprived than she first realised, greedily taking in all that she can while he exists in scarcely coherent state before her. He wonders if the rush that devastates her being is unidentifiable, the deja vu near sickening, as though everything she has held back since the moment within the umbra of the oak tree is starting to submerge from the places she confined them within. He wonders if her heart demands to soar, yet she tugs down on the reigns, knowing full well what occurs when it disobeys. A veteran of past experience in the field of the forbidden.

Yoongi can see that she will not let that happen again. She must believe that neither of them will survive the second time around.

“Are you high?” Despite that the words come out with a tinge of insult, they still hold that blue velvet quality, the lustrous flow that drapes his skin in years of comfort and warmth. It feels like coming home. He wishes to pluck the chords of her vocals from the air and tuck them to his chest for safe-keeping; to never let the gorgeous sound escape his hearing ever again.

Yoongi tilts his lips in a tiny smirk, a miracle in itself that he can shift his features into an expression other than awe. He fixates his gaze on the pale cloud she exhales. “Are you smoking?”

As if to spite him, she takes an especially long drag, eyes watering and all before she breathes out the smoke between smiling teeth. Her iron exterior cracks, only barely, yet it is still something. Enough to make his bones feel as though they are melting into butter.

“Touché.”

They are encompassed in private silence, consumed by the presence of one another. Yoongi, in all of his feeble bravery, takes another step forward, and this time, she stays still, save for the ash that she flicks from the tip of her cigarette. The flecks stir dizzily in the air that he disturbs with his precarious advance.

One pace. Two more. This near, the oxygen is stolen right from his lungs by the pleasance of her perfume pervading his space. The smoke hardly manages to veil the distinct honeysuckle that only she suits. On any other entity, it is utterly ersatz. The tension coiled in her shoulders noticeably loosens, newfound tenderness smudging at the circumference of her irises. Almost as though she is daring to give in. Head losing to heart.

Yoongi can feel her exhalation skitter across his cheeks. The cigarette is abandoned in the gutter. In one fell swoop, he could crumble her resolve right where she stands. The walls of the maze are collapsing, yet he knows the route like the back of his own hand.

When he focuses on the plush of her lips, he can still see the truths nestled in the corners. The secrets that only he could ever notice. She is a puzzle that he has solved a million times over, and he does not intend to kid himself with false hope. But by the way she is staring at him right now like she is being suffocated by her own mistakes, he can almost think that she is letting him get all of the answers right.

He presses his nose to the glass surrounding her heart.

“___! Jesus, I’ve been looking for you!”

It is a voice that calls in a tone dripping with depth, the sound of bottomless oceans, and it tears the two of them apart within a split instant. The approaching owner, a tall stretch of darkness, a shadow wrung out and pulled taught over muscle and bone, draws her attention immediately. Her hair fans out in her movement to acknowledge the new presence, and Yoongi soaks himself in a waft of ambrosia because christ, it really is her.

The guy seems nearly sober. His gaze passes through Yoongi as though he is not truly looking. Could not really care. “Who’s this?”

She hesitates, minuscule, though Yoongi sees it. “He’s a friend from home.”

He almost wants to laugh out loud. In disgust; in disbelief. The word friend has betrayed him so much throughout his lifetime. Even more so when it lacks the tag of best.

“The taxi is almost here,” the guy says after a brusque oh, gaze flitting away from Yoongi in an instant. He takes her by the shoulders. “Let’s go.”

“O-Okay.”

He has never seen her this nervous and unsure. Yoongi almost reaches out to grab her wrist and stop them both, but he is terrified she may yank it away again. Third time is a charm to break a heart. The only solace he clings to is the fact that, as she is whirled, her chin tilts back. The pair of eyes that deceived him so long ago anchor to his own with barely a hint of a smile.

“Next time,” she mouths, her voice ceasing to wash over his skin. But Yoongi can hear the words with perfect clarity in his mind, no matter the shroud of drugs that mantles his every other thought. She shines through, crystal clear, like she always has.

Standing on the curb as headlights swing by, dousing him in bright white while other club patrons holler and scream as though they hope for the stars to hear, Yoongi realises something. No hallucination could ever compare, nor think to perfectly replicate the experience that is her standing before him.

He stares at where she stood, merely a breath away. Faintly, in the silver lustre of the moon, Yoongi can make out the scintillations of glass fragments against the pavement where her obduracy had started to shatter.

Next time comes at a small convenience store, no more than a week after their encounter. It must be near three in the morning. An hour, nonetheless, that girls who run from truths should not be.

She fashions cheeks that shimmer with vulnerability, and a black sweater a size too large. They are matched with thin tights that hide legs known to take his breath away, and a pair of battered white sneakers locked at the ankles. Comfortable; approachable. She sits with a cup of steaming instant ramen, intently swilling the contents with pinched chopsticks, hood pulled over her hair in a meagre attempt to appear nonexistent.

As always, she shines too brightly to ever be completely hidden away.

Lit up with florescent, Yoongi sees her right there, through the window. Never for a moment did he doubt it was her as he leisurely strolled by the store. The glint of her damp face caught his eye before he had managed to completely walk past. He knows those tears like his own secrets.

Here, the subway shudders beneath his feet. Yoongi almost expects the train to travel explosively through the bitumen and crash straight through his heart. Maybe, with it smeared across the glass pane, she will finally understand the honest truth. She will see the gory details, painted out in crimson, that he can never stop loving her.

She, still unaware of his presence, barely flinches when Yoongi stands directly before the window; a thin pane of glass their only barrier. It is no more than a few seconds of him staring with a faint smile curving his lips, hands wedged into the pockets of his hoodie, that she calmly comes to a still in the process of lifting ramen-laden chopsticks to her lips. By the time her eyes have lifted to his own, slowly flaring with recognition, he is already entering the store.

Yoongi takes his time. Enough for her to notice that the person who just trudged through the entrance is well and truly him. Enough for her to forget the half-eaten ramen cup, abandon ship, and escape him for the third––or is it fourth?––time. Yoongi can no longer recall. The numbers are melding into a figure too many, to say the least.

He carefully selects the most bearable noodles that he can squeeze into his tight student budget, then approaches the counter to exchange coins with the clerk. Yet, the moment he turns on his heel, she is still there, observing his stride through the reflection in the window. Her expression, cast in the glaring white light, is one of forbearing.

For a sparse moment, Yoongi considers waiting; providing more of an opportunity for her to escape. Though he quickly finds himself completely fucking that idea off. If he does not continue moving forward, the courage will slink back into the shadows, and he will barrel himself right out of the store once more.

At a pace as languid as he can retain, he strolls down the aisle until he is standing right at the food bar, beside where she sits. He quietly peels open his cup, empties the seasonings inside, and fills it with hot water. Then, he circles around her ever-shrinking frame and sits on the stool to her right.

Silence has never felt so suffocating. This is newfound territory between them; their instances together have always been filled with their voices. But she was the one to build the wall, and she damn well knows that Yoongi will not be the one to bring it down to ruin.

She did this. She must deal the first blow.

Two heartbeats unite at a steady pace. Her lips part, and the quiet is so dense that Yoongi hears them separate. The sound is almost comforting. It rings with the familiarity of past conversations, had whilst lying side-by-side in the belly of darkness. It is the soft noise she would make before her younger voice asked a question about the stars, or idly commented on the pathetic performance that is existing in a world which crushes those who dare to defy the unspoken illegality of love. A world which strips your soul from beneath you, so effortlessly, by the bold-black of your name, inked on paper.

The click of his chopsticks snapping apart echoes around the store. Her voice is quick to follow.

“I can never find waffles as good as home around here.”

Yoongi freezes, stunned silent. He momentarily wonders whether it is due to her voice resembling that of nirvana. But he is quick to realise it is because he is completely unsure of how to respond to such an elementary statement.

