#i have to read the rest of the article more thoroughly because it does seem to present a counterproductive view of fascism

[apas-95]

Marx, Nietzsche, and the Conscious Pursuit

Reproduced from: https://redsails.org/really-existing-fascism/#marx-nietzsche-and-the-conscious-pursuit See also: https://redsails.org/on-identitarianism-a-defense-of-a-strawman/

In our story so far, Nietzsche and the question of symmetries and anti-symmetries between Nietzsche and Marx have sat unattended in the background. Now is the time to bring them to the fore and to explain why I consider them so useful.

Consider how Nietzsche talked about masks:

Every profound spirit needs a mask. Even more, around every profound spirit a mask is continually growing. [49]

Contrast this with the way Marx and Engels publicized their commitments, and encouraged others to do so, in The Communist Manifesto:

The Communists disdain to conceal their views and aims. They openly declare that their ends can be attained only by the forcible overthrow of all existing social conditions. [1]

Consider how an early Nietzsche polemicizes in favour of a “new slavery” and the virtues of the ancients, whereas for Marx there is no question that the greatest hero of antiquity is the leader of slave revolts: “Spartacus is revealed as the most splendid fellow in the whole of ancient history.” [50]

A young Marx, musing on his vision of utopia in The German Ideology, waxes poetic about the possibility of a society freed from the division of labor itself:

In communist society, nobody has one exclusive sphere of activity but each can become accomplished in any branch he wishes, society regulates the general production and thus makes it possible for me to do one thing today and another tomorrow, to hunt in the morning, fish in the afternoon, rear cattle in the evening, criticise after dinner, just as I have a mind, without ever becoming hunter, fisherman, herdsman or critic. [51]

Nietzsche, meanwhile, in Human, All Too Human, describes a different kind of utopia, a grim society organized around the harsh exigencies of breeding genius in the midst of scarcity:

My Utopia. — In a better arranged society the heavy work and trouble of life will be assigned to those who suffer least through it, to the most obtuse, therefore; and so step by step up to those who are most sensitive to the highest and sublimest kinds of suffering, and who therefore still suffer notwithstanding the greatest alleviations of life. [52]

Nietzsche was no fool. It would be a mistake to dismiss these aphorisms as the antisocial madness of a lone misanthrope; to recall Waite, Nietzsche’s project is “the only position outside communism.” Nietzsche is articulating widespread skepticism about the ability of socialism to deliver mass happiness, and his critique resonates powerfully with anyone who feels their individuality imperiled by a collective. Stalin (and his cohort) claimed Marx, while Hitler (and his cohort) claimed Nietzsche… and the majority of the Western world went on to claim Nietzsche too. Just take a trip to your local bookstore — everything Nietzsche ever wrote is now a classic that never goes out of print, finding its way into teenagers’ backpacks and academic seminars alike.

Accusing Nietzsche of being a proto-fascist, or even the ur-fascist, in a public setting has predictable consequences: his countless fans swarm to explain that he never actually endorsed the Nazi party because he was already dead, that any linkages to the Nazi project are the result of a conspiracy orchestrated by his German-nationalist sister, that he denounced German ethnonationalists and mocked antisemites, that his philosophy was in fact aesthetic and spiritual and anti-systematic and impossible to pin down, and that he grew out of any misguided ideas he may have held in his youth.

Domenico Losurdo examines each of these defenses in detail, including the conspiracy theory, in his critical biography of Nietzsche. Nietzsche comes across as a powerful and complex thinker, who indeed went through multiple phases and espoused contradictory beliefs, but Losurdo shows that one thing remains constant: Nietzsche never stopped experimenting to find the best way to oppose the egalitarian leveling tendencies of modernity that he despised. Funnily enough, after exposing the extent to which Nietzsche corresponded with out-and-out antisemites in his youth, Losurdo cedes some ground to Nietzsche’s apologists:

Cosima’s advice to be careful about what he said may have had a positive effect: far from remaining confined to the verbal level, the self-censorship led to a kind of sublimation and transcendence of immediacy, in the sense that the merciless analysis of modernity became to a certain extent autonomous of the Judeophobic themes that accompanied it. [53]

In other words, when his antisemitic interlocutors advised Nietzsche to mask racism in his writing, they inadvertently spurred him to find justifications for slavery and elitism that weren’t rooted in the all-too-modern and universalist (and thus unstable, empirically refutable) arguments of “race science.” After all, “race science” is, both historically and logically, a liberal concept. If racial differences turn out not to be inherent, there goes the whole (liberal) argument for white supremacy. Liberal racism still feels the need to justify itself in scientific, i.e. universalist terms. As Nietzsche correctly observed, this is already a capitulation to socialism, which wins more the more people scientifically reason together. To truly condemn socialism, Nietzsche painted the issue of class domination as one of will, aesthetics, “freedom,” and spirit.

Just as the material conditions of capitalist countries vying for resources on an already-occupied planet helped us understand fascism as a geopolitical phenomenon rather than a psychopathology, Nietzsche helps us understand the real ideological appeal of fascism for ordinary, educated people. Nietzsche helps explain how fantasies of “slavery” and “extermination” could become respectable and even beautiful. Nietzsche was uniquely talented at making his readers feel special and strong as a reward for embracing his deep, misanthropic pessimism:

May good reason preserve us from the belief that someday or other humanity will discover an ultimate, ideal order and that then happiness will shine down with constant intensity upon the people ordered in this way, like the sun in the tropics: […] No golden age, no cloudless sky is allotted to these coming generations. […] Nor will suprahuman goodness and justice stretch like an immobile rainbow over the fields of the future. [54]

We see now why Chinese and Soviet masses generate such widespread revulsion among the would-be aristocrats of the West, how even Western proletarians feel comfortable referring to them as gullible “herds” and “insects.” Nietzschean thought, unlike Hitlerian thought, is widely respected and acknowledged as an influence by powerful people in just about every institution in our society: in an academic setting (Hannah Arendt, Jordan Peterson), in mass media (superhero movies, Breaking Bad, etc.), and on the Left (Emma Goldman, Mark Fisher, Contrapoints, etc.).

My last argument regards consciousness-raising and self-awareness.

We’ve established that Marx used the concept of “primitive accumulation” to describe one of the operational aspects of capitalism. But Marx also discussed “primitive communism,” in reference to the solidarity and camaraderie that was necessary for the survival of early human societies, because it bore an important resemblance to future communist society.

According to Marx, solidary forms of social organization that in the past had arisen simply out of need and circumstance, which were equally superseded by need and circumstance (by the efficient oppression of man by man, by slavery), were to make an emancipatory comeback. However, this time around they would be enshrined and protected by masses of conscious workers, workers who know the value of their labour, who demand an economy that they have made, that they know they have made, and that they are capable of remaking ongoingly. [55]

Nietzsche, if we accept the reading of him as the ultimate fascist philosopher, is easily understood as making an analogous plea to his own reactionary constituency. Where Hannah Arendt and John Seeley try claim that Western colonization and slavery were “absentminded” pursuits, Nietzsche persuades readers that there is glory in all of it, if done properly, aesthetically, “beyond good and evil.” Where Marx wants the masses to rediscover “primitive communism,” only this time consciously, Nietzsche wants elites to pursue the brutal programme of “primitive accumulation,” only this time consciously and without private shame.

I say private because, in anti-symmetry with Marx, and fully aware of the danger of letting people know what he’s really about, Nietzsche recommends concealing one’s aims. Thus we come to understand Nietzsche’s warm reception in the liberal West, whose architects turn out to be much better pupils of Nietzsche than the Nazis ever were. George Kennan posits American supremacy as an end in itself, donning a perfectly serviceable mask of liberal pluralism, then goes on to play an important role in planning several decades of “Pax Americana” on the basis of genocidal terrorism. The defining characteristic of the fascist is that they defend their anti-egalitarianism purposefully. The fundamental cleavage between Classical Liberalism and Modern Liberalism is simply the heightened awareness, given the Revolutions and Counter-Revolutions of the 20th century, that it is tactically expedient to wear a mask.

The observation that capitalism always operates in dual aspects (the regime of non-violent exploitation in the core and the regime of violent expropriation in the periphery) is the key to understanding how, though swastikas may be banned and in poor taste, the entire history of the West can be described as deeply fascist:

The profound hypocrisy and inherent barbarism of bourgeois civilization lies unveiled before our eyes, turning from its home, where it assumes respectable forms, to the colonies, where it goes naked. [10]

Elevating Nietzsche to the position of ur-fascist means that he is not someone who can be dismissed out of hand. Our task as communists is to prove him wrong.

[goodlucktai]

Hi, not sure if you're still taking prompts, but I love your Human Splinter AU and was wondering how that would change his relationship with Raph. It seems like while he still has trauma, he doesn't have to deal with the dysphoria of suddenly having a rat body, and that make's parenting a little easier. Does that make things a little easier on Raph too?

x

There is a suspicious amount of giggling coming in the direction of the living room, when Yoshi is entirely positive all four turtles went down for their nap half an hour ago. 

He peeks into the room and finds Raphael, laying on his front, kicking his tiny feet in the air, pouring over the comic book Hala’s daughter gave him. He doesn’t seem to notice Yoshi in the hall, as absorbed as he is. 

His little turtles have keen senses. Yoshi thinks they’ll be incredible when they’re older. He also thinks he’ll treasure this—these early years, when everything is brand-new and precious, when his babies are clumsy and earnest and wide-eyed—when he can still creep up behind Raphael on silent feet and scoop him into his arms and surprise him into a squawk and then ringing peals of high, sweet laughter. 

“What is this? What could this be?” Yoshi says, sing-song. “A little turtle running amok? Evading naptime? Breaching our contract?”

“Papa,” Raphael says, smiling toothily. He was the last of the four to begin speaking and sometimes he still has nonverbal days. Every time he says anything it’s like winning a goddamn prize.  

Yoshi finds himself smiling back without making any conscious decision to. 

“What are you up to, apple pie?” he asks. “Must be big, exciting things. Loop me in.” 

Raphael waves his arms and declares gleefully, “Superheroes!”

Ah, yes. We’re still on that, Yoshi thinks, careful not to let Raphael see his expression of distaste as he stoops to pick up what turns out to be a Fantastic Four comic. 

It’s one thing for his boys to find an old Jupiter Jim movie on cable TV and run around the house shooting imaginary blasters at imaginary aliens for four consecutive days afterwards. This hero thing is something else.

And he knows just who to blame.

Grandpa Sho found out about his great-grandchildren the way the rest of the world did—through the tabloids. 

Apparently the pediatrician Yoshi had reached out to had decided the hefty NDA she’d signed was no more than a fancy piece of stationery, and the siren call of TMZ was too tempting to ignore. 

Yoshi set his lawyers upon the asshole’s practice in the manner of a hunter releasing a pack of particularly bloodthirsty foxhounds, but the damage was done. The secret was out.

Naturally, the media ate it all up. Hala was an order of magnitude more pissed off about it than the uselessly shell-shocked Yoshi was, because as much as she might pretend otherwise, those turtles were basically her nephews. Her daughter had become their honorary big sister within about five minutes of meeting them in the first place. Hala was fully prepared to take this whole thing personally. 

She told Yoshi not to read any articles, to stay off the Internet. It didn’t stop the barrage of e-mails and phone calls. It didn’t stop Yoshi from refusing to leave his house for an entire week because of the paparazzi parked outside. 

And it didn’t stop Grandpa Sho from showing up on his doorstep. Apparently that bridge hadn’t been as thoroughly burned as Yoshi believed. The first thing he thought, when he saw his grandpa, was you look so old. It settled with a pang in the pit of his stomach. 

The second thing—embarrassingly—was also what came out of his mouth. He hadn’t seen his grandpa in years, and the last time they spoke was in anger, but in some ways Yoshi was still his child. 

“How do you fix a cold?” he blurted, right there on the doorstep. “He’s all stuffy and miserable and he won’t stop crying and he hates everything.”

Sho would have been well within his rights to be passive-aggressive, or petty, or even outright angry. Yoshi certainly would have been in his shoes. But Sho was better at putting duty before his own feelings, so he only nodded, and let himself inside.

“You sound exactly like your mother did when you were a baby,” he said, as if it wasn’t painful to say. “Not to worry. I know all the tricks.”

He did do a bit of a double-take when he saw the shape of Yoshi’s distraught toddler, but the surprise faded from his face quickly. He had always believed in all that mystic mumbo-jumbo that Yoshi had only recently learned firsthand was actually not mumbo-jumbo, after all. He took in the green skin and half-shells gracefully and ordered the inconsolable Michelangelo a lukewarm bubble-bath. 

It became a whole thing, because the boys were as thick as thieves on a good day, and absolutely ready to fight god at the barest hint that they might be separated on a bad one. The bathroom ended up minorly flooded, but his kids were happy. They loved baths. They were swimming around each other in circles until even fussy Michelangelo was smiling. Sharing the moment with Sho—the two of them half-soaked and weary and bursting with affection for the rambunctious little monsters in their care—felt healing.

Grandpa Sho stayed for a few days. It was a relief to have him there, an extra set of hands. Someone Yoshi could trust, because despite everything else they had become to each other, they were still family. 

The turtles were curious about him, this familiar stranger in their midst. They started absorbing Japanese within the first hour of his visit, even though Yoshi largely spoke in English. It was—nice. It reminded Yoshi of being a child himself, trailing after his jiji like a duckling.

