#i have absolutely no idea why i wrote this

[dreamerdrop]

[Image of tags from @k-ru-h reading: #and what if I said. This plays into his autism coding.]

It absolutely does and you should say it.

I wrote a short essay a while back (years back) on another fictional character who has similar incongruous traits, in her case, the fact that she came across as both being a wide eyed naive child younger than she was and then at other times seemed like a world-weary old lady who had experienced and accepted things no child should have even a comprehension of.

Julian is kind of (very, very) similar. I’m also autistic and I feel like most characters who get given two wildly contradictory traits that then exist simultaneously in some kind of harmony end up reading as autistic by default, because it’s just… a thing for autistic folk, especially when you start mixing in trauma.

(Are there autistic people without trauma? I have yet to meet any. Being autistic in a world that wasn't built for folks like us is traumatic in and of itself even without adding anything extra on top, but I’ve yet to meet anyone who didn’t get something extra on top.)

I’m sure there’s more eloquent people than I who could write coherently about why autism often manifests and displays symptoms as being akin to two completely distinct individuals crammed together into one semi-functional human being who is left in a state of constant turmoil because their brain is constantly telling them completely contradictory things about themselves, but I am certainly not eloquent enough to manage it myself.

I’d guess it might be related to existing in a world where you are constantly told your default state is incorrect and needs to be changed or fixed, that your natural responses are wrong, that you are constantly both overthinking or underthinking, and you just end up internalizing ideas that make no rational sense because you’ve been taught you can never trust your gut on anything ever, so you end up feeling like a shoddily constructed entity who can never be quite right no matter what you do.

Anyway I think Julian should have someone who wakes him up every morning by telling him how wonderful he is and then ends every day by reminding him that it wasn't his fault.

Julian Bashir walks a very fine, maddening line between “self-loathing imposter syndrome who knows almost everyone who speaks to him for more than a minute finds him insufferable” and “incredibly self assured and annoyingly arrogant to the point of a minor god complex”.

He knows he’s attractive, he thinks he’s charming as all hell, he knows he’s the smartest person in the room (while also being acutely aware he’s going to put his foot in his mouth any second now), and he just swings wildly between “I don’t deserve anything I have, none of this is mine, my life is not my own, I am a monster” and “HELL YEAH LOOK HOW COOL AND SMART I AM GUYS ARE YOU LOOKING ARE YOU LOOKING”.

And then there’s episodes that reveal that underneath that annoying arrogance, at the very core of who he is, he really, really just wants to help people, and if he fucks that up he WILL take it personally and hold himself responsible even if there’s no way he could have known and like. Can you imagine what his first patient death was like for him. Can you imagine what a fucking nightmare his brain must be 24/7.

He is somehow as inherently self assured as he is in need of constant validation for his ego because you can SEE him break a little when that ego fails him, even a little, and it’s just.

He’s very fun to write. I hate him. (I love him so much, but oh my god.)

[mingtinysworld]

How would the ateez members react to you writing fanfiction?

Me and my bestie @bananayuyu had this convo, so it’s inspired by her also hehe. I hope you enjoy this headcannon

Hongjoong

Hongjoong would love it so much. He would make it a challenge that every time you post something new, he would do exactly what you wrote that night. He would make every night so enjoyable for you, and it would honestly give you the motivation to keep writing every day.

“I liked what you wrote in the last chapter baby.” He says as he leaves soft kisses along your neck.

Seonghwa

Seonghwa would love it, and he would be flattered, but he would be so shy. SO shy. He would blush, and he would stutter, and he would cutely ask to read it. As he reads, his heart would flutter, and he has to take a hand to his chest to calm his racing heart.

“You’re ok Seonghwa, you can survive this, it’s ok.”

Yunho

If Yunho found you writing fics about him, he would “scold” you. Saying how you have the real thing right in front of you. However, as soon as you’re out of sight, he grabs your laptop and opens up to your writing, where he starts to read, intrigued. At some details, he gets fired up.

“What do you mean I have black hair?? I clearly have brown hair, geez this girl can’t write.” And then he goes right back to reading until it’s early morning.

Yeosang

Yeosang would be totally horrified. He reads one sentence and he immediately runs away, needing to shield his eyes.

“WHAT ARE YOU WRITING MY GOD”

“Yeosang chill, it’s not that crazy.”

“No no no no where’s the bleach please I need to unsee this help meeeee.”

Yeah he’s a bit dramatic

San

San would be a wildcard. He would either absolutely love it, or he would absolutely hate it. He most likely would get jealous, even if the story is about him.

“What, I’m not enough for you so that you have to write about other men?” He says while folding his arms, cute pout prominent.

“San, baby, I’m literally writing about you! Why are you jealous”

“Well you have me right in front of you.”

Mingi

Mingi would pretend like he doesn’t love it, but he’s downright filthy. He takes out a note pad and sits you down and has you read to him, while he takes notes on exactly what you like.

“Ok so here we have bondage, temperature play, primal play, sir kink”

“Mingi hold on, what are you even doing?”

“Taking notes babe, what does it look like I’m doing?”

Wooyoung

Wooyoung would absolutely love it, he wouldn’t even hide it. As soon as you admit you write fics about him, his eyes would light up, and he would feel flattered. He follows your tumblr and ao3 blog, and regularly reads your fics, and even gives feedback.