She speaks as if the past three years were merely a blank spot in his memory. A period of amnesia where, for the entire thirty-six months, they were still best friends; red strings uncut and remaining to be tightly coiled around the knuckles of their pinkies. Or perhaps, an expanse of time where he was living in a nightmare in which she had become invisible, though she could still see everything in refined clarity.

A thickness builds in his throat, the welt of a sob. But it burns like furious indignation.

“That’s the only thing you have to say?” Yoongi, in all of his venomous tone, stabs his chopsticks at a vulnerable leek floating in the broth. He pretends that it is her heart. “Honestly, ___. Fuck you.”

She sighs, as if he is behaving childishly. “I know, fuck me. But you and I both know that saying I’m sorry will never cut the cake with what happened between us. It’s like shouting into the abyss and expecting something good to come from it.”

He realises, as she always used to be, that she is right. Apologies are more like weak excuses than a resolution for travesty. And when they are confessed this late, after all the excruciating damage has worn its wear, it is like attempting to stitch up a wound that has already scarred over. There is no point. An empty avow.

“I still want to hear you say it,” Yoongi says under his breath. He scoops noodles into his mouth and slurps loudly, just because he knows she hates it.

Her cringe is almost audible. He cannot decipher if it is from the sound he makes, or the way the words taste on her tongue. “I’m sorry.”

“Say it genuinely.”

Yoongi almost jumps when he feels careful fingertips through the fabric of his sweater, laying upon his wrist. His gaze instinctively tracks to them, noticing how they still look the same, shiny oval nails with chip-free edges. A small fondness swells in his chest, which he immediately attempts to trample down. If anything, it blossoms viciously as his eyes travel up her arm, her throat, until they settle on her own.

Her gaze is neither firm nor gentle; simply watching with that ever curious contour.

“Min Yoongi.” God, only now does he realise that she has not once spoke his name since they have reunited. His stare instantly surges down to her lips, just to catch the end of them shaping around the three syllables. What a sight, it can never get old. “For everything I have done: taking advantage of you in a moment of vulnerability; kissing you back while we were both drunk; running away and ignoring your calls; being born in a timeline where the world is so undisputedly fucked up that the both of us were doomed from the very start... I am deeply, and so sincerely sorry. The profundity of my contriteness is utmost.”

Her expression is so bona fide that Yoongi has to look away. Otherwise, he truly might convince himself that her apology is the only salve that can soothe the laceration she created on his chest. He might convince himself that the pain dealt by her own hand will always be worth it if that is the way her voice will sound––cold silk against hot flesh––when she makes her amends after the blade has damaged his heart beyond repair. No matter how deep she drives the knife.

“Christ on a bike,” is all that Yoongi responds with. But even she does not seem persuaded by his dismissive tone.

The contact is ceased; her hand slinks away. They return to silent eating without him uttering a single thank you or I’m sorry, too. Neither of them expect it, either.

When she finishes first, she does not get up and leave. Rather, she rests her elbows upon the tabletop and leans her chin into her palms, directly observing his chewing. The sheer weight of her gaze is enough to lure bumps to form across Yoongi’s skin. Tiny mountains of prickled flesh that she traverses with a regardful sweep of her tentative eyes.

If Yoongi were land, she has conquered him a prodigious number of times.

“So, instant ramen is the next best bet?” Yoongi leads on from her initial comment. An attempt at conversation to shake off the sensation of her emphatic vigilance, which follows his every move. It is almost as though she is waiting for the pin to drop, expecting him to abruptly implode in a rush of accusations and insults. Ones that have tied knots around his tongue over the past three years. No, even beyond that.

Her lips are a ghost of a smile. “Ramen fits the budget.”

“True,” Yoongi chuckles, and it actually tastes sincere in the back of his throat. “But you’re wrong about the waffles. There’s a diner ten minutes from my campus that serves them up just like home.”

Yoongi does not mention how many nights he has spent there, more than in the beds of other women who taste like honeysuckle. High or intoxicated, his forehead would be pressed to the cold tabletop. He would imagine that he is at their diner, and she is sitting across from him, sipping at vanilla and about to hit him over the head with a menu while her voice sings out: Wake up!

The version that exists beside him, the real-and-now girl––beyond better than what any figment of his fantasy could ever consider creating––gapes. “You’re kidding.”

“Dead serious.”

“What campus?”

“South, at the State University.”

“Oh, that’s where–! Oh,” she says, eyes lighting up, as if she is about to say the name of a friend. But her expression instantly falters, realising he probably would not know them. “I’m there often. Funny how we’ve never run into each other throughout my entire first year.”

Absolutely fucking hilarious, Yoongi should say. Though his tongue trips into something just as dangerous.

“I’ll take you there sometime. To the diner.”

Yoongi inhales the remaining noodles spooled at the bottom of the cup. She, out the corner of his eye, worries teeth to lips; habits playing his heartstrings like a harp. A tiny crease forms at the centre of her brow, though it smooths out almost as soon as it surfaces. Her gaze flits down to where her fingers pick at the peeled back lid of the ramen cup.

“I’d like that,” and she says it in a tone that reminds him of car windows rolled all the way down and red dirt caked on their knees. It reminds him of the girl who loved him before she ran away after realising how frightening the monster of truth is up close; how sharp its fangs gleam.

Yoongi chokes on a stray string of pasta. He does not miss the glimpse of a tiny smile tilting her lips before the heel of her palm comes down hard on his back.

Once he has calmed, the pair of them discard of their rubbish and exit the convenience store. They fall into step with one another almost naturally. There is no parting of ways, nor calling for taxis. The night opens its arms and welcomes them in, four in the morning already so near, telltale in the way the pitch black spills into a vague navy across the horizon. Neither of them consider the possibility of separating and saying their goodbyes. Even if he had to go the opposite way, Yoongi would have silently agreed that it was his route too. Home may have been safe for girls to navigate in the thick of the night, but the city is crawling with monsters.

They are both prime examples to that. Living paradigms, slinking through the shadows.

They stroll at a languorous pace. Not out of tiredness, but more so to make up for lost time. It is reminiscent of their lazy saunter home from school, all but five years ago as the sun would beat its fists onto their backs. They would milk the twenty-minute walk home until it would last up to an hour, merely so they could spend as much of their afternoon together before they would have to part ways.

“Are midnight walks like, your thing now?” she lightly teases. Yoongi’s heart is stirred into a frantic storm when she grazes her shoulder against his; barely a nudge.

“I had a lot on my mind.” I had you eating me from the inside out. “It helps to get some fresh air. Clears the thoughts up.” Ironic how you just happen to invade me, even outside of my head. Then, he remembers the streaks of silver. The shimmering diamonds against the skin that he once, a lifetime ago, had his lips upon. “Why were you crying?”

“No reason worth sharing,” she says without missing a beat, as though she had been expecting the question all night. The answer was just waiting to be up to bat. “Girl dramas that boys like you would know nothing about.”

“She, the bane of my every single drama says.” Yoongi states it bluntly, incapable of finding the audacity to care when she flinches. She wants it all out on the table, exposed and brutally honest? Well, he is going to take to the scalpel and cut himself open until he has pulled out every shred of agony that she has tucked between the joints; threaded through the sinew.

It is not as though she is unused to blood on her hands. The mere date of her birth year is sheer fact to that.

Once those two sentences surface in his overtired mind, Yoongi mentally punches himself in the stomach for ever conjuring such a disgusting thought. God. You would think it was hate instead of love.

She comes to a halt in the middle of the road. Yoongi continues to trail a few steps before he realises she is cemented to the bitumen. For a single, distressing moment in which his heart lodges itself in his throat and then plummets like lead into his stomach, he fears he thought those twenty-five words loud enough for her to hear. The only giveaway that such a matter is not the case is her expression.