And then one night, he let Sho tuck the boys into bed while he washed the dishes from dinner. He wandered into the nursery in the middle of a familiar story. A story that had followed Yoshi through life like a ghost, that echoed in almost all of his trauma-fueled nightmares. 

The story of their clan and their duty. 

Yoshi must have blacked out. He thinks he might have had an out-of-body experience. He remembers ripping the turtles out of Sho’s arms and backing away to the other side of the room and the pained way Sho’s face folded—hurt, guilt, decades-old grief. 

“Don’t you dare,” Yoshi said, a whisper, because he was too furious and heartsick and terrified to speak any louder. He’d clutched his babies as tight as he could without hurting them, unreasonably afraid someone might reach out of thin air and snatch them away. 

“Anata wa hitori janai,” his mother had said, the last thing she ever said. It was important but it felt like such a lie. Yoshi was alone. He’d always been alone. His sons were already better off than he was—there were four of them. He would make it his life’s mission to ensure they got to keep each other. 

Then Grandpa Sho had surprised the hell out of him by saying, “I’m sorry.” He said it again in Japanese, full and formal, and Yoshi was shaken out of his stupor by sheer disbelief. “I only wanted—I only meant that they are Hamato. They are family. Whether or not you teach them what I have taught you, they will belong.”

He left not long after that, two weeks ago now. They haven’t spoken since.

And now Yoshi’s oldest son is full of half-formed ideas about heroics—concepts like ‘the greater good’ and ‘defeating evil’ that would go completely over his head, except that it’s the same sort of thing his favorite cartoon characters say. 

“Hiijiji said our family is made of heroes,” Raphael says brightly. “So I’ll be one, too! And I’ll protect Leo and Donnie and Mikey when the bad guy comes.”

Yoshi can’t even speak for a moment. He has to wrestle with the lump in his throat for long enough that Raphael gets distracted and starts pawing at his hair.

His kids are so good. He can’t get over it. They were created to be super-soldiers, but all Yoshi sees are little goofballs with colorful personalities and giant hearts made of solid gold. He’s begun teaching them ninjutsu, in effort to curb some of their inexhaustible energy, and they’ve taken to it like ducks (or turtles) to water. Their brains are developing faster than those of human children their age—Donatello has the makings of an outright genius, and Leonardo is clever enough to talk circles around Yoshi in his sleep. 

If they decided to become heroes, there isn’t a doubt in Yoshi’s mind that they could do it. And they’d be the best. 

Raphael is all of six years old and the only things he should be preoccupied with are his siblings stealing his toys and that new Jupiter Jim DVD April promised to bring over this weekend. He shouldn’t be worried about the bad guy. 

But now he’s got it into his head that he has this huge responsibility. He’s bigger and stronger than his siblings, so it falls on him to look after them. They clamber around on him like he’s their own personal jungle-gym, and he oversees bedtime rituals and boo-boos, and holds their hands when they reach out to him like it’s his job. 

He doesn’t seem to mind that there is no big brother to do the same for him but he’s six. He wants someone to hold his hand, too. 

Yoshi is keeping an eye on it. The last thing he wants is for Raphael to grow up too fast. 

You can depend on me, he wants to say. It’s not all on your tiny little shoulders. That’s my job. It’s what I’m here for. 

He doesn’t think Raphael is old enough to understand that in its entirety. So instead, when he’s sure he can speak without a wobble in his voice, Yoshi says, “There better be room for me in all these plans. I’m a hero, too, you know—you’ve seen me on TV!”

His son claps his hands together, brimming with delight. The turtles don’t really know what it means that their father is a famous actor, but they get so excited when they see Lou Jitsu on screen. They quote his movies a lot, it’s becoming a whole thing, and it’s so cute Yoshi might die. 

“You’ll help fight the bad guy?” Raphael asks, like it’s the absolute best idea he’s ever heard. 

“There’s not even gonna be any bad guy left for you, firebug,” Yoshi tells him. “I’m gonna beat him so quick you’ll barely see it. He’s just gonna be a big blur and you’ll wonder what the heck that was and then it’ll be over. And then we’ll go out for ice cream and forget all about it.”

He says it playfully and it makes Raphael giggle, but inwardly it takes the form of a prayer. 

If there has to be a war, let it be Yoshi’s. Let his children be children for as long as they can.

“And hiijiji can come, too!” Raphael adds. 

Yoshi is learning how to pick his battles. Maybe he doesn’t want to fight this battle anyway. Maybe he can begin to peel his fingers open from the fists he curled them into when he was a child. Maybe he can start to let it go. 

With Raphael gazing up at him like this, like Yoshi really is a superhero, Yoshi thinks he can do just about anything.

“Okay,” he says. It doesn’t even cost him to say it. “Jiji can come, too.”

[after-witch]

Emotional Loan [Yandere Ransom Drysdale x Reader]

Title: Emotional Loan [Yandere Ransom Drysdale x Reader]

Synopsis: You shouldn’t be this nervous about telling your boyfriend that you want to transfer to a college out of state. Ransom is nothing if not generous with you--so why is your stomach in knots?

Word Count: 3144

notes: yandere, sexism, emotional abuse

You shouldn’t be this nervous. Really. Ransom has been nothing but generous with you, and in turn you’ve been patient--maybe too patient, maybe too forgiving, sometimes--with him. It’s only fair that he extends that patience to you, especially with something as serious, as important, as your future.

So why does the thought of telling him about your plan to switch to a new college make you feel like you’re going to throw up?

You puff out your cheeks and stretch your arms across the breakfast table, leaning down and wishing you could ask someone else to tell him in person. But the thought is ridiculous, and you push it away in favor of rehearsing what you’re going to say for the millionth time since you made up your mind.

You will tell him about the need to change your degree if you want to ever be in the contending for a museum curator position in the future. You will tell him about the fact that the best place to get this specific degree, the one that will put you right in the open arms of the internship that leads to your dream curator field, is in California. You will tell him about the apartments you’ve already inspected. You will tell him about the fact that he can visit anytime, that you will visit him, that you can text and video call and vacation together. You will tell him that you love him and you want to make this work.

You will tell him all these things… and yet. Yet while you can rehearse the words, rehearse how you’ll push your printed out papers showing exactly what you need to do and why towards him so he can see you’re telling the exact truth, you can’t rehearse how Ransom will react. You try to imagine, but all that comes up is a blurry, grey blank.

Is he going to freak out? Get pissed? Or worse--not care at all? Maybe you’ve overestimated how much Ransom has invested in this relationship. Maybe he’d rather cut you loose than deal with a long distance relationship. Maybe the second you mention that you’ll be moving to California, he’ll be mentally checking a list for someone local to hook up with the minute you’re gone.

You’re not sure which reaction would scare you more.

But you don’t have much time to think about it, because you hear him padding down the stairs, hear the din of some video he’s still watching, probably whatever he put on while he was in the shower. You can’t bear to look up, and you thumb aimlessly, nervously around your phone’s apps while you listen to the sound of him scraping the eggs and bacon you’d cooked onto a plate.

He plops down in the seat across from you and you glance up. He catches your eye and gives a tight-lipped, tired smile. He was out late. But he’d texted you about staying out late earlier in the evening, so you didn’t feel you had the right to be mad--that’s the condition you’d given him, after all, when he’d accused you of being controlling. When he’d called you a nag and accused you of being jealous of other women, women he had no feelings for.

“I just want to know when you’re going to be out late so I don’t stay up half the night thinking you’re dead somewhere.” And so he did--let you know--and you swallowed down your feelings of suspicion at his late night adventures.

Maybe… maybe this is a bad time to tell him. Maybe you should wait for a day when he’s had more sleep. Maybe you should run your thoughts by someone else, get a second opinion. You’re focusing on the table, on the light from the phone screen, anything to avoid looking up and starting the dreaded conversation.

“What’re those papers for, babe?”

Shit.

Your hands tremble just a bit when you set the phone down, and the way it vibrates against the table mimics the way your stomach feels right now. You suck in a breath and look up, but you can’t make eye contact just yet and you push the words out, stumbling and breathy and rapid, without stopping to breathe until you’ve said your peace.

“Ransom this is really hard for me but we need to talk about something and I don’t want you to be mad but I need to change schools if I’m ever going to get a shot at a curator position and the best school for this is in California and I know it’s going to be hard but I love you--I love you and we can make long distance work if you want and if you don’t want well--well I don’t know what I’ll do then but I just wanted to let you know now because I’ve got to turn in my application next week and please please try to see this from my point of view because it’s all I’ve ever wanted and you know that.”

You take a shaky breath and hold your hands together on top of the table, clasped and shaking from the adrenaline and anxiety coursing through you. You look up at Ransom with trepidation, hoping that he’s not mad--or indifferent.

But he’s neither. He simply looks… confused.

He simply stares at you for a moment, a dumbfounded expression on his face as he processes all of the words that just came rapid-fire out of your mouth.

“California?” Is all he says, finally.

You take the opportunity to push the stack of printed papers towards him. “These are… it’s… well, emails from people in the industry, some important articles about getting positions at museums. About where you have to go. Oh, there’s apartment listings there, too.” You even printed out detailed information about the qualifications for acceptance, and put them in a neat little table next to your own academic and experience record. You were a shoo-in, and you didn’t feel the need to be humble about it.

He grabs the stack and starts thumbing through, not saying another word as he seemingly thoroughly reads everything you’ve printed out. Your stomach feel like floating lead, heavy and flipping. You can’t tell what he’s thinking or feeling, and he’s not giving you anything but a concentrated look at he looks through the statements, the listings, the plan you’ve outlined so neatly.

He finally sets the stack back down and simply stares at it for a few moments. Taking it in. Taking his thoughts in. Finally, Ransom looks up at you and the intensity in his eyes makes your stomach drop. He doesn’t look mad. He looks--and you hate it--disappointed, sad even.

“Look…” He sighs, eyebrows lifting as his gaze drifts away before settling back on you. “I’m not going to lie and pretend I’m okay with this. I’m not. Jesus, babe. California? Four years?”

“It’s no--” you interrupt, but he holds up his hand and you stop.

“But. But, but,” he lightly pounds his fist on the stack of tables, an almost nervous gesture in your eyes. “It’s what you want? What you need for your career? There’s no other way for you to get this--” he waves his hands around, “museum gig you’re after?”

You nod, unable--no, afraid--to speak, in case your voice is too tight with emotion.

“Then I guess I can deal with it.”

“What?” You blurt the words out.  You expected… an argument. Or for him to blow you off, make it seem like you weren’t serious. Or, as you’d admitted to yourself earlier, for him to throw you away and find someone who wouldn’t make him wait around. Not… acceptance.

He laughs at your reaction and your stomach feels lighter, the tension in your body starting to fizzle away. “

“It’s not like I have to worry about getting the money to come visit, right? And hey,” he continues, “if you need someone to put in a good word to this school… maybe throw some cash at a dean or something…” He raises his eyebrows, wiggling them a little in a way that makes you snort.

You lean forward and nab one of the lukewarm pieces of scrambled eggs from his plate and pop it into your mouth. “Since you’re offering to help, I could use someone to check over my application…”

**

The envelope is too small. It’s way too small. Why did they make the envelope so damn small? Maybe the acceptance letter was sent on its own, and all of the other information--the giant packet telling you where to send payments and sign up for courses--would be sent to your email. But the thought of checking your email and seeing nothing makes you feel sick, so you keep your phone next to you on the table.

“You gotta open it,” Ransom says, soft and casual. He doesn’t move from his place beside you on the sofa, watching you with a neutral look. He probably knows why the envelope is too small, but he won’t say the words out loud--just like you won’t. If you say it out loud, then it’s true.

There's nothing else for you to do except confront the truth, and you rip open the envelope and pull out the folded paper with far too few printed words on the page.

Rejected. Outright. Completely. Not a fit for the school or the program.

If you weren’t sitting on the couch, you would have fallen over. As it is,  you feel like the world is collapsing, like the sofa underneath you is melting into the floor and taking you with it.

“I don’t understand.” You can only manage to whisper, voice small--reflecting the way the rest of you feels. Small and falling and stupid.

Ransom takes the paper from your hand, and you don’t bother keeping a grip on it. You register the fact that he’s put an arm around your shoulders, but you can barely feel it through the numbness of rejection.

“What the fuck,” he says, voice louder next to your ear. It makes you shrink in more, even though his anger isn’t directed at you. “What the fuck.”

It’s you want to say, what you would say, if you had the strength. The energy. But the absolute, complete way that your future has suddenly become an unknown blank has left you stuck and heavy.

It doesn’t make sense. Your transcript was perfect--should have been perfect. You should have gotten in. You got top grades and references from professors and a list of relevant experiences that most students wouldn’t have until the end of their degree.

“I’m going to call them and find out what-the-fuck,” Ransom says suddenly, getting up with a jerking motion and walking towards the kitchen, where his phone rests on the counter. “No,” he says, clicking his tongue. “Better yet. I’ll call my grandfather. He’ll know how to convince this so-called top school that they made a big mistake.”

The thought makes your head spin. “Ransom, don’t.” You’re not a child. But you feel like one, like you just failed a math quiz and your dad is calling to find out why the teacher doesn’t know the quiz answers from his ass. “You can’t just call a school and make them accept someone.”