“Wow Y/n, you did so good on this one. What I would do differently is use a different adjective here maybe?? And then these typos here…etc etc”

Jongho

He is secretly a FREAK. He acts disgusted by the idea of you writing filthy scenes. His lip curls in disgust and he rolls his eyes, but deep inside he’s so unbelievably happy. He loves that you’re writing about him, and he even takes some inspiration from them.

“I had no idea Y/n was into this, I might give it a try.”

[3liza]

everyone arguing with material analysis/assertion about how art is a "luxury" has rarely if ever spent rent or food money on art, if they even pay rent or buy their own food, and if they did that would be considered extremely dysfunctional, and thats what i/we mean. artists are not providing a necessary service.

our plane crashes in the Andes and you are not particularly excited about my "can draw that Playboy centerfold of Marge Simpson from memory" like that is not an essential survival skill. lots of extremely skilled workers work in luxury artisan and craft jobs, it's not an insult to say even a very famous and very talented and influential artist is not producing a commodity necessary for the furtherance of human life. none of us are doing that, no matter how we stretch and strain the definitions of "essential" or even things like "morale" or "group identity". i will burn my copy of Finnegan's Wake to stay warm and thats what it comes down to.

i get foamy crazy snarling and biting about the idolization and obfuscation of what artists actually do because it is a labor issue! the public conception of artists as people possessed of a divine talent they dont consciously work to develop like any other skill, and the public idea that we are simply pleased and privileged to make art all day and "not work", something people say to my face every time i get asked "what i do", is largely responsible for the absolute dogshit reality of how subsistence and working class artists have to survive. we usually dont have health insurance unless we're so poor we qualify for medicaid AND live in a state that will enroll us. most of us are too disabled or crazy to go to a real job every day. most of us have tried, over and over, to enter the normal workforce, and have failed, and been forced to develop alternate skills that allow us to make rent in the ten hours per month we're actually functional. many of the artists i know work from bed because standing up is dicey. this has been turned into a charming eccentricity of famous artists and writers instead of people wondering why a person would need to stay in bed all day and take the enormous bother of bringing their stupid pens and paper and writing board or typewriter or whatever to their bed instead of just getting up and getting dressed and going to work. ive done this, i spilled ink in my sheets. its a huge hassle.

and artists play along with this mystique because people dont want to buy paintings from sadlords! they want to buy paintings and books and marge simpson nudes from cool guys who get a lot of chicks and wear rockstar outfits and party a lot, because of the transitive properties! of course!!! this is basic marketing!!!!! and if the artist doesnt play along they turn into Sad Story Artist where they're doing emergency commissions and posting about how sick they are all the time. this is not cool or fun or sexy. it's a sand trap and its very hard to recover from. im struggling with this right now!

famous and successful artists and writers are constantly ending up 60-90 years old with cancer and multiple sclerosis and dementia, being the subject of some sort of public, last-ditch, humiliating GoFundMe because painting paperback covers fr 60 years means you dont get a pension, you often dont even have kids who can take care of you, you dont have life insurance, you dont have health insurance. 'died penniless and alone' is one of the stereotypical artist endings for a reason, that is not fiction. this happened to more artists than i can list on two hands. look up what happened to Peter S. beagle, the guy who wrote The Last Unicorn. you write a book like that you should be set for life, right? NO. thats not how it works

i'm not saying 'all artists are disabled and working class or poor' because that isnt true, observably. nepo babies and trust fund artists exist, obviously. but they take an outsized portion of the spotlight when the public thinks of the concept of "artist". they are not actually the norm. the average artist is probably making under 40k and living in extremely precarious circumstances and has had periods of homelessness, illness, extreme debt and/or bankruptcy.

this is true even for the 'successful' artists. having one or two or ten good projects and being a household name does not save you from just not having the safety net provided by a normal career path. i was very close with a major, famous 2000s network television creator and team that you have heard of. they won awards, they changed culture entirely, they were a big deal. one of them was turned down for a half dozen projects by the same network that made millions or bilions on their franchise over several years (each pitch is completely unpaid btw, imagine carefully preparing a PowerPoint for morons for months at a time for no reimbursement and thent he morons ask you if you can put a teenage witch looking for her lost cat in the alps in it and you're like, haha, well, it's a 4 part hard sci fi miniseries set on Europa and takes place entirely inside a pressurized lander settlement, i mean Ridley Scot said he was interested already and he pitched a bottle episode about a carbon monoxide poisoning, soooooo....and the executives look at each other and they're like "it's jst not really what we're looking for right now, thanks for coming in" and you go to coffee bean and tea leaf and kill yourself and thats sort of what its like. i made that example up it didn't actually happen i'm using an illustrative example), worked on a canceled film, and just. gradually ran out of money. thats what happens. that guy ended up slowly selling off all his belongings, getting roommates in a one bedroom apartment, and then eventually having to just live on a friend's couch for years. famous guy. you probably know his name. another major member of that same team ended up in GoFundMe/commission hell for years (might still be there) because they had to take care of their two dying, dementia patient parents by themselves. these are people who go to GenCon and sign autographs for four hours at a time. THE PUBLIC IS NOT AWARE OF THIS SHIT and i'm sick of it. im sick of going to a gallery opening night ("vernissage") and drinking bad wine and having a guy with an email job that pays six figures and benefits tell me being able to push "undo" on the computer is cheating. that's a real example, that has actually happened to me. more than once.