Instead of pained or horrified, it is distant. Far from here.

“Hey, you know what you need to do?”

Yoongi raises a brow. “What?”

She was looking past his shoulder. Now, she looks over her own, and then twists to stare directly at him. He is in a constant state of reminding himself how deadly those eyes are when used in full, undeviating force.

“Yell it out,” she shrugs indifferently, as if she is no longer sure about the answer herself. “Have at me. Scream everything you need to say.”

What a joke, he thinks, like their emotions are some ridiculous game and one of them has to come out a winner. Neither can rule together; a fight to the death. But she has always called him sarcastic, and so it could not do much harm to humour her request.

“Right here?”

She shrugs again, looks at his feet, and then slowly tracks back to his eyes. “Better place as any, right?”

Silence passes between them, voices reduced to make way for the breeze that caresses the leaves of a neighbouring tree. The rustling is so dense that it sounds akin to rain. Yoongi buries his hands deeper into the lone pocket of his sweater, clenching them into fists so tight that he almost expects to feel the skin split over his knuckles. After a moment, he relaxes the joints and slides his palms out of the fleece, calmly resting them at his sides.

“I’m not going to hold back.”

“I don’t want you to.” It sounds like a lie. She almost seems nervous.

“Fine,” he huffs, running a hand through his hair. When he speaks, there is no difference in volume, nor tone. “First of all, fuck you. From the very core of my being. Fuck. You.”

At that, she smiles, and the sheer sight has him scrambling for what he was going to say again. He inhales so deeply that his chest stretches with pain, and then he breathes out a calamity.

“I know that we took it too far. I know that we overstepped an unspoken boundary in our friendship. But what you did...” Yoongi can feel his voice crack. He does not notice how it rises in gradual increments; the build of a wave before it plunges down and floods the streets. “Christ, I knew you had it in you. But I never thought you would actually go ahead and do it, you know? At no point––not even when we were so close to one another on the beach that day, not even when I was touching you in my bathroom––did I convince myself that you would actually cut the ties.”

“For a few days? That’s reasonable. Two weeks? I would've given that decent leeway.” The water starts to break, hurtling down in a swooping undulation. The land is Her, and Yoongi encounters no remorse when the deluge swamps her coast and drowns the homes that they built when they were kids who knew no better. “But three years. Three whole fucking years! You picked up your things and left like the seven years of us being best friends never existed. As if we were living in some fantasy, and you decided to wake up without letting me know it was all just a dream too.

“I wanted to go after you so fucking badly. I wanted to beat down the front door to your house and grab you by the shoulders, just to ask you why. Why did you have to be so goddamn dramatic? Why did you have to act like one of us had received the envelope and it was safer to end things then and there? Why, ___, did you think I was so meaningless and insignificant that you could just throw me away without a care, after all we had been through?”

“You ruined me.” She is drowning. Yoongi can see it from here. He cannot tell if he should grin victoriously or reach out and save her. “The way you left made me feel like I was just some fucking toy that you grew out of. You tossed me away and left me for dead because you’re a heartless bitch. Yet here I stand now, still wanting– No, needing you! Here I stand, grovelling at your feet with my pleas for forgiveness, confessing the truth of how badly you screwed me up by leaving without glancing back. It’s almost as if I’m the monster who abandoned you when you knew I was going to be right by your side until the very end. No matter if the conclusion was made by a natural cause, or a piece of fucking paper sent by the government.”

“The thing is that I didn’t care if you wanted to stay as friends, or be lovesick idiots who should know better in a world like this, ___!” Air is tight in his lungs, fuelling wildfires. “I couldn’t have given a damn about whatever decision you made for us because as long as you were in my life, I was content. Don’t you fucking get that? Can you genuinely tell me that the past three years have been better off without me? Did you never sit and think that I would never push you into something that you didn’t want? That just because I know what your cum tastes like doesn’t mean I expect us to hold hands and fuck each other like we’re something more?”

“All I ever wanted was for you to be in my life. I need you. Not solely for friendship, not only for love. I just know that I have always, and will always need you!”

There are so many words left in his lungs, too many confessions and accusations that he needs to inscribe on her black as tar heart. But Yoongi’s throat crumbles; the sentences strain and fall limp. White flags are kept down. No draw is announced. Nobody is victorious because the game has been burned to ash.

Deeply, she exhales. “Are you good?”

Yoongi stares at her from across the street, partially washed in the muted orange of the overhead lamp, the rest of her concealed in the shadows. His shoulders still heave, teeth sunk in his bottom lip in order to keep the floodgates closed. She stares at him like she knows him, and god, nobody else in this world does as much as her. Even if she only discovered the raw truth of his emotions mere moments ago.

Before he can contrive any further blades in the form of his words to slice into her skin, she is gravitating close. The crunching of gravel is deadened beneath the soles of her sneakers until she stands as near as they had last week. A proximity that would have been considered mundane for them to be within beyond three years ago.

Now, all Yoongi can do is drop his gaze to their feet. Calculating the distance that separates them; only centimetres when it seems akin to vast oceans. So close, yet he has never felt so far.

“Good?” she murmurs once more, tilting her head down so that she can peer up at his drooped chin. Yoongi cannot even find it in himself to wipe away the tears. His fists loosen, useless by his sides.

What he does not expect is for her to breach the minimal space that remains. Her arms come around his waist, palms finding purchase against his shoulder blades and pressing him so tightly to her own chest that they may as well be a sole being.

It may just be his imagination, or the dissipating anger that leaves a dull ringing in his ears. But Yoongi swears he hears something break in her voice when she speaks again. Maybe, the last of her heart.

“Are we good?”

She holds on tighter when he precariously nods against the side of her head.

Yoongi does not hug her back out of fear that he may lose himself completely in her vessel. Become trapped within the bone cage of her ribs. Instead, he tips his chin back to face the stars, cheeks feeling damp and cold. He stares accusingly at the incandescents bodies, mere pinpricks of luminosity, as though it is all their fault.

How could you do this to us? Why did it get taken this far? Neither of us deserved such devastation, yet you awakened an apocalypse right where we both stood.

The stars are left speechless.

To say that matters resumed to how things were in the past would be obscene. Yet, genuinely, it is somewhat how the treacherous tides came to calm into clear waters.

The unbosoming that tainted the atmosphere of that isolated street was merely the chains to the drawbridge unhinging. From there, it plummeted back down so that the two of them could be on even ground. Enabled them to understand and embrace the differences, the hardships, which were emphasised and catastrophised beyond their initial extremity.

To themselves, they cannot help but wonder if such dramatics would have happened if they were born in a different timeline. If they existed in an entirely divergent world to the one where a ballot can tear their life from beneath their feet, even before they make it to the year’s end.

Adjustments are made with their developed maturity. Yoongi no longer waits at the bus stop to pick her up on a school-day morning. Rather, she drives to his campus and takes them to the local library to study for their courses every Wednesday afternoon.

The new diner is visited regularly, though not as often as the convenience store in the middle of the night. Usually, these ventures are planned. Yet they sometimes arrive unexpectedly when either one of them strolls up to the store entrance, discovering the other already watching with a sheepish grin through the window.

They rarely go out to parties together. Their assignments often conflict with the dates, or other responsibilities take the advantage. But Yoongi ceases with the narcotics, and instead sticks to the pleasures of alcohol. It is a matter that none of his friends seem to care for; they almost appear to admire him. He no longer needs to hallucinate in order to see the one person that his heart has been sewn back together for.