Your legs feel wobbly when you stand up, and Ransom practically swoops back to your side to hold you steady. He leads you back down on the sofa and you feel yourself accepting the loss, accepting that your dream is gone, or at least altered.

He squeezes an arm around you when you finally begin to cry, and for the moment you feel better, less worthless, less hopeless. It was just one rejection. One egg. You can’t put every egg in one basket, as they say.

You rest your head against his shoulder and sigh into it, enjoying the warmth and closeness. A feeling of luck pings at your heart. You’re really lucky to have a guy like Ransom. He’s not perfect, and sometimes you fight, and sometimes he does things that hurt you, but--are you perfect? Do you do things that hurt him, too? Don’t put all your eggs in one basket, and don’t look a gift horse in the mouth.

With comfort comes clarity. The world isn’t ending. Your future isn’t blank. There are other options.

You feel almost perked up when you speak: “I guess I can apply to other schools. Maybe it won’t be the exact one I wanted but… there’s some in Chicago, even Michigan, that might work.”

Ransom’s arm tightens around you, slightly but firmly enough to notice.

“Babe, you’re not serious.”

You pull back enough to look up at his face.

“What do you mean?”

You can see Ransom fighting with his annoyed expression, trying to soften it up. You dimly recognize that you should be grateful--you know how snarky he can get with others when he’s not putting on a filter.

“Your transcript was fucking impeccable. I saw it! I sent it in for you! And you still didn’t get in. You think these other schools are going to accept you….” He trails off, leaning his head back, looking disappointed of all things. Disappointed in you? Or the school?  You can’t tell. All you know is that it makes you feel low again, like you’re nothing, falling into the floor with a sense of worthlessness.

“I’m not tryin’ to be an asshole,” he says, and there’s a flicker of doubt in your mind about the truth of that statement. “I’m just trying to be honest. I don’t want you to have to deal with getting rejected from all those other schools, too. You know what I mean?”

You swallow down against the tightness in your throat. “Their standards might not be as strict. I know they’re not as strict. I could get in.”

He looks down at you, the same intense gaze from the morning that you told him about your plan on his face. The gaze that let you know he believed in you and would do anything--even go long distance for almost half a decade--for you. A gaze that let you know he was serious, honest, giving you his thoughts with an open heart. “Keyword. Could.”

It’s like a slap to the face.

“Are you saying I’m too stupid to get in anywhere?” You start to pull away, but his arms don’t let up and so all you can do is turn your head away, cheeks hot with humiliation. “Don’t you support me?”

“Jesus, no--and Jesus, yes.” Annoyance is bleeding into his voice and you wish you’d just ripped up the envelope and avoided the entire conversation. You keep your eyes on the floor, humiliating tears blurring your vision as you stare at the sliver of a stain from soda that you never got out of the cream colored rug.

“You are the smartest chick I know,” he says, voice a little softer, now. At least he’s trying to stop being an ass. “Seriously, you are. Maybe you’re just a--a different kind of smart. A  kind of smart these schools don’t give a shit about. Do something here with that smartness, then. Stay where you’re at. Fuck, talk to the dean and tell them you want to to an independent degree or something. But don’t get your heart broken a million times when you could just make the most of what you’ve got here.” He squeezes, affectionate. “What we’ve got here.”

It’s not what you want. It’s not viable. You can’t get to where you want to be if you stay where you are. But he’s right--he’s right, isn’t he, because if you can’t get into a school with a nearly picture-perfect record and recommendations and experience oozing out of your ears, will there be any school that accepts you?

And if you stay here, Ransom is here, and you’re already in school here, and maybe you won’t get anywhere near a curator position (but you want to, it’s your dream, why give up on your dream?) but you can do something else, surely. Ransom will help you, like he always does. You might fight and argue and sometimes it gets intense but he always lends you a shoulder to cry on, doesn’t he? He’s always honest with you, even when it hurts. Even when it hurts like this, crushing and disappointing and sharp.

He pulls you closer to him, and this time you don’t fight as you rest your head back on his shoulder.

“So?” He starts to gently stroke your hair, the way he knows you like it.

You nod, sniffling against the last of the tears, unable--afraid--to say anything. 

“That’s my girl,” he says, before gently flicking your forehead and reaching for his phone. “Hey, let’s go see a movie tonight. My treat.”

You nod against his shirt, unable to do more than mumble back, “Okay.” Okay, okay, okay. It’s a soft, unceremonious end to your California dreams.

[true-blue-megamind]

FAN THEORY THURSDAY: Megamind’s Connections Beyond the Film

Before we get started, it’s time for the obligatory SPOILER WARNING!  

In case this hasn’t been made sufficiently obvious by the fact that this is a post about Megamind written in a fan theory series about Megamind and published on a blog dedicated solely to Megamind, please let me just assure that this article is, in fact, about Megamind.  

If you haven’t seen the film yet yet, I have to question why you’re reading this in the first place.  As well as your taste in animated movies.  I’m definitely questioning that.

Over the years I’ve heard several fan theories concerning connections between the film Megamind and various other forms of media.  Today, let’s delve into just a few.

The first one is so obvious it’s almost painful, but it has to be mentioned.  Megamind is a Superman spoof.  Metro Man is clearly based on the Man of Steel himself, with a hefty dose of Elvis Presley and a larger range of character flaws thrown in for good measure.  (He also seems to contain quite a lot of the Popular Jock archetype.)  The character of Megamind is more complex still, combining elements of Alice Cooper and a nineties Goth theater kid with several comic book supervillains. The best known of the last include alien genius Brainiac and mad inventor Lexx Luthor, but they aren’t the only ones.  Some of Megamind’s engineering and technological inventions call to mind Spiderman villain Doctor Octopus even more than Lexx Luthor, and he also shares some parallels with the mad inventor Dr. Sivana in the SHAZAM comics.

Megamind’s most notable of the latter is the similarity of attitudes toward society.  Both Megamind and Dr. Sivana started off trying to use their inventions for good—the first in the classroom and the second for the betterment of mankind—but both became bitter when people mocked and shunned them.  For Dr. Sivana, this led to a desire to conquer all of Earth while for Megamind, in a sort of microcosm, it led to a similar drive to take over Metro City.  Both Lexx Luthor and Dr. Sivana have, perhaps, the strongest connections to Megamind as share, deep down, a desire to help or protect mankind, and as Lexx Luthor, like Megamind, harbors a secret love for the reporter damsel in their respective stories.  (This desire to do good, especially in the face of corrupt officials, ties into another Megamind fan theory that I will likely discuss in more detail in a later post.)

The connection between Megamind and Alice Cooper, by the way, was extremely intentional.  The creators stated in an interview that, like Alice Cooper, Megamind’s dark, evil self is, in fact, a stage persona.  (Even their clothing, consisting largely of black leather and spikes, is similar.)  That fact is illustrated in the film as we can see that Megamind’s behaviors on- and off-camera tend to be vastly different.  Even as a villain, he is merely playing a role, although in the case of Megamind that role has begun to merge with his self-identity.

There are, however, hints within the world of DreamWorks that Megamind has other connections as well.  The first is fairly recent and intensely interesting. In the Rise of the Guardians, Jamie Bennett, a young boy who still steadfastly believes in the seemingly impossible, mentions “aliens in Michigan,” only to be scoffed at by his friends.  Because Metro City is located in Michigan, (as can be seen briefly when the Death Ray is fired from space,) many fans theorize that the “aliens in Michigan” are none other than Megamind, Minion, and, perhaps, Metro Man. 

This would indicate that the two stories take place in the same world, and that Megamind’s adventures, while well-known in Metro City itself, have been covered up and kept secret from the rest of the world.  (Imagine moving to a moderately-sized city only to discover that—surprise!—there’s an extraterrestrial supervillain in residence and, oh, by the way, if you live downtown homeowners’ insurance is ridiculous!)

The second inter-film connection is less clear, but has spawned some interesting fan theories as well.  The idea is that, like Rise of the Guardians, Monsters VS. Aliens also takes place in the same reality as Megamind.  It’s not too far fetched—after all, both films involve extraterrestrials and amazing inventions—but there is one specific theory that really ties the two together.  Consider this for a moment: Megamind is a blue alien with incredible intelligence who hails from a destroyed planet.  Does that sound like any other DreamWorks character you know?  If you’ve seen Monster VS. Aliens, the antagonist, Gallaxhar, probably springs to mind.

According to Fandom.com, Gallaxhar’s official backstory is that he “destroyed his home planet” for the implied reason that “he experienced bad childhood and unhappy marriage.”  The fan theory is that that Gallaxhar’s planet was, in fact, Megamind’s home world, and that the former created or harnessed the black hole which destroyed it.  This would explain why Megamind’s people—as well as Metro Man’s—didn’t have time to escape despite being space-faring.  You see, black holes take millions of years to develop, and even a rogue black hole would take about a million to shift and swallow an entire solar system, so if the event had occurred naturally, there should have been plenty of time to build an entire fleet of spacecraft and leave for Earth or another safe planet.  (The fact that Megamind’s parents set his escape pod’s navigation system for Earth indicates that they knew of its existence.)

Of course, despite their large heads and blue skin tones, there are quite a few physical differences between Megamind and Gallaxhar.  The first is humanoid while the second has four eyes and tentacles instead of legs.  Fan theories have explanations for that, too, however.  

There appear to be two schools of thought on the subject.  The first is that Gallaxhar was another breed of alien living on the planet, possibly a servile race different from Minions, and the second is that part of Gallaxhar’s “bad childhood” involved being experimented upon, thus giving him his bizarre appearance and his seeming obsession with experimenting on others.  (There is some disagreement in the Megamind fandom about exactly why Gallaxhar was subjected to such treatment, ranging from falling into the hands of an unscrupulous scientist to being part of an experimental medical program.  The latter fan theory suggests that Gallaxhar was both blind and paraplegic, and that his additional eyes and tentacle “legs” were meant to rectify that, but that those physical differences made him an outsider, thus leading to his unhappy life and ultimate hatred for his own planet.)

If that were true, many may wonder what, exactly, Megamind might do if he ever found out about Gallaxhar.  Well, good news!  Just like there’s an app for everything, there’s a fan theory for that, too!  I will warn you, however, that this one is, frankly, build upon pretty thin evidence.  However, it’s interesting enough to be worth relating.

There is a character in Monsters VS. Aliens named General Warren R. Monger who, on the surface, is exactly what he appears to be: a high-ranking military man.  However, there are a few things that fans point to as possible evidence that Monger isn’t what he seems.  

The first is so simple that, alone, it would be inconsequential.  Monger rose through the ranks uncommonly fast, so much so that it caused some comment among others.  The second is significantly odder; Monger claims to be ninety years old despite looking like he is in his late forties.  Now, of course, this may have simply been the character exaggerating or messing with the “monsters” under his care, but some fans say it’s more than that, and claim that Monger chose that age because he was unfamiliar with human lifespans.  Next there is the fact that Monger is so intelligent that, despite one of the beings in his containment facility. Doctor Cockroach, being a super-genius, Monger outwits every escape attempt the monsters can make.  Then, of course, there is the fact that, despite his brusque manner, Monger seems to actually sympathize with the inhuman people he is charged with containing, and even pushes for them to be given a chance to prove themselves.  There is the oddity that, although he is assigned to the secret military base at “Area Fifty-Something,” Monger seems to disappear a lot, often for days at a time.  Finally, there are a few key physical and technological attributes: Monger has some odd and incredibly energetic facial expression—including a nearly maniacal smile and a dark scowl—as well as a jet pack that he appears to have constructed himself and green eyes.

I’m still not certain I see the resemblance, but maybe there are some similarities?  What do you think?

If you’re familiar with Metro City’s resident blue alien, you can probably see where this is going.  Although it’s not a popular theory, I’ve heard it suggested in the Megamind fandom that Monger is, in fact, Megamind disguised using his holowatch.  (This is why the green eyes are significant; Megamind’s eye color is the only aspect of his appearance that the holowatch doesn’t change.  However, I feel compelled to note that the shade of green appears to be different.) Fans insist that it would have been easy for someone as incredibly brilliant as Megamind to hack government systems and forge documents such as birth certificates thoroughly enough to dupe even U.S. Military Intelligence. The two jet packs, some have contested, look different either because of the disguise or because the one featured in Monster VS. Aliens is an older model. I’ve even seen the fact that both Megamind and Monger begin with M being pointed to as possible evidence that the latter is no more than an invention of the former.

The argument is as follows: as Monsters VS. Aliens takes place in 2009, one year before events in Megamind, it’s possible that Megamind, still being a villain, created an alter-ego which he could use to help him search for and deal with other alien life.  (He is shown to be painfully lonely, and the Megamind comics reveal his desperate desire to find other survivors from his home planet.)  Upon figuring out who Gallaxhar was, and more importantly what he had done, Megamind wanted to be part of taking him down.  But he couldn’t be too open about it; he was, after all, still a “Bad Guy.”  This theory explains Monger’s frequent long absences—during those time Megamind was back in Metro City taking care of his regular business— as well as why Monger had a secret soft spot for the “monsters.”  Megamind, having always been treated like a monster himself, would naturally want to give them a chance, but wouldn’t dare behave in too overtly friendly a manner as it would have aroused suspicion.