artists currently have zero labor protections whatsoever. all of us are undercutting each other in an unregulated market and relying on welfare and private insurance and not having families or buying houses. zero security until we get so old all our illnesses and dysfunction finally ground us permanently and then we get turned into a charity case by fans (humiliating) or just fade away into ghosts and die

whats my punchline? idk i dont have one. it's possible and likely that any given artist you meet is permanently in precarity and will be until they die, even the famous ones. the culture of selling art demands that artists do not admit to this in public unless shit gets really really bad. i guess my point is you should know this, as a person who looks at or listens to or reads things that people have made for your amusement, not for your survival

[fuck-you-upmusicbracket]

Tomcat Disposables (Will Wood)

Is there cheese in the great beyond/What's the moon made of?/Meet me there after I'm gone/Life gets short, our teeth grow long/Mind me not, and I'll/Mind my own, and my mind/Held the same light as the one in your eyes/Do I belong in right and wrong?/One dies alone, and why?/Don't know/Goodbye, so long

"Song is from POV of a mouse, wishing for someone to love and just to survive really. In the end the mouse is poisoned."

"This song. Is about a mouse. A MOUSE. it has no RIGHT being able to make me bawl my eyes out. so essentially will wood made friends with a mouse he found in his kitchen and was like feeding it and stuff. and his landlord said he had to kill it because mice carry diseases. so he had to set out a poison trap and kill it. and after he did so he wrote this song in tribute to it. it’s all from the mouse’s perspective and goes through the betrayal of being poisoned. ‘what’s the moon made of? meet me there after I’m gone!’ fucks me up so much you have absolutely no idea"

If I Die Young (The Band Perry)

If I die young/Bury me in satin/Lay me down on a bed of roses/Sink me in the river at dawn/Send me away with the words of a love song

"It’s such a gentle song about death. It probably was the first time I realized you didn’t have to be buried when you die and that even sad ends didn’t have to be sad when you remember them."

[call-sign-shark]

You cannot imagine how much I looked forward to reading this, honey!!

First of all, your poetic prose never disappoints. Particularly the descriptions of Kairaxès' movements, full of imagery and incredibly smooth. Same for the way you wrote about the white walker or Brynhild's dead steed. I felt shivers down my spine.

And there is the plot... I don't know where to begin so I have to warn you: this comment will be utter chaos. Tbh when I created Heavenerys the very first thing I told myself was that I wanted to turn her into a creepy Targaryen queen who mysteriously disappeared Beyond the Wall. Then we started briefly joking about Hev and Brynhild (btw I absolutely adore what you did with her. This is as unique as perfectly fitting for her). Tbh I had absolutely no idea what you had in mind and jeeeeeeeeeeeezzzzz.. This is the best plot twist ever. I'm dead serious hon, this is going full canon for Heavenerys if you allow me to do so. Not only is the idea badass as fuck, but it works so well with all I created around Hev that I started to wonder if you could read minds.

"Therein born to him and his queen, was the downfall of man. The Night Queen would call for her one day, and his precious girl would answer. " Heavenerys being the result of a curse and hearing the call of Brynhild is pure genius. It is the best explanation on why she disappeared: it makes so much sense, I swear.

"The Night Queen slowed her mount, bringing him to a stop and jumping down to her feet, walking the remaining way to where the Targaryen stood. " Brynhild is so charismatic and imposing, I love her. Besides the whole cursing situation, it's almost frightening how she found the perfect words to soothe Hev. They might have never met, but she immediately knew all the suffering she went through and that's... That's actually tragically beautiful.

“From me you came, and to me you return, child.”  gnnnnnn let me tell you something: Imma still that and use the quote + Brynhild for my next post ehe.

The way I giggled at their exchange. You got Hev' bratty nature despite being a queen quite right! Pointing out at the walkers and saying "uh no thanks I don't want to look like this" is so her. 🤭

What a breathtaking one-shot, sweetie. I have been rereading it for the fifth time as I write this. Thank you so much for this wonderful gift, I am beyond grateful and I shall return the favor very soon. You're fantastic. 🖤

The Night Queen and the Frozen Plague.

I had to do a wee bit of tinkering to the GoT lore, namely that the White Walkers can speak beyond those eerie death cries we all know and love. But here, as promised, mostly for my Sharkie, some Brynhild and Heavenerys!

The sound of his roar fractured the still of the air, the great army of the dead all halting at their queen’s command, Brynhild looking to the sky.

“Southern enemies, my queen,” hissed Craxor, her general. Half skeleton, half rotting flesh, turning his sunken face skyward as he viewed the beast who cast a shadow over the frozen wasteland. 

“Not enemies,” she whispered, her glowing, azure eyes picking out the dragon circling overhead, through the thick of the snow clouds. ”Heavenerys Targaryen and her dragon. At last, she has heard my call. She has come home.”  