The wilted flower of their friendship slowly revives with every small step that they take forward, the petals blossoming into something familiar. Yet Yoongi cannot help but notice the vague restraint that she upholds with their every lighthearted conversation; in the small flinch that she makes when their elbows brush too close; when he squeezes her knee out of reassurance. The red strings are knotting back together, though they cannot deny the fraying of the ends. The ties are loose and unsure, as if suggesting that they may snap once again.

Yoongi only pulls tighter. All the while, she watches on with guarded contemplation, letting the threads go limp in her palms like she is wondering whether all of this was such a great idea.

Two and a half months, on the cusp of three, and only then does he discover her worst treachery of all. The reason behind her unwillingness to allow their bond to return to its utmost potential. Yoongi does not know how she hid it this well for so long.

It is made infinitely worse by the fact that he is so beyond hungover, his brain seems to have transformed into a cement brick.

On Sunday morning, he makes the trip to Shake Shack alone. Hoseok is still passed out under the dining table, Seokjin is actually studying something other than the female reproductive system with his dick, and there is the smidgen of a possibility that Jimin might be dead. It is eternally a mystery as to what happens to him after a hefty night out.

The restaurant door chimes, alarm bells that echo in cymbals through his head. Yoongi is focusing too strenuously on keeping his brain from splitting in half to realise that they might actually be warning him.

Honeysuckle captures his attention as soon as the door swings shut, sucking still air through a vacuum that drifts the aroma, like an instant hangover cure, into his senses. Yoongi, once he is convinced that his head is not about to topple off his neck, levels his gaze to see straight before him. Instantly, his eyes lock onto a figure that he could identify, even when she is merely a silhouette in the distance.

She turns from the counter, holding an extra-large takeaway cup of freshly brewed coffee. The world stutters to the slightest of stops before kickstarting again when she notices him watching on, probably appearing like a goddamn fool standing at the entrance of the restaurant. So, Yoongi decides to will his feet forward, casually calling out her name.

But he stops dead in his tracks when he sees fear ambushing her wide eyes. Yoongi almost does not notice him until her alarmed gaze sweeps away from Yoongi and up to his face.

It is the guy from the club. The one who had sundered their reunion with a single sentence. The one who had managed to draw her gaze away from Yoongi; something that always took a breath of a moment to do in the past, but was as effortless as blinking in the now. The one who had softened her eyes when he spoke, the way Yoongi always could. The one who had clambered her into his jacket and Yoongi did not, at the time, have a chance to think twice of it.

The guy from the club, who has his arm curled neatly around a waist that has always belonged to Yoongi. The guy from the club, who has the fucking stars gleaming in his eyes, because that is just the effect that belonging to somebody like her will always have.

They approach like royals striding toward a peasant. The heart thief glances between the two of them with mild scrutiny. But before the guy can say anything, she parts her lips. The sound that comes out is hardly a croak, yet it sets off World War III within Yoongi’s ribcage.

“Yoongi–”

“Oh! This is the guy– The friend from home right?” He affectionately jostles the arm around her frame, knocking her back into rationality. Her chin barely tilts in a nod. She no longer looks at Yoongi.

Underneath the seething rage that is making his migraine throb like the brink of death, Yoongi vaguely contemplates how to sever the foreign limb attached to her body.

When the guy extends his hand, Yoongi has to restart his dying heart in order to reciprocate the gesture. The defibrillator is charged, and he almost hopes that it will not work. He wishes that the flimsy vessel will collapse, and he will be sucked right out of this moment, swallowed by a most welcome eternal darkness.

“Hey man, I’m Jeongguk,” the guy says.

Three... two... one...

“I believe we already met. But I didn’t get the chance to introduce myself properly.”

Clear!

“I’m ___’s boyfriend.”

Yoongi feels his heart stutter back to life. He wonders how much betrayal the average human being endures in their lifetime, or whether he is just that fucking unlucky.

Jeon Jeongguk is one of the lucky ones in the form of a platinum certificate, declaring a free pass on genocide; cleaning his fingertips of scarlet. A promise to not die by an unlawful hand.

That is what happens, after all, when your life is deemed valuable to this world. When your intelligence is too good to be wasted. When the zeros tacked onto the end of your future inheritance are far too infinite to be ignored. They say this is the secret to immunity: hone pockets weighed down by gold, and bear diamond fangs that can tear through a piece of paper, splotched with the ink of your name.

In a town as small as their own, such a matter was deemed a myth. Then, she met him.

She never knew whether it was sheer fascination, or genuine attraction. Even now, she remains unsure. But Jeongguk was drawn to her; opposite poles of a magnet that met in unexpected harmony. He had knocked into her elbow at the campus cafe and spun to apologise. Instead, he had found himself struck silent by the graves that were on blatant, unadulterated exhibition in the cemeteries of her eyes.

Maybe, he was convinced that he could uproot the dead from where they slept. Thought he could dig his fingers into the soils, and grow bouquets from the minerals that the bones had scattered beneath the surface. Maybe, he wanted to know the secrets. The reasons behind the ghosts that lurked about her irises, eternally trapped betwixt the limbo of Heaven and Hell. Maybe, he was as selfish as the rest of the world. Precisely like her and the other, who was buried the deepest in the boneyard of her heart.

Too many maybes had filled her mind, yet she had found herself saying yes. Not just once. But again, and again, until the two of them were sharing coffee against the lips of the other instead of over a cafe table, and she could describe precisely how it felt when he entered her. Again, and again. Yes.

Now, the boy of platinum teaches her about things that she already knew, but from a different perspective. A preferable one, where one is not concerned with their fate. When their life is not threatened at the beginning of every new month, because their skin and bones are invincible to the bullets of a Government rifle.

Jeongguk takes her to the theatre. In the shadows of the back row, where their mischievous chuckles hide, he shows her what salt and butter tastes like on his tongue. He lets her listen to the sound of their voices blend off-tune with the song playing on the radio. The windows of his car are rolled all the way down, spring breeze curling through her hair, his hand resting on the sunlight that seeps gold onto her thigh. He shows her the bridge that connects the southern and northern ends of the city. The lights that are cast onto the glass surface of the river from street lamps resemble stars, flickering beneath their feet, shining on the gentle ripples rather than above in the hazy, dark skies.

This is where Jeongguk whispers that he loves her. This is where he accepts that she cannot find the voice just yet to say such a burden back. But he helps her take her dress off in the backseat anyway, and he kisses every inch of her skin as if he is trying to find the answer tucked somewhere between her joints. Engraved in her bones.

When he thrusts into her, he moans in such a way that she digs her nails deeper into his flesh, as though she can bury herself within him. Become a part of his platinum shield. She, too, can be untouchable.

It is not that she does not adore Jeongguk. Of course, her chest thrums with that certain warmth when he grazes his knuckles over her throat. Her gaze softens when she finds him walking into the room, lighting up with a grin that is specially reserved for her. He is a secure anchor amidst the raging ocean of this society, and she swears that such a matter is not the reason why she laces her knuckles together to connect at the palms, or swallows his laughter into her own lungs, or presses her lips against his bare spine when the moonlight turns his skin into stardust.

Somewhere, deep down, she thinks there may be a hint of love, too shy to reveal its face. Maybe, it is insecure; unsure whether its roots are woven through the carcass of a natural demise, rather than the tacky mint shade of an unwanted envelope.

No. That is not the reason why she desires him. She may be cruel, but she is not a monster. That is what she tells herself, at least, as she ignores the blood red gaze that watches on from the darkest shadows of her mind. It folds its talons in its lap, wearing the glint of a wicked grin.

The sight is too repulsive to even glance at.

Now, when she parts her lethargic eyes, it is to find Jeongguk already gazing at her through the tangle of her sleep-heavy lashes. He draws the tip of his finger down her nose, outlining the shape of her lips. A map that he marks with his touch before he presses his own mouth to them in a quiet good morning.