As I said, support for that particular theory is, perhaps, a little thin, especially given the fact the Monsters VS. Aliens preceded Megamind, so character designs from the former are unlikely to have been influenced by the latter.  Nonetheless, I admit to appreciating the complexity and creativity of it.  It’s an undeniably fun theory. If they haven’t already, maybe someone will write a fan fiction about it one day.

Those are only a few of the theories out there connecting Megamind with other fandoms.  One could go on and on about the subject, but I won’t torture readers by doing that.  Nonetheless, it illustrates once again the immense love and original thought that Megamind fans put into developing their theories!  I dare say that few other animated movies have earned a following so dedicated and inventive…  But, then, any of us who love the film Megamind will tell you that it has more than earned the consideration!

[parvuls]

fic: at certain times

word count: 12k

tags: year 2 canon-divergence, getting together, first kiss

summary: The Swallow's Samwell Awards issue of '15 crowns Jack and Bitty as Samwell's cutest couple. It is somewhat unfortunate, then, that they're not actually a couple at all.

read on ao3

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The kitchen smells like something burnt, a smoky tang that clings to the walls and floors, stings inside Bitty’s nose. April should smell like hot cross buns and zucchini bread, he thinks wistfully, but it turns out that some Aprils poor ovens are pushed to their last legs prematurely, leaving his kitchen smelling like Ransom forgot his frozen pizza in the microwave again.

Dex has been tending to Betsy on her deathbed all month, spending most of his free hours at the Haus. Bitty called him again after class, while he was standing in Superberry with Jack, and promised to pay for his services with froyo. Said froyo -- which Jack insisted on paying for, bless him -- is still on the table, untouched, yogurt melting over the rim of the paper cup and dripping onto the wood. Dex has been kneeling in the same strip of sunlight on the floor since he arrived with his toolbox. Bitty isn’t sure what exactly he’s been doing, but he seems to be too busy waving a screwdriver in the air and ranting to remember his abandoned bribe.

“So we finally got over the fucking Samwell Republican sticker thing,” Dex says, his face red and his brow furrowed. He’s been disgruntled all day because of an email he’d received, which he claims Nursey will never let him live down. "And Bitty, I know this is Massachusetts, okay? But I haven’t even actually voted yet! Fucking Swallow. How can I be Best Republican?"

Bitty hunches over in his chair, palms clasped together on his knees like a prayer. He’s anxiously following the motions of Dex’s screwdriver with his eyes while listening with only half an ear, deeply confused by the conversation subject. “The Swallow does pieces on politics? I can’t even imagine what an article like that’d look like, honestly.”

Dex grumbles quietly, shoving a hand under his backwards snapback to scratch at his hair. “No, it’s like -- their Samwell Awards thing? I don’t know, I just got an email about it this morning. I guess it’s like that 50 Most Beautiful shit they do.”

Bitty’s never heard of it, but then again, Bitty carefully sidesteps most articles of The Swallow whenever he comes across them. Those guys write about their team an uncomfortable amount for a university with almost ten thousand students. As long as Holster or Ransom aren’t reading it aloud at team breakfast, Bitty’s not eager to find out what The Swallow has to say.

He asks, though, because Dex seems to be upset about this and his frogs need to be handled with care. “Like in high school yearbooks?” Heather Barron was his class’ Best Laugh back home, and she made everyone who signed her yearbook tell her a joke so she could laugh for them.

“I guess,” Dex says distractedly. He bends down low to reach something close to the floor. “This girl from my Intro to CompSci class got the same email about it -- she won Best Dressed. I mean, who even judges these things? That’s a matter of taste.”

Dex wipes a dusty hand across his forehead and Bitty momentarily forgets to care about The Swallow in favor of looking on worriedly. Betsy is unplugged from the wall with her back side facing the room, surrounded by loose cables and scattered bolts. She looks old and frail. Bitty kind of feels like he’s watching an open-heart surgery occurring right in front of him.

“Can you save her?” Bitty presses a hand over his heart, dreading the reply. Dex wrinkles his forehead even further and doesn’t meet Bitty’s eyes.

It is then that their ordinary afternoon is interrupted by three emphatic knocks on the front door of the Haus.

"Did someone just knock on our door?" Shitty yells from somewhere down the hall. Bitty assumes he’s still curled up on the couch of sins in a t-shirt and flimsy underwear, mourning his grandparents’ affirmative RSVP response to graduation.

His tone sounds downright shocked at the sound, but that’s probably reasonable. Bitty’s been living in the Haus for over nine months now and he’s never once heard anyone knock on that door. It’s always unlocked, anyway; it’s actually nothing short of a miracle that they’ve never been burglarized. Not that there’d be anything to steal, of course, other than Holster’s collector's edition Simpsons DVD box set, or maybe one of Jack’s used jerseys to be sold to the highest bidder on ebay.

"Well, whaddaya know,” Ransom appears in the hallway outside the kitchen doorframe, likely summoned downstairs by the abnormal noise. His eyebrows are high on his forehead as he stares down the hall at the door. “It didn't collapse. I told you it’s sturdier than it looks."

Neither of the boys makes a move to actually open the door. There’s a second set of knocks, this one slightly louder than the first, and Bitty huffs as he gets off his chair. He casts one last hopeful look over his shoulder. Maybe, he wishes silently, Betsy has performance issues and would be magically fixed once she’s not under his constant scrutiny. Or maybe Dex does, and would magically fix her. “Y’all, when someone knocks on a door, they generally expect you to open it for them.”

He shoulder-checks Ransom on the way to yanking the door open, and is presented with some guy Bitty’s never seen before standing on their front steps. He’s wearing an atrociously ugly plaid vest and an awfully wide smile, which only grows wider when he sees that it’s Bitty who’s opening the door.

“Eric Bittle!”

“Yes?” Bitty agrees, eyebrows drawing together. He’s usually pretty good with faces, but he doesn’t think he’s seen this guy in any of his classes. Maybe a hockey fan. Still -- Bitty’s mother brought him up right, and he’s resolved to stick to his manners even if he now lives in a frat house. Someone with malicious intentions, he rationalizes to himself, wouldn't knock before entering. “Hi. Wouldya like to come in? I’m afraid our oven’s down, so I don’t have much to offer in terms of baked goods --”

“Oh, no, that won’t be necessary!” The man dismisses quickly, his smile not waning any; it’s hard not to eye it suspiciously. Absently, Bitty can make out the sound of feet shuffling, which presumably means the boys are crowding together behind him to peer curiously at the stranger on their doorstep. “I’m from The Swallow, I’m here to deliver a message for you. And Jack Zimmermann, but I’m sure you can pass it on. Our annual Samwell Awards issue is coming out early next month, as you know --”

“Sure,” Bitty confirms politely, although he’s never heard of the thing until about two minutes ago. There’s no sense in getting the man down.

“-- and we wanted your response on the win. We do that for the real popular categories. If you want to draft a short statement, you can reply to the email we sent you two --”

“I’m sorry,” Bitty cuts him off, maintaining a carefully polite tone. He hasn’t checked his email since the previous night, too preoccupied with avoiding his American Publics essay and fretting over Betsy. Somewhere behind him there are more heavy footsteps coming down the stairs and one of the boys whispers excitedly, Bitty won a Samwell Award!, though he’s not sure which. “What win? Who’s you two?”

“Oh,” the Swallow guy blinks, obviously taken aback. His smile doesn’t completely disappear but thankfully thins a little bit, at last stretching over less than two thirds of his face. He looks marginally less maniacal like this, Bitty thinks uncharitably. “You and Jack Zimmermann?”

There’s another shuffle of feet. Bitty turns his head to catch Jack pushing Shitty aside, coming to stand a step behind Bitty’s right shoulder. Bitty hasn’t seen him since they got back from Superberry and Jack headed upstairs to study, chirping Bitty for not doing the same all the while. He’s taken his thin fleece jacket off since, and the soft V-neck he’s had underneath clings to his biceps, to the shape of his pecs. His hair is messy, the smell of his aftershave hasn’t faded yet, and his palm rests lightly between Bitty’s shoulder blades to keep his balance in the narrow, crammed doorway. Bitty’s stomach jumps at the sight of him and he can feel a reflexive smile tugging at his lips. It’s an uncontrollable reaction to Jack’s presence, no matter how many times Bitty’s seen him that day. Good gracious, but it’s plumb pathetic.

Jack is oblivious to Bitty’s eyes on him, too busy frowning at the Swallow guy from above Bitty’s head. “What is this about?”

The guy’s expression is clearly confused, despite the upturned mouth in his creasing face. His eyes survey the huddled group in front of him searchingly, as if waiting for them to catch up. When no one adds anything his smile drops entirely and he says: “You guys won Cutest Couple!”

Time seems to slow down while Bitty’s mind stomps on an emergency break and short-circuits completely. He knows things are happening in the backdrop, can hear someone behind him, probably Holster, choking really loudly on their spit, but none of it truly registers.

The Swallow guy is frowning now, looking completely baffled as to why they’re not enthused at the news. “Seriously, did you not get the email?”

“We. What?” is the only thing Bitty manages weakly. Whatever smile was on his face is thoroughly wiped off now. His heartbeat begins pounding in his ears, drowning out any further background noise under its heavy thrumming. From the brief glance he braves, Jack is not coping much better. His mouth is opening and closing silently.

"Yeah!” The guy recovers, apparently blind to the catastrophe he’s inadvertently causing. “I mean, I’ll be honest, some of the staff was like, ‘enough with the fucking hockey team’, and Khalil and Sara who did that awesome Halloween costume, they came really close -- but I was totally on your side. Anyway, the draft should be in your inboxes. We’d like to have your response in the next couple of days so we can start running it. The more romantic and gooey the better, of course. Thank you!"

He smiles and then skips down the stairs before Bitty’s brain fully catches up with what has just occurred on his front porch. He can barely grasp at tail ends of thoughts before they slip away from him, disappearing in a cloudy daze of absolute horror. His pulse is still racing and his fingers, wrapped around the door handle, are trembling.

Behind him, Ransom makes a slow wheezy sound and then descends into hysterical laughter. Bitty’s feeling rather hysterical himself, actually, but he’s not in the mood for laughing at all.

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“Can’t believe it’s another year we didn’t win Best Party,” Holster mopes back in the kitchen, sprawled out spread-legged in a chair with his arms crossed over his chest. “It’s because of Alpha Sigma Phi and their fucking tropical Christmas party, I know it, Rans, I can feel it in my booze bones. Like, okay, they served drinks in real coconuts while bare-ass naked in twenty degrees, so what."

Ransom reaches out to give him a consolatory clap on the back. "We've always got next year, bro. Our names will appear on the holy Swallow pages, I promise."

“You’re right,” Holster sighs rather dramatically, sagging down a few extra inches in the chair. “We mustn’t despair. I’ve already bookmarked some ideas -- think we can keep live parrots in the Haus? Only for a few hours!”

“What I would like to know,” Shitty muses, stroking his mustache between two fingers while looking from Jack to Bitty’s flaming face and back again, “is who the fuck is their source. I mean, no offence, Bits, but if anybody is going to be Jackie’s fake-ass boytoy I call double fucking dibs and I’m willing to fight you on it.” He then considers it for a split second longer and says, “Or negotiate with food, honestly, I’m amendable.”

“Cooking is a touchy subject right now,” Dex mumbles from his perch by the counter, away from the cluster of boys that’s spread out at the table.

Dex looks like Bitty feels, actually: like he’s seriously regretting being present in this instance, and is looking for any excuse to make a quick escape. Or -- maybe only partially how Bitty feels, anyway. There’s another whole side of Bitty that’s feeling like there’s a vacuum in his chest, a ringing in his ears, a voice in his mind whispering, they know, they all know, Jack knows and he hates you for it.

Bitty has been studiously avoiding Jack’s face since they all withdrew from the door. He’s convinced that his feelings are written all over his face, pining daydreams altering his features and sappy midnight fantasies painting his cheeks bright red. He’s sure that one look in his eyes would give away every guilty thought he’s had since November, so he determinedly keeps his head down. Only, then Jack clears his throat and Bitty can’t help but spring his eyes up to look at him -- like a moth drawn to the flame that’d inevitably scorch it.

"Well, whatever is the misunderstanding, obviously they can't actually run that, Bittle. I mean, because. Hockey, and." His eyebrows do something complicated that Bitty cannot bring himself to study too closely.

The words hit like a two-hundred pound flour bag dropped on Bitty’s chest, weighing him down into the floor. Bitty tries to swallow, fails, tries again. His throat still grates like it’s made of raw sandpaper when he speaks.

"Right, no, of course," there’s this horrible sinking in his gut, a phantom sensation of freefalling that tastes like acid when it reaches the back of his tongue. "Of course, Jack. I know that. The last thing you need right now is --" he finally swallows past the lump in his throat, drops his eyes to watch his toes curl inside his shoes and dent the fabric upwards. “-- rumors about the gay kid on your team.”

Shitty says, “Bitty,” with a sharp edge in his tone, and when Bitty looks up Jack looks like he’s been struck.

"Hold on, Bittle, that's --"

“It’s okay, Jack!” Bitty makes a valiant effort to smile reassuringly. His chest is growing tighter and tighter, and he really can’t handle hearing Jack’s explanation right now. He feels like he’s shaking all over, like more and more words are being rattled out of his mouth without his permission. “I mean, it’s utterly ridiculous, but that’s The Swallow for you, I ‘spose. We’ll tell them it’s nonsense before anyone in the league catches wind of it. I’m sorry I even put your career at risk like that, honestly.”