The curse of the cold had come to pass, the first-born, pure-blooded child of King Amarys Targaryen blighted by it, as she surely would be. An ill-advised trip north of the wall had led to the ancestral curse landing squarely upon the child, Havenerys born with the mark of the dead. One look into her piercing eyes, and Amarys had seen it, his soul filled with dread.  

Therein born to him and his queen, was the downfall of man. The Night Queen would call for her one day, and his precious girl would answer. 

Kairaxès began his descent from the sky, the snow swirling in tempestuous storms beneath the whoosh of his huge, white wings, shaking the ground he landed upon. The army waited, thousands of wights in amongst a battalion of white walkers, all standing poised. Dead men lain to waste, with no other purpose than to serve their immortal queen. 

Brynhild moved on her tattered, giant black steed, the haggard creature propelled forward on shattered fetlocks, ribbons of decayed flesh floating hauntingly in the breeze. Only she advanced, her army waiting, Heavenerys taking them all in as she dismounted and climbed down to the floor, stroking her dragon’s face.  

“All is well, my beautiful beast,” she spoke at his warning rattles. “They are unlike all we know, but they pose us no harm.” She wasn’t too sure why it was that she intrinsically knew that, but she did. She felt it on a level much deeper than the very last roots of her soul.  

The Night Queen slowed her mount, bringing him to a stop and jumping down to her feet, walking the remaining way to where the Targaryen stood.  

“Welcome to the northern wastes,” Brynhild stated, her voice like a whispered death rattle, sending a slight chill through Heavenerys. She was beyond other worldly, the power radiating from her unlike anything she had ever felt. She watched the ancient queen spear her long, white lance into the frozen ground beneath her feet, eyeing her with the same curiosity. She was all Brynhild had foreseen she would be.  

“I felt I had to come to you, but I do not know why,” she spoke, her sharp, angular face set, staring as the queen slowly approached. 

“You know exactly why, Heavenerys. For justice. For revenge.” The fire of recognition danced in her eyes, the young Targaryen finally feeling heard by somebody. “To wrong those who have wronged you. Amos. Aerthurys. To rain fire and ice upon your enemies, to all those who have harmed you. I believe they call it Valar Morghulis in your mother tongue.” 

Heavenerys nodded, yet her face still questioned. “But why was it, that I felt you call out to me? Why was it you, here in a land where I do not belong?” 

“From me you came, and to me you return, child.”  

At those words, she felt her blood chill to freeze. “I am not a child.”  

Brynhild lifted her chin. “When I am older than time itself, you are very much a child.” She felt it in the air, the waves of cold, foreboding magic, magic not to make an impact. “And your sorcery cannot charm me. Save that. It has its place, it’s intended use.”  

“I cannot if you intend to make me like them,” she spoke, her finger pointing out to the white walkers, Brynhild turning to view her generals. 

“No, which is why I do not intend to. You returning to me was always for a purpose beyond your own. I need you, to make a pathway for us. For my army. For our army. Only with you can I break down the wall and march on Westeros.” 

Many summers and winters would pass, before the final dreadful cold of great north arrived. On that day, Heavenerys flew the great Kairaxès back across the wall, his frozen flames decimating the fortitude, his rider’s magic breaking it further.  

Together, the Frozen Plague and the Night Queen brought their army forth into Westeros.  

Winter is here.  

Valar Marghulis.  

@call-sign-shark @wonderlanddreamer @justrainandcoffee @cillmequick @novashelby

[thevioletcaptain]

if you as a fic reader ever become possessed by the urge to do a popularity bracket with the fics other people wrote and shared for fun and for free, consider:

don't ❤️ 

[tommygotwrittenoff]

buck and eddie would be the most insane PTA moms ever, actually. because eddie loves his son and being a bitch and buck loves bossing people around with a clipboard and being involved.

[crossbackpoke-check]

Substance, Shadow, and Spirit [remixed, abridged] by Tao Yuanming

[no-1-rosalind-lang-apologist]

Guess what I found on the internet today

[psychotic-nonsense]

Alright folks, I have a question for you. A dumb question, yes, but a question nonetheless.

In an alternate universe scenario - where such a situation arises, and no one ends up dying or seriously (physically) wounded - with the S4 Hawkins Party and Chrissy all bearing witness...

(Context below)

-----------

This is part of one of the oldest Stranger Things AU ideas I have.

Vecna, in a desperate attempt to distract/manipulate the town, decides to bring back every single person in Hawkins he's ever killed. Didn't matter the way, if the Upside Down killed them, they were back.

But they aren't exactly themselves. Their memories are locked away in their brains by those Upside Down slugs, all of them trapped in the same day as the dimension itself; November 6, 1983 (unless killed before this date). Alongside that, their bodies aren't theirs, and are instead exact replicas made purely of Upside Down goo. Vecna plans to gain the town's trust using them, and when the time comes, activate the slugs to turn the revived into his personal soldiers (think the season 3 Billy plot but without the flesh Mind Flayer)

Eddie wakes up in the forest, exactly how he is supposed to be. But when he discoveres Chrissy beside him, he panics, and tries to remember what happened. He's unable to, but he knows something is keeping the truth locked away. So, extremely painfully, he finds a way to extract the slug from his brain, freeing himself and his memories from Vecna's control.