“What were you dreaming about?” he murmurs throatily, and it is then that she realises she is frowning. The sunlight that slides into his bedroom attempts to soften and smooth the crease between her brow, though it cannot seem to fade. “You were stirring and mumbling.”

She thinks back to the realm she was briefly visiting. It held the taste of vanilla, and the eyes of blackholes that would bend her at the edges. Although she had clung fiercely to the stars and suns that surrounded him, he let her be free, just like that. There was no fight left in him. No force. No will to drag her into his desolate infinity.

She is unsure if she is grateful, or if she would rather be dead.

“Nothing that I can remember,” is all that she whispers before her face finds solace in the dip of Jeongguk’s throat. There, he will not be able to see the betrayal that brews in her eyes. His ignorance is all the more confirmed when he hums indifferently and slides his palm beneath her rumpled shirt, gliding up her spine.

Because Jeon Jeongguk, with platinum luck threaded through his veins, with good fortune as a shield against unnatural fate, is not, and could never be Min Yoongi.

That day at the restaurant was like giving Yoongi all of the stars in the universe, only to rip them away into the mouth of a black hole. Leaving him with nothing but a handful of tenebrosity.

A boyfriend. A lover. A something that she claimed she could never have because this world took intimacy by the throat and squeezed until the skin blossomed blue. A lie that she threaded through Yoongi with barbwire, as though she could never actually love him. He was just another puppet that she controlled the strings of for all these years.

She was never his best friend. It was always betrayal that stuck by his side through thick and thin.

After the introductions had been made, she had dragged Jeon Jeongguk out of the restaurant without a second glance at Yoongi. She knew she had banjaxed the secret, that this took the cake for being the ultimate egregious bullet point on her list of perfidy. Yoongi did not go forth and make an order. Rather, he had waited five minutes before exiting the restaurant himself, praying on the drive back to his campus that his hangover would make him swerve off the road and bend his bones around a tree.

As per usual, he is never that lucky.

For days, they do not communicate. It eats at him; hollows his body out into a carcass of his true being. He can feel himself slipping back into the skeleton of who he once became; the version who has pupils the size of Pluto and snowy powder on his nostrils.

That is, until Yoongi is in the sanctuary of his dorm room with glass bottles containing the remnants of his heart strewn about the bedside table. He finally gains the liquid confidence to light his phone screen, pulling up a conversation that details the time and location of a recent meet up they had had. Sent over a week before he had discovered that all those times she had said she could not hang out––that she had more important plans––were probably to see him.

Delivered [2:11AM]: ___

why didn’t you tell me

It is late, and Yoongi expects no reply. He just needed to get those five words out of his head; the question that has been persisting his every thought. The memories of the past two months where she entailed no such relationship, never hinted that her heart belonged to another while Yoongi was still convinced that it was the fondest for him; they were all marked with that one word, now.

Why?

There is a gentle vibration that almost goes unnoticed, if not for the way that the shadows of his bedroom shrink away from the dim light that the screen emanates. A lump forms in Yoongi’s throat when he swipes his thumb across the device to unlock the two messages, labelled with her name.

Received [2:16AM]: ___

because it’s not important

why did I need to?

Yoongi is calling her before he even realises he has dialled the number. She, to his disbelief, answers after two rings.

“You know precisely the reason why,” he seethes. The words are laced in malice, yet airy in their tone; exhausted. “Not important, my fucking ass. What kind of horrible excuse is that? Aren’t you tired of making up bullshit? Will you ever be?”

On the other end of the line, there is the shifting of sheets, the distant scuffling of feet, the slide of a balcony door before it clicks shut. Her exhalations are shallow, hair rustling against the speaker with the hint of a breeze. Or perhaps, the distressed combing of her knuckles through the strands.

“You’re with him right now, aren’t you?” Yoongi almost laughs at the realisation, a dead smile drawn on his lips. She audibly gulps.

“Y-Yes. I mean. He’s my– Well, he’s–”

“Your boyfriend? That– That thing that you always claimed you could never have?”

She makes no acknowledgment, nor no confirmation of the aforementioned statement. Only when she sniffs does Yoongi realise that she is quietly crying. He suffocates the surge of regret that threatens to soften his anger. He is tired of being pitiful.

“What do you want from me, ___?” he barely whispers. His heart begins to detach from his body. “All this time, what is it that you wanted?”

Static crackles between them. When her voice finally sounds, it shudders.

“Everything. I wanted, no, I want everything from you. Of you. B-But it can never work.” The words are muffled around a sob, the kind that claws right out of the pits of your lungs. “Yoongi, everything you said all of those months ago is precisely the way I feel too. I need you in my life, no matter the circumstances. But being together is such a risk. We have lost so much already. And– And I don’t want to hurt you–”

“You’ve already done that, sweetheart,” Yoongi barks out with a humourless chuckle. He runs a clammy hand down his face. “You’re doing it right now. You’re doing it constantly.”

“I mean that I’m cursed, for christ’s sakes! You and I both know that!” she nearly shouts, and then her voice drops into an undercurrent. He can almost sense the way that her gaze must be darting back to the glass door, providing the view of a dark room where her lover may or may not be listening to her confess to another man. “You know that first night at the convenience store, when you asked why I was crying? A girl that I’d only just become friends with was drawn from that damned ballot. Honestly, a week before her name was pulled out, we exchanged numbers and made plans to meet for lunch.”

“This was a girl I had only just met. You would’ve been dead from the moment I gave in to you, Yoongi. I’m trying to protect you from this. I want you to live a long and happy life, as normal as it can be, without me being a burden. If that means hurting you in the process, then so be it. I refuse to let you die, especially because of my birth year...” her voice trails off, clamped down by a palm pressed to her lips.

Yoongi swings his feet off the edge of his bed and pads over to the northernmost wall of his room. Even after so many years, he refuses to believe that she still thinks of herself as a bad omen who drags those that surround her to their demise. That she continues to attain such a childish perception; a fib whispered by kids who know no better.

They are adults now. It would be moronic to believe a wives’ tale regarding the four numbers that signified the change for a better world, where all those who were born in that year supposedly honed the curse of death.

“Then why is he so different?” Yoongi murmurs, grazing his knuckles against the plaster. “Why is he the special one that gets to experience being in love with a girl who claims to be cursed?”

“Because he is exempt from the project, Yoongi,” she sounds so empty. A hollow heart. “The rumours about the wealthy families are true. They have no involvement in the ballot.”

Skin splits over bone. Scarlet streaks down his wrist and marks the wall in four bloody patches. Yoongi grunts, but the stinging sensation is soothing compared to the knife that stabs deeper through his back.

The hearsay was no new knowledge since he moved to the city. He has known a few people himself who honed the platinum certificate, bestowing them with normality. A natural end to this world that all human beings should be granted, no matter if their pockets are full of dirt rather than diamonds.

But Yoongi’s fist connects with the wall again when Jeon Jeongguk’s face violently blooms within his mind, eating up the space that she always accommodates. The guy who she can never claim to have slaughtered by the four digits of her cursed birth year. Yoongi swears she winces at the dull thud, followed by a short gasp between his gritted teeth.

“God, aren’t you just selfish,” he mutters, staring at the torn flesh of his knuckles. He clenches them tight when they remind him of her smaller, crimson hands floating amongst ocean waves. That memory, with her mouth that tasted of salt and untruths, should not be tainted by an incident like this.

There is no jocularity in her tone. “It’s a refined talent.”

The plaster is cold against his forehead; his palm is warm with drying blood. After a glacial moment of basking in the sound of her breathing––existing––Yoongi’s voice drops to merely a whisper.