“Bittle,” Jack says again, more firmly. He looks almost angry.

Holster’s stunned look is flickering between the two of them, and Bitty can feel the humiliation crawling up the back of his neck. He thinks that if he stays sitting in the kitchen any longer the boys might actually hear the splintering sounds his heart is making in his chest. Or he might start crying, whichever comes first.

“Don’t worry about it, really,” Bitty forces himself out of his chair, squeezes Jack’s elbow in passing for good measure, even though bringing his hands anywhere near Jack feels like torture. He doesn’t want Jack to feel guilty about this -- it’s not his fault. “It’s fine. I gotta go, I’m meeting Prof. Atley, but we’ll talk about it later, okay?”

He bolts out of the kitchen and rushes down the hall. The last thing he hears is Ransom saying, “Dude, I’m pretty sure his meeting with her was like, four hours ago,” before the Haus door slams shut behind him.

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The worst part is, Bitty knows Jack is straight.

Jack dates 50 Most girls from the tennis team, he takes ladies in tall heels to Screw, he brings puck bunnies to his room during kegsters. Or -- that turned out, actually, to be not all that true after all -- but.

Jack is straight. Bitty knew this all along. Bitty knew this and still let his foolish, stubborn heart say, maybe. Bitty saw Jack laughing at his weak chirps, and looking at him sometimes when Bitty was turned away, and there was that party, with Parse, and Bitty’s blood was rushing in his ears and he tried so hard not to listen, but they almost looked like they -- and Bitty thought, maybe --

But Jack wasn’t. Of course not. And Bitty knows it’s so unfair and so unjustified that he’s allowing himself to be mad about Jack’s words. Because these boys accept Bitty for who he is, have never shied away from him, have always been comfortable with his presence in their lives and their house and their locker room, and that’s not something to be taken for granted. It’s not their fault that they’re straight and that’s easier, not their fault that Jack’s straight and Bitty can’t bring himself to let go. Besides, something like this, it could wreck Jack's career even if it were true, and it isn't, so of course Jack would want it gone. It's not personal, Bitty knows. He has no reason to be so hurt.

Except maybe it stings a little, how untrue it really is. Maybe it burns a little inside to know that other people see what he sees, what he wishes were true, and still know that he can never have that for real. And maybe it hurts, that Jack can so easily make the article go away and never deal with those rumors again, because it's simply not true about him, but it will always be true about Bitty. Maybe he’s tired of how he will always have to fight for his place while people like Jack Zimmermann can walk right in.

Maybe.

But none of it is Jack's fault. Because Jack is straight, and Bitty isn’t, and he’s gone and fallen in love with him anyway.

.

.

.

Breakfast with only Lardo and Jack is a quiet affair the next morning. Habit has them settled down at the team’s usual long table, but they take up significantly less space just the three of them. Bitty is surprised by the two empty seats remaining to each side of them despite the crowded dining hall, but considers that maybe the Samwell population knows whose seats are available and aren't willing to risk it.

Lardo is chewing her toast silently by Bitty's side, oversized hoodie draped over most of her face. Jack is sitting across from them, peeling the shells off a pile of hard-boiled eggs. His body is curved in a stiff line over his plate and his elbows are tucked in close to his sides. He keeps sneaking glances at Bitty every few minutes, looking torn; Bitty busies himself with spooning exactly three banana slices in every dip into his oatmeal bowl, keeps hurriedly shoving them into his mouth every time Jack looks like maybe he’s going to actually say something.

Bitty spent the majority of the previous night hiding out in a quiet corner of Norris library, binging episodes of The Great British Bake Off on his phone. When he ultimately found the courage to come back to the Haus, he power-walked straight into his room and didn’t venture out for anything more than brushing his teeth. The walls in the Haus are thin, however, and he could still hear Jack in his own room through the closed doors, speaking on the phone with his father in brisk French. They didn't exactly sound angry, but Bitty had unintentionally overheard enough of Jack’s phone conversations to recognize Jack’s business tone easily.

Jack’s lawyer had sent The Swallow a sternly phrased email first thing that morning -- for formality, Jack informed Bitty when the two of them left the Haus for breakfast with Lardo. His hands were tucked deep in his pockets and his eyes were hidden beneath the bill of his Habs cap. He kept his body angled away from Bitty, maintaining a careful six feet between them, and Bitty’s whole body ached like he’d spent the night playing consecutive shifts instead of tossing and turning in his bed. It was the only time they’ve acknowledged the Swallow article since the previous afternoon. Bitty changed the subject immediately after, and prattled meaninglessly the whole way to Commons.

The three of them separate after breakfast, Lardo heading for the studio and Jack and Bitty for their respective classes. Bitty spends most of his spare noon hours trying to do work in the kitchen, but he steals longing glimpses at Betsy more often than he does the reading for US Intellectual HIST or the darn American Publics essay he still hasn’t started.

This day needs an assist, he justifies when he eventually deserts his open notes on the table in favor of hunting down a clean towel. Polishing dishes is a more effective way to escape his blues. Maybe he’ll make some jam -- that doesn’t require a working oven, and it’d be a longer-term distraction from the mess he’s landed in.

Jack’s lawyer's actions in mind, the knock on the Haus door doesn’t really surprise Bitty. He can’t help the way his body tenses at the sound, though; the blood rushing through his body is too much like the terrible lightheadedness he experiences when checked.

Jack comes down the stairs, taking them two at a time, and grinds to a halt when he sees Bitty leaning against the wall at the entrance to the kitchen and staring at the door.

“It’s probably the Swallow rep,” Jack states the obvious, voice completely monotonous and face blank.

Bitty's gut lurches. He tries his very best, but he’s certain that his smile looks even more put-on than it was the day before.

“We should probably go get it, then,” he says. He keeps his hands wrapped in the dish towel as they move to open the door, to have something to do with them and to cover up the way they’re shaking.

The guy standing on the bottom of their stairs is the same one from yesterday. His loose printed shirt is somehow even uglier than the plaid vest, but this time no smile is taking up the majority of his face. In fact, he isn’t smiling at all; he kind of looks like he’s been sent to the gallows and couldn't beg out of his sentence.

“We've been informed that a mistake was made,” the guy says promptly, glancing between the two of them. Everything about his face and his body language appears cautious.

“Yes,” Jack confirms firmly. The guy blinks in sync with Bitty, both of them waiting to see if Jack has any intention to follow that statement with an explanation, but none seems imminent.

“We understand that it’s an honest mistake and we just want it scrapped," Bitty says instead, trying to keep his voice from betraying any emotion, even when his vocal cords are wound tight. "We can't be the cutest couple if we're not -- if we're not."

“You talked to your lawyer,” the guy says faintly. Bitty's not sure that he actually heard a word of what was said. He keeps eyeing Jack’s rigid posture and bulging muscles like he’s afraid that he’s going to be dragged into a fist fight right there on the lawn.

“It’s a legal matter,” Jack replies curtly, frowning.

“No one ever sent his lawyer after us,” the guy says, fainter still. “It’s just The Swallow, man.”

Jack's frown deepens. He’s wearing his hockey face, mouth pinched and eye narrowed, every angle of his face turning sharper. He looks serious, assertive, like he’s getting ready to step out on the ice for the puck drop. Bitty’s heart hurts so badly looking at him that he has to turn away. His eyes, mid-movement, catch on three faces eavesdropping from behind the living room’s doorway. He just barely suppresses a heavy sigh.

"-- you’d be spreading misinformation with unwelcome consequences,” Jack is talking, apparently, and Bitty tuned out most of it. “So you understand why we need you to retract that immediately and delete all further copies."

"Yes," the guy nods tentatively, eyes jerking in Bitty’s direction and then immediately back to Jack. "I'm -- sorry? We really thought you were --"

"Well we ain't," Bitty says, wringing the towel in his hands to hinder an uncommon urge to break something with them.

"Yes, I -- I understand," the guy seems as spooked by Bitty now, contemplating him and the towel as warily as he did Jack. "But we --"

"And I've got a date!" Bitty blurts, before he can hold his tongue from making his situation worse. Shitty whispers, the fuck, brah?, loud enough to carry all the way to the front door. "A date! With. Someone else, obviously, who is very much not Jack Zimmermann, so if you could -- make it go away -- good heavens this could be embarrassing for my date --"

"Of course,” the guy is nodding more vigorously now, head bouncing much like a dashboard bobblehead. He takes a cautious step back. “We're, uh, sorry. We’ll take care of it."

The guy retreats from the porch, glancing back every few steps as he hastens down the sidewalk.

Jack shuts the door behind them when they step back inside, and has to move closer to Bitty to allow the door to close. It brings his arm flush with Bitty’s back, solid and warm through the thin fabric of his shirt.

Bitty’s breath catches. His look flits sideways to watch Jack’s face twist into something Bitty hasn’t seen since the playoffs last year. He really felt like Jack and him were getting steadily closer throughout the year, considers Jack one of his closest friends, but he doesn’t think he’s imagining the distance between them in the last twenty-four hours. It’s more painful than the verbal confirmation that Jack will never like him back was. It’s painful that Bitty’s been shoving his feelings so far down to avoid this very outcome, only to have it blow up in his face through no fault of his own.

"What's that now!” Holster’s booming voice snaps Bitty out of his brooding, and he jerks his eyes up to see that Ransom, Shitty and Holster have crawled out of their eavesdropping spot and are blocking the hallway. “You've got a what and didn't tell us!"

“It’s not a big deal, y’all,” Bitty mumbles, mortified at how much he’s really not lying at all. He slinks away from Jack’s touch, tries to at least be subtle about it. Jack's expression is shuttering further with every moment that passes and Bitty is feeling irrationally miserable about it.

“Is too, Bits!” Ransom claps him on the shoulder excitedly, shaking his entire frame. "You know you gotta tell us all about it, we get veto rights! Is he hot? What's his name? Is he going to be your shoulders for Spring C?"

Bitty’s lousy day has only been getting progressively worse, which he thinks validates the way he bristles and knocks Ransom's hand off his shoulder. "I am average height, Justin Oluransi!"

.

.

.

So it's not -- really a date.

Anthony from his Eating Practices Since the 19th Century course, who sits two seats away from Bitty and always forgets to bring a pen, caught up with him after class and offered to study together. Bitty’s doing alright in that course, but Anthony is smart and friendly and it’s a good incentive to actually get some work done before finals, so Bitty smiled and said yes. He didn’t think a few days later he’d be lying about it to his friends.

They meet outside Annie’s because Anthony preferred it to Founder’s, which Bitty didn’t mind. He was a little embarrassed about how the librarians might react to the sight of his face. They, unlike some others, don’t have a problem believing he’s a member of the Men’s Hockey Team, and the treatment earned by his teammates’ behavior extends to him.

Ransom wouldn’t let him leave the Haus until his outfit has been appraised, which means he’s maybe a little overdressed for a platonic study date -- but Anthony is in nice jeans and wearing neither a team logo shirt nor a marijuana crop top, so he’s already setting the bar higher than Bitty’s usual company.

"After you," Anthony beams, opening the door for Bitty. It’s awfully nice of him. Maybe Bitty should consider running cotillion classes for his boys before graduation.

It’s easier to revert to his sunny nature in the company of someone new. Anthony keeps up chatter about the last subjects they covered in class, relates to Bitty’s chronic procrastination tendencies, and even insists on paying for both of their drinks. Bitty tries to refuse, instantly dejected by the stark reminder of coffee runs with Jack, but Anthony argues that they’d probably refill several times and Bitty can get the next one. His winning smile is so convincing that Bitty can’t find it in himself to say no.

It happens again when Bitty begins leading them to a larger table in the middle of the café where they’ll have more room to spread out. Anthony points at a table by the windows instead, says, “There, it’ll be quieter,” and Bitty instinctively thinks, those are the windows Jack and I always sit by. He then thinks, good Lord, ERB, get a hold of yourself, and agrees. There’s not much point in attending a study date if he’ll be constantly thinking about Jack Zimmermann.

They spread out all their notes and laptops and books, settling on both sides of the small, round table. Anthony drinks his coffee extra hot and the steam fogs up his glasses, which causes Bitty to laugh and Anthony to grin sheepishly. It sets a good mood for their joint studying.

They work decently well together. Anthony's been more diligent with his schoolwork but Bitty is a faster reader than him, so they catch up with each other fairly quickly and proceed from there. Bitty finds it fun, partnering with someone who doesn’t consider violent food breaks an essential part of studying, and enjoys having somebody to complain about the professor with. The two of them are just starting on technological advances at the end of the century when Bitty’s shoulders fully loosen for the first time in three days and he thinks: this is going well, this is nice, maybe we can do this more often.

This is also the exact point he looks up to tell Anthony about Louis Pasteur and catches Holster and Ransom spying on him from outside Annie’s front window.

His knee-jerk response is uncontainable: he groans out loud. Anthony seems alarmed, twisting in his chair to look over his shoulder and detect what Bitty’s glaring at. Ransom, who clearly knows they’ve been caught, looks directly at Anthony with a deliberately threatening face, pointing two fingers at his eyes, then at Anthony, and back at his eyes.

Anthony makes a confused face into his mug and says, "Um."