But soon, Chrissy wakes up. One who's mind is stuck in 1983 and has no idea who Eddie is. Still, since they're all each other has, she decides to believe and trust him, eventually befriending Eddie all over again.

They spend their days walking through the woods, terrified to return to town. They need no food, and scrapes from the woods never go further than skin deep, yet they remain unaware of their undead status. Eddie spends the whole time theorizing, trying to figure out what purpose this could serve, and how to get back to the group without inciting mass panic.

That is until the group finds them. Everyone he fought alongside, traveling through the woods with Wayne Munson in tow. They're taking him to a hidden grave for Eddie, one far from the vandals in town, to give him a place to grieve in peace. They still can't tell him the truth of what happened, but hope that this makes up for the lies they keep spinning.

But Wayne's gone mad with his grief. He's brought a gun with him and points it at the group, demanding answers for what happened to his boy. Eddie watches in fear, urged away from intervening by Chrissy's own terror.

Just before things get too bad, Steve steps up. Takes the blame, says that it was his word that put Eddie in danger, and inevitably got him killed. The group tries to deny it, but Steve persists. Wayne needs someone to blame, so blame him.

And at first Wayne looks satisfied. He has an answer, finally, one that might actually be sincere considering Harrington's sobs as he confesses.

But his grief and pain and confusion and anger simply aren't. So he raises the gun, pointed right at Steve-

-and that's where Eddie intervenes. Shoving Steve out of the way, barely getting out a desperate "WAYNE, DON'T!!" ...before the gun goes off.

------------

After that, the story could go two ways.

The original outline - El goes with the group to Eddie's grave (for reasons I'm not sure of honestly). She watches the whole skirmish with Wayne, not wanting to expose him to her powers until she has to. When Wayne goes to shoot, she redirects his arm, just in time to catch Eddie in the leg.

In this one, Eddie's vocal. A screech of fear before he crumbles to one knee, hunched over and clutching at his leg, groaning in pain. Everyone can see him, hear him, and though they can't believe it, they know for sure it's Eddie. They saw him fall but they don't know how bad it is, and they're too shocked to come any closer.

The changed idea - El isn't there. Everything proceeds as before, with Wayne actually aiming for Steve's shoulder. Just a flesh wound, something to satisfy the squirming in his limbs. But due to Eddie's shove, his position is a little further to the left than Steve's, catching him straight in the heart.

In this one, Eddie drops, hard, with barely a sound. Everyone sees his side recoil with the impact, so they know exactly where he was hit. He lands on his front, the wind effectively knocked out of him, so he's gasping for air the whole way. Everyone sees his clothes, heard his voice, but they're almost hoping it's someone else, please don't let it be Eddie, please.

---------

No matter where Eddie gets shot, the story progresses the same.

Chrissy freaks out, running to Eddie and trying to help him, begging him to stay alive. Eventually he regains his bearings, slowly sitting up, hissing between gasping breaths with a hand clenched firmly over the wound. He slowly peels back his hand, terrified of what he'll see.

But beneath the hole in his clothes is... nothing. No blood, no bullet, no cuts. Just a steadily growing dark bruise, and the pain not progressing past an appropriate ache and some mild burning.

As he tries to process this, Eddie's eyes unfocus, and catch a slight glint of metal in the grass. With shaking hands, he grabs it. When he sees it, he hastily tries to stand, Chrissy rushing to help him. As they do, they turn just enough for everyone - from Wayne's trembling unmoving stance, to the group's collective huddle of fear, to Steve's laid out position on the dirt - to see what Eddie found.

The bullet. Or at least, what's left of it, its entire front bent flat.

Crushed upon impact with Eddie's skin.

[mejomonster]

Sometimes I feel like I write really... simple? Which isn't a bad thing. Just sometimes rereading my stuff feels like I'm reading a fairy tale (ignoring the actual Faerie Stories I write galore lol)

[windfighter]

Möt mig i Gamla Stan

Det var ett sammanträffande att de sågs i Stockholm.

Kouji var där och hälsade på en vän efter att ha tagit fotografier uppe i fjällen. Varför Takuya var där visste han inte, men han kunde ana.

”Hatar fotboll”, muttrade Balder och trängde sig fram mellan människorna som stod samlade i baren. ”Varför skulle vi hit av alla ställen?”

Kouji följde efter. Han tyckte han kände igen några av personerna, men det var knäppt, han kände ingen i Stockholm. Förutom Balder.

”Jag gillar den här baren”, svarade han. ”Deras öl är god.”

”Fattar fortfarande inte att du är en öl-drickare.”

Balder vände sig om, händerna i sidorna, och såg på Kouji. Höjde ett ögonbryn.

”Du klagar varje gång vi går hit”, sa han.

Kouji skrattade, la en arm över Balders axlar och förde honom vidare mot bardisken.

”Jag klagar på karaoken, inte ölen. Kom igen, vad vill du ha?”

Balder slet sig loss. Kouji var lite orolig att han skulle tappa bort Balder i folkmängden. Nästan alla där inne var längre än Balder var. Balder satte händerna bakom huvudet.

”Mumin-dricka.”

”Du är en sån unge.”