“You need to realise that having you in my life is a decision that I make, not you. And what about these past two months, huh? If that were the really the case, I would be dead already, don’t you think? Stop being so ridiculous. Stop thinking you can make all of these choices for me when you’re ticking all of the opposite answers to what I want. If you don’t want me in your life, stop acting like you do. Don’t lure me in just to throw me back out in the water.”

“I can’t willingly cut you from my life, you know that,” her voice is weak, just like the both of them. “That’s why I’m pushing you away. I can accept it if you leave, but I can’t voluntarily let you go.”

“Why, ___?” God, he is so tired, the words barely come out coherent. “Why don’t you just do it already?”

“I can’t say it, Yoongi. I couldn’t before, and I especially can’t now that– Now that I’m with him.”

At that, Yoongi’s chest caves inward. The vessel within is sucked into the abyss, because the one person in this world who he cares infinitely for practically admitted the truth. She had ghosted over it, yet it was there. An echo of honesty. An admission so vague, though ringing with the utmost profundity through his head; a record that stutters back over that one same line.

I love you, Yoongi. I love you, even now that I am with him.

Yoongi sighs a lifetime of air through his teeth. “Me too, ___. Always.”

Between their paced exhalations that taste like devotion at long last divulged, there is background sound. A door sliding open. The crackle of a voice that is not her own.

She does not say that she has to go. There is no utterance of a goodbye. The line simply hangs up.

Yoongi, the next morning, cannot recall for how long afterwards he listened to the dial tone.

In July, the monthly draw lands on a Friday. The final day of the semester.

It is the end of exams. The return of the summer holidays, celebrated by a barbecue down by the foreshore. A place where all students alike arrive in their respective groups to rejoin before they part for home, but everyone mixes, mingles, and congratulates.

Friendly tournaments of beach volleyball are held between the colleges. The aroma of sizzling meat and charcoal manages to overpower the scent of salt that wafts from the waves. Laughter and conversation tucks itself into every available space. Alcohol is poured graciously and in volumes considered comparable to a frat party.

Yoongi cannot help but wonder how many of the students who have flocked to the beach are going to have their name drawn from the ballot. Whose exam scores are going to become insignificant. Who might be celebrating for the final time with their peers––their friends––before they return home to a family with cheeks stricken by tears and a mint green envelope, bloodied with their own name.

When Yoongi arrives at the foreshore, there is a solid seven minutes of texting back-and-forth with a half-drunk Hoseok––who is dreadful at giving directions as it is––to figure out where the hell he is. Though it is only when Seokjin puts the latter on his shoulders that Yoongi manages to find them amongst the dense crowd. Nobody could miss that Hawaiian shirt paired with a sunshine smile, arms flailing like one of those wacky inflatable tube men.

Their area consists of a canopy housing three coolers filled to the brim with ice and beer, and a scattering of chairs to take up the remaining shade. A portable barbecue is set up to the left of the arrangement, currently left unattended. The sausages are starting to sizzle beyond cooked, but everyone is too busy enthusiastically welcoming the new arrival to care.

Yoongi greets them all with muted excitement. Though his gaze immediately drifts down to the only person who had remained reclined throughout the entire feat, spread on the grass like a starfish. With his blank features partially concealed by his large black sunglasses, Park Jimin––who is known to be the most mercurial of the whole lot––almost appears dead.

“Is Jimin okay?”

“He’s sober,” Seokjin laughs, kicking at the ankle of the aforementioned, who grunts something incomprehensible.

Jimin shifts up from his leisurely position to lean back on his elbows.

“Three weeks off it,” Jimin squints so fiercely that it is even noticeable behind his glasses. He sounds slow, the words drawn out on his plump lips. “It’s not right to do it around family. Plus, my Ma would probably send me to the fuckin’ moon if she caught me shooting up on the coffee table that has been passed down through the generations for like, ever.”

“The fuckin’ moon, he says,” Hoseok quips whilst a safe distance from Jimin and his fists, dousing an overly burnt hotdog in sauce. “You’ve been there every weekend since the start of first semester, Mr. Low Hallucination Tolerance. Hey Yoongi, remember when Jimin literally thought we had managed to make it into outer space and we were walking on the moon like Apollo 13?”

Jimin seems to contemplate whether he should get up and beat the shit out of Hoseok. Ultimately, he decides to slump back onto the grass. “Eat my ass.”

Hoseok genuinely sighs. “You all keep offering, but you never pull through.”

“You mean Apollo 11,” Seokjin circles around Jimin to stand beside Hoseok, raising an eyebrow. “Apollo 13 never landed.”

“Amazing, Seokjin knows facts! And here we all were, thinking that he only knew the precise anatomy of the female body.” Hoseok jeers, the disparages flying out like they are a second language. “Who would have thought?”

“One, I’m not sure if I should be insulted by that,” Seokjin takes his hands out of his pockets and uses an elbow to knock Hoseok in the arm, causing the sauce he is squirting to spray over his own shoes. “Two, you’re honestly asking for a beating, from all of us. But I guess three-on-one is just your style, right?”

“Oh daddy, you know it,” Hoseok, despite that his eyes blaze lividly over the ruined shoes, takes a disgraceful bite out of his hotdog with a lewd wink as if to prove a point. Everyone gags in perfect unison.

“Speaking of, what are you guys doing for the holidays?” Yoongi asks the feuding pair, wrinkling his nose when Hoseok offers him a sausage that resembles charcoal. He opts for a beer instead, and it fizzles pleasantly on his tongue. An old friend that his liver has known well for the past three years.

“My family lives in the town just beyond Hoseok’s, so I’m going to be dropping him there on the travel home.” Seokjin states while cleaning up the grill of the blackened mess, shooting the occasional accusing glare at Jimin, who appears to have initially been on barbecue duty. “God knows how I’m going to deal with that for six hours straight, but I consider it my good deed for the year.” Seokjin effortlessly dodges a kick to the shin by the insulted. “How about you?”

“You’re driving back with ___, right?” Hoseok questions, plonking down beside Jimin, who parts his lips in a demand for a bite. The poor guy nearly chokes when Hoseok eagerly shoves half the hotdog into his mouth.

A shiver is elicited when her name infiltrates the atmosphere, crawling up his spine in a sensation near pleasurable. But now, it is weighted with the touch of a forbidden truth. She no longer belongs to him, no matter if she still keeps her heart nestled between his palms.

Yoongi chugs back a quarter of the beer as if to wash away the feeling, cringing immediately afterwards.

“Yeah, it makes sense to go in one car. Her– Uh, the boyfriend is going to be visiting his family in the east, so he won’t be coming with us,” Yoongi speaks dismissively whilst running a hand back through his hair. His friends appear to not notice the fervent longing that resides beneath his skin.

Yoongi is about to take another sip of his drink. That is, until he stares directly ahead and finds the devil herself, drying off her hair with a beach towel.

It is eternally mesmerising watching her. From the way she moves with the fluidity of water, to the beautiful manner in which her features transform into her signature expressions. Most of them are private inclinations to an opposite emotion. A habit that only he knows of after such an extensive period of time observing her throughout their growth.

She laughs at something her friends says. The surrounding commotion swallows it whole, but Yoongi can hear it in divine clarity; the harmonious melody that has been the repeating soundtrack to half of his life. The calling of songbirds; the gentle notes of a piano; the tinkling of wind chimes in a summer breeze.

There is a faint vibration against Yoongi’s thigh. When he reaches into his pocket to retrieve the device, she makes eye contact from across the grass. A smile drifts about her lips that he cannot help but return, gazing at one another like a secret. Then, she purposefully distracts herself with the entertainment surrounding her.

Yoongi stands up and departs from the group, who are already indulging in other topics. He answers the phone without checking the identification. The line crackles with static, and then, his mother is sobbing through the speaker as though the world is about to end as they know it.

And when she finally manages to choke out the syllables, he realises that such a figure of speech may not be far from the truth after all.