"Gosh, I am so sorry," Bitty drops his face into his palms, trying to smother the waves of heat rushing to his cheeks. "It's my teammates -- they have no boundaries and they -- gracious, they think this is a date --"

Anthony swallows a mouthful of coffee too quickly before he sets his mug on the table. "Oh, uh. Do you… not think this is a date?"

Bitty lets his hands fall into his lap. His eyes dart to where Holster and Ransom are waving their thumbs up in the air as they mercifully walk away from the window and then back to Anthony, whose face is unmoving. "...What?"

The top of Anthony's cheeks pink, and he adjusts the glasses on his nose with a knuckle. "I... totally asked you meaning this to be a date."

"Oh," Bitty exhales numbly. Oh, butter my butt and call me a biscuit, he thinks, and then opens his mouth to say something to Anthony -- anything at all, because the poor boy is starting to squirm in his chair -- but all his words seem to get stubbornly stuck behind his teeth.

Because Anthony is perfectly nice. He’s mild-mannered, has a pleasant smile, and he's made Bitty laugh in class a few times when the professor wasn't looking. He's sitting across from Bitty with his hands twitching on top of the table, like Bitty's answer on the matter of their date is important to him. Like he would actually really like it to be one, so he found the courage to ask.

"Oh boy, I really didn't realize," Bitty confesses, finally, clutching his coffee tightly between his fingers. He's never thought he'd be this bad at this, but apparently he's just completely and entirely blind to anyone's affections as long as anyone isn't Jack Zimmermann. And now he made this difficult for both Anthony and himself.

"That's okay," Anthony says, clearing his throat. His lips quirk up in some intimation of a smile, which is, while still very pleasant to look at, much less genuine than his usual smile. "No, really, it's cool. My fault for not being clearer. We can -- I can go and order a refill for this coffee, and when I'm back we'll forget about it? We still have work left to do." He drags his legs out from beneath the table, turning sideways in his seat, before he risks another look at Bitty. "Unless you --? I mean, now that you -- realize -- would you want it to be…?"

The answer to that, Bitty thinks regretfully, is too complex for an acquaintance. Because how does one say, you're very nice and I imagine liking you could be very easy, but I've never dated in my life and right as I thought maybe I'd give it a try, I went and fell head over heels for a grumpy, kind-hearted, heterosexual Canadian?

One doesn't, Bitty reckons, but one also cannot keep waiting forever for something that will never, ever come. So he straightens his back and says, with his best Georgia smile, "Well, how about we carry on studyin’, and maybe we'll see how things go?"

It's a little more strained after that, but that's more Bitty's fault than anything. Anthony is still as perfectly polite as he was before, as focused on the reading. It's just that now every time Anthony smiles at him Bitty freezes, and then feels guilty for freezing, and gets mad at himself for not giving this a fighting chance, and by then he's not smiling back for so long that Anthony's smile shrinks, and Bitty feels even guiltier --

"Look," Anthony tells him after they packed everything back into their bags and walked companionably outside. "This hasn't been ideal, but I still had a good time. I'd like to maybe -- do it again?" Anthony smiles genuinely this time, and his smile is so pleasant, and he tilts his head the slightest bit closer to say, "As an official date this time?", and --

This is the second time Bitty freaks out about a very nice boy leaning in to possibly kiss him at Annie's, and it's exactly as mortifying as the first.

Bitty jumps back painfully obviously, as startled himself by his physical reaction as Anthony clearly is. He's blushing fiercely when he stammers, "Oh -- I -- I don't think it'll work out, I'm so -- I'm so sorry --" turns around, almost breaking into a run, and calls out, "I'll bake you a pie!"

The corners of Bitty’s eyes begin to burn, indicating the impending shameful tears. He’s terribly upset with himself for his reaction, but he’d be even more upset if he allowed himself to cry over it, so he makes the effort to blink furiously the entire way home.

.

.

.

The team gathers to eat dinner together that night. Bitty’s still a little vulnerable in the aftermath of his failed study date, but he does his best to hide it, pushing himself to be cheerful and revel in quality time with his boys. It’s easier when Ransom spends most of the walk to the dining hall engaging him in a conversation about wild alien conspiracies. It’s harder when Shitty and Holster join forces to cajole him into giving deets, and don’t take his, “Oh good Lord, there’s nothing to talk about!” as an acceptable answer. Telling them the truth is not an option -- they’re his best friends, but they would absolutely, no question about it, chirp him to death, and he’s really not in the right mood to take it good-naturedly.

Bitty’s surprised when it’s Jack who eventually tells them to knock it off, shoving Holster’s shoulder to force his way into sitting between him and Bitty at the table. Holster topples sideways into Nursey, and Jack seizes the vacated space and grants Bitty a miniature triumphant smile.

Jack’s dour mood had persisted through yesterday and during their walk over, but Bitty’s been watching him gradually thaw ever since they arrived at Commons; this smile is the first true, earnest one in days, and it melts Bitty on the inside. He’s immensely relieved that at least their friendship isn’t ruined, that the past few days have only been an unfortunate bump in an otherwise smooth road. Bitty tries to cling on to that, use it to move forward from the raincloud lingering over him since his afternoon with Anthony.

A baby-faced freshman approaches their table while Chowder is telling them about a text conversation with his sister. Bitty has his phone out before anyone else even reacts -- the nervous look in the kid’s face is enough warning, and he’s not disappointed; the kid zeroes in on Jack and asks for a signature on his Samwell jersey. There is absolute silence at the table while Jack surrenders to his inescapable fate and pulls out a pen. He then ducks his head and hangs on to that pen once the kid is out of earshot and the boys begin chirping him ruthlessly, yelling loudly enough to rattle the cutlery.

Bitty’s hiccupping laughter comes as a surprise to himself, but it’s the welcome sort. He directs his smile at his phone while he tweets -- true friends don't care that you're a professional hockey player; true friends ask you to sign their mashed potatoes during dinner -- and when he raises his head Jack is peeking at his screen and grinning at him.

“Not a professional player yet, eh? You can’t go lying to the Twitter.”

Jack is so obviously pleased with himself, white teeth gleaming in his mischievous grin. Bitty's heart soars and then swiftly sinks to the bottom of his stomach. He tries to hang on to the gratitude for what he has, but something in Jack’s voice triggers the memory of it stating, obviously they can't actually run that, and then, consecutively, the memory of Anthony's dumbfounded look when Bitty fled away from him.

Not even Jack's benign chirps or his concerned glances can restore Bitty's uplifted mood after that.

.

.

.

Can’t make it to Founder’s tonight. Sorry! :( :( Raincheck?

The reading room is quieter than the rest of the Haus at night. It's dark out, gray shingles lit only by the lamp inside Bitty's bedroom and the faint glow of the streetlights down the road. Bitty lets his legs dangle from the edge of the roof, cradling a can of Twisted Tea and watching his shoes swing twelve feet above the shadowy green of the lawn.

There's the sound of a creaky window sash sliding up behind him. “Hey, Bittle.”

Bitty turns around. Jack is sitting on the ledge of his windowsill, holding a folded blanket in his lap. It takes a few seconds to blink away the disorientation caused by rumination and beer. “Jack! What’re you doing?”

Jack shrugs. “You said you’re not coming with me to Founder’s, and then you didn’t answer your phone. I wanted to check in.” He holds out the blanket with a modest smile. “Here -- so you won't get cold. Spring is pretty rough on you Southerners, eh?”

Bitty snorts inelegantly at the chirp, but stretches his arm to accept the blanket. He twists back to watch the twinkling Christmas lights on the LAX frat house across the road. They never take those down, and never add any new ones during the holidays. It’s as good a reason as any to hate the lacrosse team.

Jack clears his throat, an obtrusive sound in the relative silence. “Can I -- do you want me to stay? I mean, I can leave if you need some quiet.”

Bitty looks at him from over his shoulder, chin digging into his collarbone. Jack’s face is gentler than Bitty’s seen it in a while, mellowed out by the orange tint of the streetlights, and it’s so unfair. Even when Bitty’s upset about Jack he wants Jack near him, wants to hear Jack’s opinion, wants his straightforward, pragmatic type of advice. He wonders what Jack’s face would look like if Bitty was brave enough to tell him the truth about what’s bothering him. A sardonic laugh almost escapes him at that visual.

“No, you can stay,” Bitty says instead, and then makes a herculean effort to brighten up. “As long as you promise not to prattle on, you chatterbox, you know I like silences.”

The chirp falls flat when Bitty’s cheery façade cracks. Jack swings both legs out the window and slides down to sit by Bitty while Bitty takes another swig out of the can. There’s a lot of space on the roof, two empty lawn chairs on Bitty’s end, but Jack sits right next to him. Bitty’s shoulder knocks into Jack’s bicep and Jack’s thick thigh brushes against his, but Jack doesn’t take any action to inch away.

Bitty collects his knees close to his chest, leans his chin on top of them and continues watching the span of street visible from their roof. Beneath their feet, some couple probably returning from the bars by the river stumble together on the sidewalk, the echo of their giggles drifting up to the reading room. Bitty can’t quite cover his grimace in time to hide it from Jack.

"You're upset," Jack jabs Bitty’s elbow with his own, brow furrowing.

"No!" Bitty objects quickly, hoping his voice is only a lick squeaky. He's not drunk by any means, but the Twisted Tea makes everything a bit fuzzy, softens the world at its fringes. "I'm not upset. It's -- finals are coming up in two weeks, and I've got this essay I haven’t started, and -- you know, Betsy hasn’t been well and what am I gonna do, if I can’t bake to distract myself before the tests --"

"Bittle," Jack cuts him off quietly. Bitty lifts his head off his knees just enough to enable a quick glance; Jack is looking at him, those intense eyes trained on Bitty’s face, making his cheeks flush self-consciously. Jack’s expression is his distinct blend of uncomfortable but determined. "You're upset. Are you -- is it -- your date was this afternoon…?"

Bitty’s blush deepens, and he lays his cheek down to avoid eye contact. "So?"

"So," Jack begins, clumsily, and then shifts his arm so it nudges Bitty’s, fingers curled loosely into his palm. "Did he -- I mean."

It takes Bitty a moment to decipher Jack’s faltering sentence, but -- "Gosh, no," Bitty denies with profound embarrassment once he follows Jack's train of thought. Jack, unable to shake off the role of captain, is assuming some boy hurt him. Bitty doesn’t know how to tell him that he couldn't even get through the date to get hurt how normal people do. "He was a gentleman. If anything, it was me who was on my worst behavior."

Jack doesn’t look convinced. He bumps the back of his curled fingers against Bitty’s thigh. "But you're upset."

Bitty loosens his grip on his knees, keeps the hand not holding the can busy by fiddling with the hem of Jack’s blanket. Jack is both the last and the only person he wants to talk to about this. Bitty’s original plan was to get tipsy enough to fall asleep without thinking his emotions through, and then spend the next day compartmentalizing it away -- but Jack’s presence brings everything to the forefront of his mind, plucks at the tangle in his chest until it unravels.

"Well, because --” he sighs, and the expansion of his lungs must fracture some dam, because the words begin spilling out in long strings of nonsense. “I just -- I came here from Georgia because I thought it’d be different, y’know? I couldn't fit in there, and I know -- you said yourself -- I know it’s not any different here, not really, not in hockey, but outside of hockey it’s Samwell, so at least I could be me, right? But apparently I can't even be that, because I can't manage a simple thing like a date with a cute boy," he stops to take a deep breath, buries his face in the nook between his knees. "And, goodness, I can't believe I'm -- none of this is on you, I'm sorry --"

"Bittle," Jack touches his knee, inches away from his cheek, causing Bitty to look up. Jack doesn’t move his fingers from Bitty’s bare leg after Bitty lifts his head. "Don’t be sorry. It's okay."

Bitty searches Jack’s face. He doesn’t know how to read it, what the tiny microexpressions currently mean, but Jack’s fingers are splayed in the valleys of his joints and there’s something grounding in it. He takes another big breath in an attempt to calm himself down.

"I guess," Bitty whispers, but the turmoil in his chest doesn’t settle, not after he started letting it all out. He can almost picture it surging in him, clawing its way up to his mouth. "But -- is it? Okay? I'm just." He runs a hand through his hair, frustrated with himself, both for feeling so much and for being unable to articulate feelings with the proper words. "I feel like I can't just be me. Because who I am isn't good enough at home, and isn't good enough for hockey, and who I am likes boys but apparently I'm no good at liking them right, or -- the right ones --"

He restrains himself from saying anything incriminating, biting his lip hard enough to taste the metallic flavor of blood.

"You are good enough for hockey," Jack says, stilted. His hand tightens on Bitty’s knee and belatedly pulls away. "You're a strong player, and you did a great job this season. I know we lost, but you still did good. You'll be even better next year."

Bitty exhales sharply, rubs his eyes. He knows Jack; he knows he chose to latch onto hockey because that's something he’s capable of expressing. Telling Bitty he's a good player is something Jack can find words for. Bitty didn’t expect Jack to be the right person to talk through an identity crisis, but it’d be an easier evasion to accept if he wasn’t wrong.

"Jack, no offense, but that's a load of horseshit." Jack is clearly caught off guard, seems to be gearing himself up for retaliation, but Bitty talks right over him. "It is! It is, because I might do alright now -- here -- but if I wanted to go into real hockey, into the league, you think they'd be alright with who I am? You've heard what some guys’ve got to say on the ice, and this isn’t even professional hockey."