Balder puttade Kouji innan han tog tag i Koujis hand.

”Fanta. Jag dricker fortfarande inte alkohol.”

Kouji himlade med ögonen.

”Du får nöja dig med Piña Colada.”

”Bara den är alkoholfri.”

Balder släppte Koujis hand och försvann bland folket. Kouji fortsatte till bardisken, beställde deras drinkar och gick för att hitta Balder igen. Det var då han såg honom. Takuya. Mitt i en samling av fotbollsfans. Koujis hjärta slog ett extra slag. Takuya hade inte sett honom. De hade inte setts på två år. Koujis händer skakade, öl spillde från glaset. Takuya hade fortfarande inte sett honom. Det hade varit deras största bråk. Deras slutgiltiga ord.

”Det är slut.”

Skilda vägar. Kouji hade packat sina saker och åkt hem till Japan. Han visste inte vad Takuya hade gjort. Livet gick vidare, jobben fortsatte komma in. Kouji hade knappt tänkt på Takuya.

Bara under nätterna, när det var mörkt och kallt och han var ensam.

Han svalde och slog undan blicken. Letade upp Balder istället. Han satt i ett bås, en av Takuyas lagkamrater bredvid honom, armen över Balders axlar och handen på Balders bröst. Balder såg ut som han skulle dö på platsen och Kouji gick snabbare.

”That’s my partner your flirting with”, sa Kouji när han kom närmare.

Han satte drinkarna på bordet. Balders kinder var röda och Kouji korsade armarna över bröstet. Takuya’s lagkamrat som Kouji inte kom ihåg namnet på flyttade en bit åt sidan och tog bort armen från Balder.

”We can take it outside if you want to”, forsatte Kouji.

Balder sträckte sig efter sin drink, tog en klunk av den. Fotbollaren lyfte händerna och reste sig upp.

”Just thought she looked lonely”, sa han.

”He was just waiting for me.”

”Kan försvara mig själv”, mumlade Balder.

Fotbollaren muttrade några välvalda grova ord på Italienska innan han vände och gick därifrån. Kouji skakade på huvudet och satte sig mitt emot Balder. Balder log osäkert.

”Han var inte så farlig. Jag ville inte vara oartig.”

”Du var obekväm”, Kouji rykte på axlarna. ”...Takuya är här.”

”Huh.”

Balder flyttade sig mot väggen, lutade ryggen mot den och drog upp benen på bänken. Kouji gjorde detsamma.

”Hur känner vi för det?” frågade Balder.

Kouji ryckte på axlarna igen. Han visste inte riktigt. Han drack några klunkar öl och såg ut på folkhavet. Balder tittade mot scenen.

”De tänker köra karaoke”, sa han med ett skratt. ”Ska vi också gå upp?”

”Jag sjunger inte framför folk.”

”Antar att jag inte räknas som folk.”

De tystnade. Lyssnade på människorna omkring dem, personerna som uppträdde. Kouji beställde in en andra öl när hans första tog slut. Takuya sjöng en låt och till och med Balder skakade på huvudet.

”Inte en ton rätt. Jag menar, jag sjunger också hellre än bra men…”

”Takuya har två saker han kan, sjunga är inte en av dem”, sa Kouji med ett skratt.

”Springa och knulla”, svarade Balder och nickade.

Kouji rodnade, sträckte sig över bordet och slog Balder i bakhuvudet. Balder skrattade och de satte sig till rätta och lyssnade vidare igen.

Kouji tittade inte mot Takuya. Han tittade inte mot Takuya med sådan intensitet att Balder märkte det.

”Gå och säg hej.”

”Aldrig i livet. Han kan inte svenska.”

Balder skrattade.

”Fortsätt vara kärlekskrank då. Se om jag bryr mig.”

Balder brydde sig alldeles för mycket och Kouji lät bli att svara. De satt i tystnad. Kouji drack upp sin andra öl. Balder var forfarande inte klar med sin första drink. Takuya sjöng ytterligare en låt och Balder ställde sig upp.

”Jag tänker sjunga nåt.”

”Du kommer dö när du kommer upp på scenen.”

”Finns värre sätt att dö på.”

Balder gick upp på scenen. Kouji beställde en whiskey och lutade sig tillbaka för att lyssna. Balder sjöng lite bättre än Takuya i alla fall. Inte rent, men inte falskt nog för att göra folk döva. Han hade valt Believer av Imagine Dragons och Kouji skakade på huvudet. Han kunde inte förstå varför nån skulle välja att sjunga en låt som betydde så mycket inför en sån här publik.

Å andra sidan kunde han inte riktigt förstå varför varför man skulle upp och sjunga inför publik till att börja med.

Balder avslutade sin sång och bugade för publiken, som skrattade och applåderade, innan han gick tillbaka till båset Kouji satt i. Kouji höjde sitt glas.

”För ett lyckat uppträdande”, sa han.

Balder höjde sitt eget glas.

”Yeah, sure. Skål för ett lyckat uppträdande.”

Han satte sig ner och tog ett par klunkar av Piña Coladan. Funderade. Kouji ville inte veta vad Balder funderade på, men var rätt säker på att Balder skulle avslöja det vilken sekund som helst. Kouji hade rätt.