NOTE — this has also been adapted into third-person perspective!! to those who have never read this before, I’d love to hear your thoughts on the piece. besides that, all likes and reblogs are super duper appreciated!! ♡

our finale should be coming very soon. get ready for a true rollercoaster of emotion. I’ve already cried twice while writing certain scenes of it dfsghs.

also, I’ve removed the links to the individual parts of attts because tumblr is being dumb by deleting posts/blogs that are using links or something. until they’ve resolved this issue, you can access the other parts of the series via my master list!!

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED © SEOKEROS. TRANSLATING, REPOSTING AND/OR MODIFYING OF THE MATERIAL IS PROHIBITED.

[toogigforherboots]

Arctic Monkeys-3/3/19

Fact: I love Arctic Monkeys. So that’s why I was so excited when they announced their Australian tour late last year in support of their new album, ‘Tranquillity Base Hotel and Casino’. Tickets were brought early, and the excitement levels were already high as possible. So on Sunday the 3rd of March, Bri and I headed over to the Entertainment Centre to bask in the glory that the boys from Sheffield were about to bring to us.

Now, I’m pretty vocal about my dislike for the Entertainment Centre and larger venues in general. I like smaller intimate venues. With the big venues, you’ve got to get there super early to get a decent spot and then it's just you and all of Brisbane pressed up against you. I can’t see, I can’t move, I can’t think. If that’s your idea of a good time, good for you but I think less is more. If I can’t get a decent spot up the front; I’m more than happy to grab a seat rather than battle it out with 1 million other people. Arctic Monkeys made me regret getting a seated ticket.

Bri had looked at the setlist before, but I went in blind. I did cop a spoiler via a video from the Sydney show where they opened with Four out of Five. So, I was fully ready for those smooth Nick O’Malley Bass lines to kick us off. I was dead wrong. The Fiery opening chords of Do I Wanna Know blew my tiny little mind. Say what you want about the Monkeys, but that’s one hell of a song and one hell of an opening riff. I am so glad that I didn’t know what was about to happen because in that first moment I felt alive and remade.

The Monkeys themselves looked fantastic, well suited and slicked back and oozing charisma. The statement piece of the stage was an iconic hexagonal light that would descend from the ceiling whenever they would play a song from the eponymous album. It really transformed the arena into a lonely, long forgotten casino lounge.  

Brianstorm was next and wow, if the set was just Brianstrom, I would’ve had an actual heart attack. That song goes hard as and the pit looked insane; exploding with activity.  Shout out to Matt Helders’ and that god like drumming!

A good thing was that they threw in songs that I didn’t expect. Snap Out of It was one of them. This shows how far back I have loved the Monkeys, I performed this song for a music performance assessment on cello back in high school.

The next hour and a bit was an absolute marvel to be a part of. I’ve heard some people online say that they’re soulless now, but I beg to differ. They’re not the same band they were 10 years ago, that’s undeniable. They’re cleaner cut, more polished but it would also be super weird if they were pretending to be those scrappy 20 somethings again. They’ve evolved in a way that feels very natural; they’ve taken risks that feel organic; they can’t just try and recreate the old days, they’ve got to grow up.

Where the Monkey’s really shone on that evening, was when playing songs from Tranquillity Base; One Point Perspective was unfortunately cut short before Alex had the chance to lose his train of thought, due to some dude passing out in the crowd and having to be pulled out. We didn’t even notice from up in the stands, it was only in talking to friends in the pit that we found out what happened. The title track was also a highlight; moody and atmospheric.

Four out of Five was the perfect way to finish the set.  Alex bidding the audience farewell with a simple thank you and letting the instantly recognisable video beginning to Four out of Five. It’s a weird shutter/squeak noise synchronised with the light flashes and it’s just fantastic. Like I can’t quite convey to you the feeling that area had in those opening seconds, being bathed in the red flashes, and knowing exactly what was coming next, was almost supernatural; like a collective held breath only let out with the drop of those bass lines. I’ve mentioned Nick O’Malley’s bass lines several times before, but I don’t believe enough can be said about just how godlike they are. They’re often the main focus of the Arctic Monkey’s songs but even when they’re not; they are.

And when the song comes to a head over Jamie Cook’s soaring and frantic guitar to the final “Four Stars out of Five” and immediately dropping to the final bass riff. My soul ascended. It was an out of body experience that I’m not sure I can ever achieve again.

They exited the stage and I genuinely wasn’t sure if there was going to be an encore. They had played all the songs I could think of, and I honestly didn’t know what else there was. I was still reeling from what I’d just experienced.

We did stick around, almost busting our eardrums as the noise reached fever pitch.

And man, were we rewarded. Rewarded with Star Treatment, the stand out opening track from the new album. “I just wanted to be one of The Strokes” came the screams echoing off the walls. I felt that.

We kept being treated with a song Sydney and Melbourne did not get- ‘Why’d You Only Call Me When You’re High’ Again with the basslines! Such a slap!   The other cities got No 1 Party Anthem. And what a hard decision that was when I asked myself to choose. WYOCMWYH barely edged it out for THAT BASSLINE. CANNOT BE UNDERSTATED.

And finally, the big finale. R U Mine? I think you could’ve powered the entire world for a year with the energy in that room. The pit exploded. The stands exploded. It was a force of nature. What a way to farewell Arctic Monkeys; screaming R U Mine???

Highlights- My favourite favourite song is Crying Lightning and that was the only song that I definitely wanted to see, and I was so in awe of the spectacle before me that I didn’t even recognise it as it began and it’s pretty distinctive. But man, did I lose my shit when I caught on!!! Alex took a break in the bridge to pretend row a boat with his guitar, which was fun!!!

One thing that I did gain from the show was a love for the song Pretty Visitors. The chorus is something you just have to see live, it brought such a creepy atmosphere when looking over the pit, seeing the ‘pit of snakes’ in real life.

Don’t be mistaken this is still a band at the absolute top of their game, but the game has changed.

I had such a fun wonderful time and definitely recommend both the music and live show of Arctic Monkeys! Here’s not having to wait another 6 years for another tour!!! Get off the bandwagon and put down the handbook, Mack

[fool-moon830]

The Grand Legend of Alex Eywrm

My Mentor is a Omnipotent Powerful Dragon... And also a Pothead.

Eterna seoule Eterna vulvis Fatus

May my Fate be as eternal as my soul and my love

I froze, chills went down my spine, a frozen breath found its way onto the nape of my neck. I couldn't move, couldn't blink, couldn't breath. 

"H u m a n . . . T u r n    a r o u n d a n d F a c e   m e. . . "

I slowly turned around, eyes open wide in fear. A pair of eyes catch my gaze, round lapis lazulis with slits in the middle, a cloudy mist fills the air as this hidden atrocity lights a blunt, takes a puff, and  breaths mist into my face. I immediately start coughing badly, the smoke having a menthol-like effect, a frozen feeling straight down my throat. God its feels like a cough drop just got shoved down my throat. 

“N o t    u s e d t o   i t , I s u p o s e . . . ”

Still coughing from the cough drop second hand smoke, i look at this...thing with watery eyes and ask something quite stupid.

“w-what the hell are you?”

Let me explain why this was stupid. What this thing is, is a mother loving, omnipotent Grand Elder Dragon, straight outta the underworld. How do I know this? Eyes the color of unnatural ice, the stupid elongated tone of voice, the cough drop second hand smoke, which by the way is created by a cigar made from the menthollyptus plant, a bit of sliver dust, a bit of crushed Golden Shabaath, and the ashes of the Eboreal Ash, . And how do i know it's this specific combination of plants and metal dust? Because the burn in my throat and the dizziness of my eyes feels the same way as when i have to go to my pothead boss whose name I will not mention, who also is a dragon(a lesser dragon i believe). Not a stupidly powerful dragon as this one in front of me-

“W i l l   Y o u N o t   A d r e s s M e  B y M y

T i t l e ? ”

… did this dragon just read my-

“ y e s . . .   i d i d . ”

… this mother lovin dragon. His Name is Sytar, the Province of all that is Time. This is a Timelord, someone who could manipulate time at will, and is able to go back into the past and future at will. However, only those who can set in motion the future are Prophets, those who divine prophecies among Heroes. 