"You want to play professionally?" The familiar glint in Jack’s eyes indicates that he’s losing track of the grand scheme of the conversation.

"No! But that's not the point!" Bitty swallows, because it isn't, but getting to the point might as well be impossible with Jack. He can't exactly tell him that he's heartbroken and disappointed in himself and everything looks more bleak from this perspective. He's no better than Jack right now; they’re both afraid to dip their toes into the murky waters of everything Bitty said that isn’t about the game. "I couldn't if I wanted to because of who I am."

"You could," Jack says, looking away, his shoulders tight. The conviction in his voice gets Bitty's attention. Jack really isn’t the most emotive of guys, and it takes a lot to get his voice to change pitch. "The league isn't a very welcoming place, but it's hockey. The whole point is hockey. And if you're good at hockey, they'll just have to accept that -- at some point. It might be hard, but if hockey is what you want, then --" he looks up, catches Bitty's eyes. Jack’s are unfocused, like somehow he forgot Bitty was even there. "I mean -- you said it isn't, but if it was -- all I'm saying is --"

"Sure," Bitty brings the can up to his mouth for another swig, skeptical even in the face of Jack’s unanticipated speech. "I get it. You can play, and all."

"Yes,” Jack insists, turning his upper body towards Bitty. Their knees press together and Jack’s face is suddenly a lot closer than it was before. Bitty has to blink a few times until he can get his pulse under control. “You can. Because you are good enough, Bittle."

They stare at each other, time stretching between them, caught up in the unforeseen gravity of the situation. Bitty can’t really wrap his head around hearing Jack defending him with such vigor, but he knows there’s nothing he can say to argue. That’s Jack’s opinion. He’s never been guilty of handing out compliments he doesn’t believe in.

"Thanks, Jack." Bitty whispers. "'m sorry. It's been a rough day. Sometimes --” He sighs again, bows his head, and musters the last shreds of his courage to be at least a little honest. “I guess sometimes it can get lonely. And it sucked to realize that it's my own fault I'm alone in the first place."

Jack subdues gradually, his shoulders folding inward and the fire in his eyes dying out, leaving room for something much more empathetic than Bitty expected.

"I'm sorry, Bittle." He reaches out to grasp the ball of Bity’s shoulder in his large palm, squeezing it tightly. It’s a friendly gesture of comfort, one the boys in the team offer each other all the time, but Jack’s thumb is absently rubbing small circles on the base of Bitty’s neck and it spreads tingles through his skin.

“It’s alright,” Bitty moves away, smiling, but the words are like dust in his mouth and it isn’t really alright at all. They settle back into sitting side by side, and Bitty notices Jack's fixed eyes on the side of his face, but he doesn’t turn to look.

.

.

.

Friday evening finds Bitty scrambling to complete last-minute assignments before Spring C the next day. He shuts himself away in his room and turns off his phone, tries to make his eyes focus on long lines of text instead of on any creaking noises in the Haus that might provide a distraction. This tactic has failed him more often than not, but for once the Haus is completely empty and any creaking Bitty might hear could only be chalked up to Ransom’s ghosts. Lardo and Shitty are out buying booze for Spring C, Holster is with the frogs, Ransom is at his weekend study group, and Jack has been in Providence with his mother all day, looking at potential apartments, and will be returning later to have dinner with her and her former Department Chair.

Studying is easier when Bitty’s using it to avoid thinking about other things. Lately, since his oven has been acting up, it’s been easy using studying as a distraction from thinking about Jack -- about Jack moving to Providence, about Jack taking the first steps in his adult life away from Bitty and the team. It isn’t a better distraction than watching Say Yes To The Dress with Holster or listening to music with Lardo, but in the absence of all other options, it’s good enough to push Bitty to make his deadlines, even if it’s at the last minute.

Bitty’s laptop emits a sharp ping that alerts him to a new incoming email, and Bitty scrambles up from the floor, almost tripping over two piles of reading material on his way. His room is an absolute mess; papers covering the bedspread and the desk, textbooks spilling from inside his bag onto the floor, pens scattered haphazardly. He’s been reviewing for the HIST test while emailing back and forth with the TA for his American Publics course -- the last three lectures of which he honestly cannot remember, but is somehow expected to write two thousand words for anyway.

The new email in his inbox isn’t from his TA, however. It reads, RE: RE: Your Nomination in the 2015 Samwell Awards, and only contains one line of text, visible in the thread’s preview without Bitty clicking it open. Attached is a confirmation for the removal and termination of the aforementioned article.

Bitty pauses, his essay forgotten, and goes over the subject lines four more times.

Bitty hasn’t read the article. Bitty didn't want to read the article, had convinced himself that he was indifferent and was more interested in putting the whole ludicrous affair behind them. But now he’s incapable of dragging his cursor away from the email’s subject line. He can’t help but want to know what they have to say -- want to know why anyone would mirror his misguided feelings for a close friend.

It can lead to nothing but trouble. Bitty still opens the article file for the first time since the whole mess began on Monday, because he won't have the guts otherwise, but for some masochistic reason he just has to know.

.

The Samwell Swallow

Vol. 26, Issue 31 | May 2015 | Special Edition | The Samwell Awards

CUTEST COUPLE AWARD: ICE HOCKEY AS A LOVE LANGUAGE

Our most dedicated readers will know that the title of Samwell’s Cutest Couple is highly coveted. Perhaps only second to Dream Date or Biggest Gossip in prestige, this award is one of the greatest honors young Wellie lovebirds can strive for. This year, we’re proud to elect JACK ZIMMERMANN ‘15 and ERIC BITTLE ‘17. We know: enough with the fucking hockey bros. But hear us out.

These unlikely candidates were initially nominated by Zimmermann’s fellow photography class students with an exclusive scoop. Bittle was the subject of Zimmermann’s midterm project! (Awe.) Such a grand romantic gesture could not go overlooked, and we set out to investigate. Copies of Zimmermann’s photos are brought to you here, courtesy of the Department of Visual Art.

[Images: a collage containing a dozen semi-professional photographs, all depicting BITTLE. His character is consistently linked to themes of warmth and light, and is obviously portrayed with great affection.]

We were delighted by what we learned. Observant Wellies report that the two are often seen taking long romantic walks around campus, with Zimmermann’s lens sometimes pointed at the scenery, but more often at his boyfriend. Sources at Annie’s, the local café, tell The Swallow that, “Yeah, they’ve been like, coming here at least two or three times a week this year? There’s their table [points at a secluded window table in the corner]. The tall guy always pays -- what? No, they’re almost always alone. Except this one time that they were here with this other couple? I don’t know, man, I see lots of people on dates, but these guys kinda stand out. They’re always giggling with each other, it’s ridiculous. And loud.”

Our research yielded clear results: service staff at Samwell’s Jerry’s, Superberry and Stop&Shop have gone on record with similar statements; students who shared a class with the two disclose that their constant whispering and flirting have been impossible to ignore; even the janitor at Faber Memorial Rink reports that current team captain and fellow liney spend every weekend skating alone as they watch the sun rise, while no practice is scheduled! It’s official - Bittle and Zimmermann are, indeed, 2015’s Cutest Couple.

[Image: BITTLE and ZIMMERMANN at the Samwell Men’s Hockey Team’s #Epickegster this winter. The two are standing very close in the midst of what appears to be an intimate conversation, leaning towards each other under a bag of free condoms. Text under image reads: Our staffers report that the two then disappeared upstairs while the party was still in full swing. Get it, boys!]

.

Bitty spends a long, breathless moment staring at the screen with unseeing eyes.

It’s like an out of body experience. Bitty can’t feel the tips of his fingers, can’t feel his toes. He can’t lift his hand to ram the laptop lid shut so his eyes are still glued to the block of text, words blurring together into a solid sheet of gray. His mind keeps losing footing, coherent thoughts cutting off before they can run their course, parts of sentences jamming into one long sequence -- grand romantic gesture, long walks, whispering and flirting -- that plays over and over. Distantly, he’s aware that there are stray tears in the corner of his eyes, but he’s too disconnected from his limbs to do something about it.

People look, he thinks, brain stuttering over the realization, pushing itself out of its shock, people look and see -- people look at the two of us and what they see is --

A loud noise behind his back scares the living daylight out of him, enough to send him spinning on the chair. The door to his bedroom swings open, nearly banging against the wall with the strength of its motion. Behind it is Jack, standing in the doorway with his eyes blown wide and his face pale, looking like he's seen a ghost; panting for breath like he ran a marathon to get there.

Bitty nearly collapses out of his chair, stumbling over the papers on the floor to step closer, arms reaching out automatically. “Jack -- what --? Is everything alright? Aren’t you supposed to be with your mom --?”

“Bitty,” Jack breathes out, unsteady, and then tumbles further into the room. His hair is disheveled and his buttoned shirt is smeared with stains of sweat, and Bitty’s brain is still coming back online but he’s suddenly overcome with how handsome Jack still is, even like this.

And then Jack takes a lengthy step forward right into Bitty’s space, his body enveloping Bitty’s and his broad palms cupping Bitty’s burning cheeks, and tips Bitty’s mouth into his.

Bitty’s eyes remain wide open for one paralyzed split second, taking in the sight of Jack’s dark eyelashes and sculpted brow bone from extreme up close, and then Jack’s lips move and Bitty’s eyelids flutter closed, melting into the unfamiliar action.

Jack's mouth is as soft as Bitty imagined, as hot, velvety lips sliding against Bitty's and catching on the dip of his cupid’s bow. Bitty’s mind keeps up a remote chant of oh my god, Jack is kissing me, oh god, what is happening, before that too is silenced by the thrill of Jack’s mouth parting against his, deepening the kiss, and then everything goes blessedly silent.

An undetermined amount of time later, Jack’s phone begins buzzing insistently; Bitty can feel the vibrations from where his hip is aligned with Jack’s. Jack ignores it, separating their lips to angle his head in the other direction and suck Bitty’s bottom lip into his mouth, tongue wet and tentative. His phone buzzes again, though, and subsequently two times more, and then Jack finally sighs into Bitty’s mouth.

“That’s my mom,” he says quietly, breaking their mouths barely far enough apart to speak. His lower lip is shining with spit and Bitty feels faint, needs to sit down before he falls over, needs to step back before he sinks his teeth into it impulsively. “She’s waiting for me...”

“Oh,” Bitty says. His voice sounds like it’s coming from very far away. He has so many things he wants to say -- what the hell, and what does this mean, and but aren’t you, and stay, stay, don’t go -- yet the only sounds his mouth can apparently make are, “Uh. Okay.”

“We have this��� dinner…” Jack continues, and his eyes are so blue and his lips are so red and his cheeks are so pink, and Bitty thinks that maybe this is a very vivid stress-induced hallucination, and also thinks that he wouldn’t mind hallucinating a little longer. “I gotta go, but I’ll -- I’ll be back.”

“Okay,” Bitty says again, even though he’s not sure it is. He’s pretty sure, actually, that once Jack exits the door of his bedroom this spell will break like at Cinderella’s midnight clock strike, and Jack will return from dinner with his mother still painfully perfect, and still painfully straight, and still so, so far out of Bitty’s reach.

Jack backs up towards the door, eyes lingering on Bitty as his hands drift down Bitty’s arms. “I’ll be back,” he repeats, although Bitty’s not any more convinced, and then he takes his hands away and fumbles blindly for the doorknob, slips out into the hallway from whence he came.

Bitty hears his breaths shallow into nothing more than gasps of air, and promptly crumples backwards onto his chair.

.

.

.

Bitty spends the entire time Jack is absent slowly going out of his mind.

Once the shock passes and the fogginess clouding his thoughts clears, all he can do is think: think about Jack kissing him, and the lovely shape of his mouth, and the bewitched look on his face; wonder how the hell it happened, and why, and what it even means. He conjures a dozen, a hundred versions of what transpired to bring Jack to his door, and even more of what would happen if he does indeed come back.

Bitty paces back and forth across his room, unable to focus or hold onto any one scenario for more than a few seconds. His heart beats so fast for so long that it develops into nausea; he continues pacing while clutching his stomach and praying that he won’t throw up, because he doesn’t think he’d survive that kind of embarrassing memory.

Shitty and Lardo come back at some point, stoned and bearing three bags of sour worms. They squint at his messy room but don't comment on the condition of his hair or his shaky limbs, kindly offer him some sour worms and the opportunity for contact-high in Shitty’s room. They back off and close the door as soon as they see the look on his face. Bitty runs his hand through his hair one more time when he tries to imagine what his face must look like to successfully scare them away.

A long while later there are footsteps in the hallway outside his door. Bitty braces himself to tell Holster or Ransom or, god, Chowder that he’s busy right now. He tries to remind himself that he loves them even when he's in a state, and sits down on the bed to tell them that he isn’t feeling well -- except then the door opens, and it’s Jack standing in the doorway.

Bitty’s heart jumps, somersaults, and plummets all in the space of one millisecond, as he stands up abruptly from the bed and stares, openmouthed.

Jack doesn’t look as rumpled as he did earlier. His collar is adjusted neatly and the tails of his shirt are tucked and smoothed into his pants, but his face is a rich shade of pink and he’s clenching and unclenching his fists by his side. He seems so awkward, standing there, that Bitty’s continuous state of panic morphs into a different chaotic mess of confusion and affection, all while Jack does nothing but stare at him.