”Du borde också sjunga nåt”, föreslog Balder. ”Det är kul.”

Kouji övervägde, men svarade inte, och Balder släppte samtalet. De drack sina drinkar, lyssnade på andra som sjöng och pratade om djuren de hade sett på Skansen under dagen. Kouji undvek fortfarande att titta mot Takuya.

Men alkohol gjorde något med folk. Fick deras hämningar att släppa, fick ljuset att se lite annorlunda ut, musiken att låta varmare, människorna mjukare. Kouji var inte immun. Balder såg mot honom, som om han visste vad som höll på att hända. En del av Kouji visste också, men han ville inte erkänna det. Hans drink tog slut och han reste sig upp. Kroppen kändes varm, nervös. Som om han skulle spricka om han inte…

Men Takuya var omringad. Om de visste vem Takuya var eller om de bara blivit charmade av honom kunde Kouji inte avgöra. Takuya hade den effekten på folk. Det var inte därför det hade tagit slut, Kouji hade aldrig känt sig åsidosatt, avundsjuk eller igorerad. De hade båda behov den andra inte kunde fylla, men de hade alltid kommit tillbaka till varandra. Alltid redo att släppa allt för den andra.

Kouji kunde knappt komma ihåg vad som hade varit spiken i kistan den här gången. Takuya hade sagt nånting. En mening som hade förändrat allt, men bara för att Kouji hade låtit den. Koujis händer skakade och han gick mot bardisken. Men hans väg bytte riktning, hans fötter förde honom mot scenen. Hans steg ekade högt i hans öron när han gick upp på den. Takuya såg mot honom och han såg på Takuya för första gången på kvällen. Takuyas ögon vidgades, förvåning över att se Kouji där. Men det var ingen ilska i dem, ingen besvikelse, ingen sorg.

Vilka känslor syntes i Koujis ögon? Han hoppades Takuya kunde se dem, hoppades Takuya missade dem. Han tog tag i mikrofonen, svalde och tog ett djupt andetag. Musiken började, texten på skärmen ovanför scenen. Koujis hjärta slog dubbla slag och han började sjunga.

”Smaken av kyssar som dröjer kvar, dröjer kvar. Luften vibrerar av du och jag, du och jag här.”

Kouji försökte titta på allt utom Takuya, men plötsligt var Takuya det enda som existerade i hela världen. Koujis blick var fast, som klistrad. Hans röst darrade, tog tonerna snett på ett sätt han inte brukade. Takuya sa nånting till en a personerna han var med, till en av sina lagkamrater. Koujis kinder var heta.

”Jag behöver dig! Möt mig i Gamla Stan nu ikväll, nu ikväll. Jag väntar i Gamla Stan, behöver dig hos mig ikväll.”

Hans mage värkte, slog kullerbyttor. En drink för många, rädsla. Vad skulle Takuya säga, göra, känna? Kouji visste inte ens vad han själv kände.

”Rädslan jag bar är sen länge död, länge död.”

Två år hade han haft på sig att smälta Takuyas önskan, förslag. Det som hade ändrat allt. Han var redo att testa nåt nytt, att ta ansvar på en ny nivå, så länge Takuya var vid hans sida. Han hoppades att det inte bara var alkoholen som fick honom att känna så, att han inte skulle ändra sig när morgonen kom.

”Stoppa en taxi, kapa ett tåg eller spring allt du orkar hit, bara ta dig hit. Möt mig i Gamla Stan, nu ikväll.”

Takuya gick närmare scenen. Kouji’s mage kändes tung, hans kinder brann. Vad skulle han säga? Vad skulle Takuya säga? Skulle de börja om igen, skrika, kyssas, älska? Hata? Kouji tog ett steg bakåt. Varför gick han upp på scenen?

”Som en skugga av den jag trott jag va’, nu börjar jag förstå, jag behöver dig.”

Koujis röst darrade. Han tog ett fastare grepp om mikrofonen. Hans hand darrade också. Takuya stannade. Såg på honom. Kouji sjöng refrängen, outrot. Folk applåderade, hurrade, och Takuya gick mot scenen igen. Kouji backade. Släppte mikrofonen och flydde.

--------

Kouji disappeared. Away from the stage, into the crowd and out. Takuya tried to hurry after him, but hands grabbed at him, held him back.

”I don’t have time”, he said. ”I need to…”

”Where are you going, handsome?”

Takuya broke free, but someone else grabbed him. It was useless. Kouji had probably gone up in smoke by now if Takuya knew him. Two years without a word, then this. Takuya let out a sigh. It was his fault, he shouldn’t have said anything. But Junpei and Izumi had seemed so happy with their kids and Takuya always spoke before he thought.

”When are we getting some?” he had asked. Like an idiot, and Kouji had exploded. And Takuya exploded. And then it was over. Kouji deserved better and Takuya hadn’t tried to hunt him down, contact him, reach out. But the nights had been lonely, the days had been cold.

A hand grabbed Takuya’s and dragged him towards the door.

”He’s a fucking idiot”, the owner of the hand said. ”Bet you don’t even know where Gamla Stan is.”

Takuya shook his head. The handowner shook theirs.