“H e r o e s-

“Can you just shut up with that stupid tone?”

“...and why should I, Mere mortal?”

“uhh...Because you came here to tell me something?”

“... that is true. Ahem. Allow me to propose some…Exposition.”

...what?

“What the genuine fuck are you talking about?” I ask in an actual concerned voice.

“...i'm just gonna give some exposition. Explain about heros.. Y'know, basic hero talk.”

“...why though? I already know about heroes and their grand and glorious exploits. I don’t need the exposition Sytar.”

“ its for the audience, idiot.”

“The what? What audience?” I look around for any signs of fades or missing bits of my apartment. Usually, grand dragons want to play around and recreate the rooms of their victims through illusionary magic. Also, they set up wireless connections and broadcast their mischief to major television channels. It's also one of Mia’s favorite shows, called The Fool’s Cage with NICK JOOOONES! Or something like that. I don’t watch much television. Just the forecast. Hopefully this isn’t that show.

“I’m not doing that Alex. Im too sophisicated for that dumb soap oprea. Also, who’s Mia?”

“None of your fucking business.”

“Chill dude. I'm not gonna hurt her-”

“Just shut up.” I rub my head and sit down. This is just stupid. Why is this dragon in my room, why can’t I just sleep, and why is there still some delicious musty tea on my mug. Although it's cold now, so its just now mediocre musty tea. Taking a sip of my mediocre musty tea, I ponder the reasons of this dragon being in my already cramped room.

“If you would stop explaining stuff, i would tell you why.”

“Can you shut up?”

“Can you explain why you're being so rude mortal?” This thirteen foot monster with a sixteen foot tail, scales as pale as moonstones, with just a tinge of blue, and nails...or should I say claws, as black as coal, all wrapped up in a bathrobe lined with alpaca fur, and flip flops with small bunny ears...Mia would like these… and a long, girthy, absolutely unnecessary cigar, lit with a teal flame. Wow.. You must really have some worn out lungs huh Sytar?

“ as a matter of fact, my lungs are perfectly fine, thank you very much.” Just as the omnipotent dragon starts coughing like a 40 year old smoker. Don’t Smoke kiddos. 

“...anyway, as I was saying… Heroes are given a Prophecy by a Prophet to fulfill, as it is their purpose as a sworn and pledged Hero, and by receiving this blessing, they are given eternal life. That is, they stop aging at a certain age, and can choose how old they look...occasionally. Most heroes either look 20 or 30 years old. It is uncertain. However, a Hero can be slain, and its soul shall remain here. Until it has completed its prophecy, or has it’s soul devoured by a Devil, Or it is destroyed by some other manner, a Hero cannot rest. A Hero can only wait for its opportunity to arrive, or live out its days in misery...such is the tragedy of a hero..” The dragon wipes a petty tear of his cheeks with such unnecessary flair. I wasn’t paying attention though. While this high-of-his-rockers dragon blabbered on about what i already knew about Heros(they teach you this in middle school history, along with the history of this nation’s government, The Federal Foundation of Terrana) I texted Mia. I asked whether or not she wanted hotdogs or ramen hotpot with some delicious musty tea. She wanted the hotdogs and some actual tea. But I reminded her that delicious musty tea was actual tea. Then she sent me a gif with a Gonodorf wizard rolling its eyes and some text on top saying ‘when your roommate is a dad-joke loving dork but you be wanting some actual food’. Kids these days with their memes and what not. Though...Mia isn’t actually a child, she’s old enough to drive around the pier and order her favorite milk tea with boba. Although, she still wakes up early to watch her morning ‘anime’ instead of doing her online college work, and still asks for some SourPatch Dwarves, and still cuddles up to me when she has nightmares...Anyway, she then tells me that she’s bringing one of her friends back home, and she’ll come home in about 20 minutes. Shit! I face the high-as-a-skyscraper dragon and tell him to…

“Leave. Now.”

The dragon, whom took another puff of his cigar, which was now half the length before he arrived, responded in a rather concerning manner…

“Can I at least say that your a hero and explain that…” he takes a moment to recollect his thoughts… “to the audience?”

“N-no!” I manage to say before I start coughing again, accidentally breathing in the cough drop second hand smoke.

“Dude ...it's not that bad….” He really was lost now, gone beyond all hope.

“Look, Wannabe Sytar, Two people live in this household and one of them is not used to the smell of smoke at all, and you won’t shut up about all this hero nonsense, and look-” and another coughing fit ensued from all the cough drop second hand smoke. “J-just go. Come back when your not a bloody stoner” for fucks sakes...Alex rushes around the apartment, opening every window they had. The dragon chuckled and recited a familiar phrase. 

“There are Three curses a hero must avoid, lest they shall lose their lives. A Hero must always beware of a Dragon’s Wrath, A Madman’s Oath, and a False God’s Promise. You do know this, don’t you Alex?”

“Y-yes i know” said Alex with a sore throat. The second hand smoke was getting to him pretty badly. “Why bother telling me this?” the dragon sighed and went for another puff of his blunt, decided against it, and place it away in a pocket dimension. 

“Alex...i am a tempermental dragon, cursed with Devil’s Scawl. I cannot prevent a berserk state this late into my life. The scawl is as painful as a parasitic cancer can be. Therefore, I use medicinal herbs to ease my pain away. It just so happens to be in the form of a cigar. I know of the conditions in this household, and I’ll try not to overstay this welcome.” 

The air froze, particles of dust and smoke slowed to a stop, creating an interstellar, ethereal effect. It suddenly got a lot...colder...what the… 

“Alex. there is something I must tell you. We do not have much time…”

“... i'm listening.” I grab the chair to my desk and sit down, wondering at what will the dragon say.

“Alex Ewyrm, You are a Hero who has not taken the Pledge. You will be entangled in the strings of Fate, You will be enwrapped in a story much, Much more grand than you could ever imagine. You will lose, You will gain, and your actions as a Hero shall decide the Destiny of the whole Universe. Alex Ewyrm, Son of Eris and Terrice Ewyrm, and grandchild to a knight of the 13th Order to Maxwell’s Commandment Squadron, Warus Garne Ewyrm, Known as the Hero who drew the cursed blade-

“Exodus. . .”Alex sat there in shock… So this dragon was legitimate. No other dragon could have found out either his parent’s name, or the commandment in which his grandfather served. There was also the fact that Sytar knew about his inheritance, what was passed down, generation to generation.

“Yes. Exodus… the cursed sword Exodus. You see now, that i am Sytar, Providence to all that is Time. I came here to warn you. I shall lead your way, be your guidance, and provided mentorship when you need it most. That is my Pledge I will take as Sytar, Providence to all that is Time!”

...wait. Wait wait wait hold the hot pipe up! Is he suggesting..?!

“..are you saying… you want to be my mentor..?”

“Yes! That is what I pledge and that is what I shall do with pride and dignity!”

I groan and put my weary head on my hands. Why...do i have to be with this pothead…

“H-hey, i'm a nice guy, there’s no need-”

“JUST SHUT THE FUCK UP WILL YA?”

...then there’s silence...the smoke has long left the room. The dust has settled… on the entrance, a small but audible knock can be heard. Then, a voice.

“uhh...Alex...Are you Ok?”