”Absolute idiots. The both of you. He’ll be at the harbor, probably thinking about joining one of the ships.”

Takuya was pulled into the night. His jacket still left inside. He wouldn’t see that one again he guessed.

”This street down to the water, then to the left. He’ll be easy to miss.”

They gave him a shove. Takuya turned towards them.

”Who are you?”

”Balderdash, my friends call me Balder. You may call me Your Majesty.”

Takuya snorted. Balder put a hand over his face and shook it.

”Go. He’s waiting for you.”

[a/n: If I knew Japanese I’d change the language AGAIN here, but alas I do not so English it is]

Takuya went. The night was warm. Loud. Lots of people still out and about. It was the middle of July, the height of summer. There had been a friendly game of football between Sweden and Japan, which Sweden had lost, and which was the reason Takuya was in Sweden. The thought of meeting Kouji there? Hadn’t even crossed his mind. Why would Kouji be in Sweden of all places?

But Kouji was here. Waiting for him, if Balder was right. Takuya hurried his steps, down the street, too the water. The water was still, a few boats crossing it. Takuya turned left and started running. Would he recognize the harbor? Boats were parked all along the sidewalk and he felt like he was already there.

The sidewalk got wider, opened up to almost look like a townsquare. There was a statue in the middle of it, a shadowy figure next to it. Looking out at the boats, shifting their weight from one foot to the other. Takuya slowed his steps. Kouji. What was he going to say? What would Kouji said? Kouji turned towards him, hands in his pockets, and Takuya stopped.

”...Didn’t know you knew Swedish”, he said.

”It doesn’t come up in conversation often”, Kouji answered.

He seemed nervous. Kicked the ground. Takuya put his hands in his pockets.

”I don’t know Swedish though”, he said.

Kouji laughed, but it died out again.

”I shouldn’t have”, he said. ”I’m a bit drunk.”

Silence. It seemed to stretch into eternity. Takuya scratched his arm.

”Sorry”, he said. ”I shouldn’t have… I should have thought before I spoke.”

He wasn’t sure Kouji remembered the fight, what had led up to it, but Kouji shook his head.

”I shouldn’t have shot it down”, Kouji answered.

He walked over to a edge of the harbor, sat down. Takuya sat down next to him. A swan crossed the water, disappeared under a bridge. They had never been nervous around each other before. Takuya didn’t like it, but what if he scared Kouji away for another 2 years?

”I never needed a kid to be happy”, Takuya said. ”I was happy with you. With how everything worked between us.”

”Yeah…” Kouji looked at the water. ”Did you mean it though? Did you want one?”

Takuya considered. He wasn’t sure. It had always been a goal in life. Get married, have kids, be a good member of society. Junpei and Izumi seemed to enjoy it. The kids were great. Takuya looked at his hands.

”I should, shouldn’t I?” he asked.

”We never did what we should”, Kouji answered.

He was right. Kouji was always right. Takuya looked at the sky instead. Cloudy, the moon peeking out between the clouds.

”I think I do”, he said. ”Eventually, when my career has calmed down. Or if you stay at home for longer. Not right now, but later.”

”I don’t think I would be a good parent”, Kouji said. ”I don’t know how to.”

”I’m not sure anyone knows.”

Silence again, but this time it felt calmer. A cloud covered up the moon and someone walked past behind them, singing loudly into the night.

”What does this mean for us?” Takuya asked.

”I don’t know”, Kouji said. ”I’ve missed you. If you want to have kids… I could try?”

Takuya shook his head.

”No, I… don’t mind never getting kids. It’s fine. If you don’t want kids…”

”Not right now”, Kouji said. ”I’m not ready, if I’ll ever be.”

”That’s fine.”

Takuya stood up, held a hand out to Kouji.

”Are you coming back home?” he asked.

”I’ve got a trip to Finland coming up”, Kouji stood up as well. ”Maybe after that.”

”That’s all I ask for”, Takuya answered.

He grabbed Kouji’s hand, pulled him closer and got up on his toes, kissed him. Kouji wrapped his free arm around Takuya.

”I’ll see you at home then”, Takuya said.

Kouji smiled. Let go of Takuya and nodded.

”I’ll see you at home.”

He left. Takuya watched as Kouji walked along the harbor, crossed a street and disappeared among the bushes and trees of Kungsträdgården. He felt lighter. Kouji was his again. He smiled and made his way back to the hotel. The world was brighter, the moon once again peeking through the clouds, and the future was once again shining.

[fossilizations]

what if i kill myself. what then

[dimiclaudeblaigan]

nah but listen.

i love ashnard.

THIS is what makes him such a great villain.

no excuses. no bullshit. no sad backstory.

sometimes it’s nice to have an antagonist who isn’t evil, but nowadays it’s so rare. sometimes it’s nice to have a true villain who doesn’t want to be pitied or seen as a “hero”, and won’t mince words when he’s confronted about his actions.

[pinkfey]

heya same inquisitor anon :) irt divine vivienne iyo is she the centrist choice? curious 😅

no

[boomingsmile]

who gave sharp the audacity to be so kind, loving, sweetest person. D:< no amount of words i can put up will ever be able to contain the vibe he has; i desperately need a drink with him and i dont even drink and he doesn't even exist!