“How was dinner?” Bitty squeaks out, eventually, when it’s clear that Jack’s not going to speak anytime soon.

Jack looks like Bitty has veered off script unexpectedly. His eyes widen and he clenches his fists and then releases them again, compulsively. “Eh -- good, good.” Bitty nods. There’s a long stretch of silence neither of them fills. Jack inhales and says, right when Bitty is sure that his heart is sincerely going to beat out of his darn chest, “I. Bittle. About earlier.”

The color in his face deepens further but Bitty can’t tell what that means, if he’s already regretting what he’s done or if he’s just tripping over his own emotions like Bitty is. “You should -- the door,” he stutters, because whether he’s going to be kissed again or be let down gently, he’d rather do it without an audience. Jack looks at him like he spoke in a cryptic foreign language, so Bitty forces out, blushing to the roots of his hair, “Come in and shut the door, Zimmermann.”

“Oh -- shit, ouais,” Jack jostles into action, stepping away from the threshold and kicking the door shut after him. It’s the first time Bitty has seen him move with anything other than practiced poise.

Bitty’s room isn’t very large, and with the door closed the atmosphere in it quickly shifts. There’s an inherent intimacy in the short gap between their bodies that heightens in a small, enclosed space, and Bitty can feel his body heat rise and spread to his palms and his face as a result of it.

It’s unsettling, and Bitty suspects that he could grow to crave it, but not as long as he has no idea what is going on. “Jack --”

Jack interrupts him, keeping his eyes on the floor. “Wait, Bittle, listen. I -- it’s really important that you know that you shouldn't feel obligated.”

There are maybe a hundred thousand things that could’ve come out of Jack’s mouth after Bittle, listen, and Bitty spent two and a half hours imagining a good deal of them. Telling Bitty that he shouldn’t feel obligated is so perplexing that Bitty’s too wrongfooted to protest, and Jack carries on speaking. “I know as team captain I have a certain amount of authority and I didn’t even -- think about that, before, which is really wrong --”

Bitty squints, slowly gaining a renewed grasp on this bizarre situation. The only thing he manages to think with clarity, through the storm brewing in his chest, is, You doofus, what on earth are you talking about. “Jack. The season is over."

"Right," Jack shoves his hands in his pockets, squares his shoulders. "But -- still. Technically we kept up with a.m. practices even after the playoffs, so."

Because you are an insane person, Bitty thinks to himself, coming to terms with the fact that the tone of his thoughts is on a scale ranging between neurotic and cloyingly smitten. He opens his mouth, not sure what’s going to come out of it, but Jack keeps talking without pause.

"Anyway, the NCAA allows intra-team dating but doesn't say anything about involvement with captains. I checked."

This bowls Bitty over, a new wave of warmth rushing to his cheeks. "You checked?"

There's a sheen of what can only be nervous sweat above Jack's upper lip that shines under the glaring ceiling light. “It’s only thirty pages.”

Bitty feels lightheaded again, as he allows himself to consider for the first time that evening, with some measure of possibility, that Jack Zimmermann in fact came into his room and kissed the right sense out of him with the intention to date him. It’s almost too much to consider, making him weak at the knees. He grabs the edge of his desk to be on the safe side.

“You -- I -- dear god, what is even happening? What brought this on?” Because they’ve been spending -- well, they’ve spent almost every waking moment together this semester, excluding this odd week since the damned Swallow article. Jack had plenty of opportunity to confess his feelings had he possessed any, and the best time certainly wasn’t while his mother was waiting for him downstairs to go to a formal dinner.

“Well, I,” Jack stammers, dropping his chin to his chest. His ears are bright red, dark enough to be seen from a few feet away, and Bitty is enchanted by it. “I didn’t know, but. I read the stupid thing in the car because I couldn’t -- my mom said -- I kept thinking about you in every kitchen that we looked at, and I…”

Bitty can feel his eyes widen, his organs flipping over inside him. "You… did?"

Jack lifts his head, and when the two of them finally make eye contact it zings through Bitty’s body. "Yes. I mean, I guess it’s hard not to. If you're not on ice, you're baking, Bittle. Or tweeting. Or baking and tweeting."

He winces as soon the words are out of his mouth, and Bitty can’t help it: he bursts out in laughter, high-pitched and giddy. This boy, Bitty marvels, and euphoria spreads like thick cotton candy in his chest, making it hard to speak; to breathe.

Jack’s face still looks vaguely horrified, like he’s regretting ever opening his mouth. "Crisse, sorry, it's not -- I wasn't trying to --" he blows out air, starting over. "It's fine that you do. I mean, more than fine. I thought about you in the kitchens because I like it. I like you."

His voice is unmistakably uncomfortable, and beads of sweat are glinting on his temples. Bitty’s so overwhelmed by hearing Jack speak candidly about his feelings that he blurts out the first thing that comes to his mind. "You like me? But you're -- I mean, I thought you --"

Jack’s eyebrows draw down and his mouth thins. He looks irritated, but Bitty knows it’s the shape his face takes when he’s distressed. "I know last year it didn't seem like -- but I thought this year you knew things changed --"

"-- were straight," Bitty exhales, chest heaving. God. This is real. "I thought… you were straight."

Jack squints, stopping himself in the middle of his sentence. He seems honestly, genuinely confused, the big lug. With a more functioning part of his mind Bitty recognizes that this is probably the most facial expressions he’s seen Jack make since meeting him.

"But I kissed you."

"Yeah," Bitty swallows, cheeks probably glowing bright red. Somehow it’s so much more jarring hearing the words out loud than it was to have Jack’s mouth on his. Like something that’s not supposed to be discussed out in the open. A secret lifted right out of Bitty's subconscious, manifested by sheer will. "Uh. Sure did. Thus my confusion."

"Your -- confusion…?" Jack trails off. His flushed face begins shifting by degrees, a smile spreading slowly but steadily and creating the smallest, sweetest crinkle at his eyes. He wipes his shiny brow with the back of one forearm and then crosses the distance between them in a few short strides, sweeping in to kiss Bitty.

It’s not any less mind-blowing the second time around. Jack's fingers slot under Bitty's jaw, titling his head up, his other palm sliding from Bitty’s neck to his shoulder and down his back in a tantalizing stroke. Bitty grows hot all over, bending his body into Jack's to press their chests together, his hands hesitatingly finding their way to Jack's hips. He hooks them over the sharp curves of Jack's hip bones, feels the strength in Jack’s obliques through his clothes.

Their mouths create a soft slick sound when they glide against one another, lips meeting and parting smoothly. Bitty gathers the confidence to attempt parting his own lips, applies the slightest pressure of tongue to Jack's bottom lip, and is rewarded by Jack's shudder and the tightening of his hand on the small of Bitty's back.

Jack pulls his face back slowly enough for Bitty to blink his eyelashes open and catch Jack licking his lips, exhaling shakily.

"I like you, Bitty," Jack leans their foreheads together. His eyes are staring right into Bitty’s, drooping and soft and so clearly fond that Bitty feels the tremor flow in his body all the way to his toes.

"Me too," Bitty whispers. His heart is still beating irregularly, vainly trying to catch up with the emotional upheaval of the last few minutes. “Jack --. I like you, too.”

Jack smiles at him, and it’s more honest, more tender than Bitty's ever seen it. It makes Bitty so happy that he wants to burst into giggles, wants to hide his beam in Jack's chest until butterflies stop fluttering in his ribcage.

Jack runs his fingers into Bitty's hair, gently brushes through it. He's bashful, both of them avoiding prolonged eye contact, and it's so absurd that they're shy after kissing like that, but Bitty can't help it. Jack tips his head to kiss Bitty's chin, his temple, makes Bitty actually giggle when he kisses his ear and then settles his lips in Bitty's hair, tugging him closer into the crooks of Jack's body.

"Hey, Jack?" Bitty says quietly, leaning his cheek on the curve of Jack's shoulder and wrapping his arms around Jack's waist, hands linking at the arch of his spine.

"Yeah?" Jack mumbles into Bitty's hair, mouth moving against the crown of his head.

Bitty presses his lips briefly to the closest patch of Jack's skin he can reach, which is the dip in his clavicle. It's barely a kiss, but his entire body shivers with the knowledge that he’s allowed. "Wanna be my date to Spring C tomorrow?"

Jack draws back far enough to be able to look down, tilting his chin into his neck and catching Bitty's eyes with his. His face is pink and his lips are swollen and Bitty's so unbelievably in love with him, but it's the furthest thing from pathetic now. It seems funny that it was ever something shameful at all.

"It'd be my pleasure," Jack smiles, and leans in for another kiss.

[kiras-sunshine]

tarlos valentine 2021 day 1 prompt: “babe please sharing is caring” + blanket hogging

words: 5111

summary:

“Are you seriously reading a WikiHow article about how to stop hogging the covers?”

"Yes"

read on ao3

or

”This is the best thing I’ve ever eaten,” TK declares as he takes yet another forkful of the chocolate cake that Carlos has baked for his birthday.

He cannot remember when someone would have baked an actual cake for his birthday. They celebrate everyone’s birthday at the firehouse, but usually those are bought from the supermarket and they taste and look exactly like they cost less than five dollars.

His dad has threatened to bake something every year, but after the year when he served the dairy, butter and sugar free cake, TK had banned him from birthday related baking.

“Seriously,” he continues, gesturing towards the almost empty plate with his fork, “this cake made me fall more in love with you and I didn’t know that was possible.”

Carlos shakes his head, clearly in amusement, as he bites down his smile. He looks delighted and pleased.  “I’m glad you like it.”

“Like is an understatement,” he remarks and reaches over the narrow kitchen island to press a quick kiss on his lips.

The cake tastes amazing, rich and sweet, and the texture is fluffy, but firm. It looked gorgeous too, as if it were straight rout of the high-end confectioneries of Manhattan. He had asked where he had bought it before Carlos admitted, rather timidly, that he had baked it from the scratch.

TK hadn’t been expecting anything other than the supermarket cake, and honestly, he thought his birthday would be just grouped together with the firehouse annual Christmas party. Being born in December usually meant that it got joined with Christmas celebrations and it didn’t get to be a separate thing. TK is fine with it. It bothered him more when he was a child, but now he doesn’t mind that much.

Hoping that one day would be about him feels like a dumb, childish and selfish wish.  

Carlos had been uncharacteristically quiet about the upcoming birthday or any plans related to it, and TK had been almost convinced that he had forgotten the whole thing. It would have been fine if it were the case, but obviously, he hadn’t forgotten. Instead, he had gone all out.

TK knows he should have suspected something when Marjan had asked all slyly if he had any plans for his birthday when they all had been gathered around the firehouse dining table to eat the pathetic looking supermarket cake.

He had said no, and everyone had smiled like they knew something he didn’t, but he had brushed it off.

TK reaches scoop a forkful of the cake from Carlos’ plate, because his is almost empty, and he grins at him brightly. “Babe please, sharing is caring,” he chuckles.

Carlos rolls his eyes, but the fondness is too visible to make him seem even a tiny bit annoyed.

“You’re lucky I love you,” he mumbles. There is no heat behind his words, and he pushes the plate closer to TK.

It’s obviously meant to be a joke and his voice is light, but still TK is aware that it is the closest thing to the truth anyway. He feels lucky, incredibly so.

Carlos is a kind, caring and loving person in general and it is evident in the way he does his job and the way he treats people around him, and TK is fully aware that he would be lucky to get just a fraction of the love Carlos has to give, but the fact that he has decided that TK is worth of all of it makes it a whole another thing.

Lucky doesn’t even begin to cover it.

Privilege, maybe.

He has started to notice lately that the English language doesn’t have nearly enough words to describe what he is feeling for him. But that doesn’t stop him from trying.

“I know,” TK eventually replies, several beats too late it to be counted as banter anymore and the fondness in Carlos’ eyes just grows.

He does steal another forkful of his piece of cake and lets his gaze wonder around the small cabin.

Instead of forgetting his birthday, Carlos had rented a cabin for three days. It is a couple hours away from Austin, located near camping-area, and while the cabin is small, it is still objectively really nice and fancy for a log cabin.

He looks at the dark brown wooden walls and the shiny marble kitchen island. He tries his best not to think how much money he has spent on his surprise.

Carlos had also coordinated it so that they both have the three days off around his birthday, and he had listed his whole crew’s, and his dad’s help, to do it, several months in advance. TK guesses there are certain perks that his boyfriend gets along with his family like a house on fire.

Carlos yawns. He blinks a couple of times, before focusing his gaze back to him. He smiles and it is warm and genuine one, but TK can see the redness of his eyes and the dark circles below them. He looks exhausted, even though he is trying to hide it.

“You should go to sleep,” TK points out, softly, as he places the fork on his own plate.

“I’m fine,” he insists.

In his opinion, it is a small wonder Carlos hasn’t collapsed already. He had pulled an fourteen-hour shift with some over time on top of it. After that he had still driven them up to the cottage and cooked him a huge dinner. It’s a bit unclear to him where he found the time to bake the cake, but the point is, he knows that he is tired.

He would know it without having all the details. They have been together for year and a half, and TK likes to think that he can read him. Understand all the little cues from his facial expressions and behavior. At the moment, everything he picks on screams that he is fatigued.

“You look like you could pass out from exhaustion,” he remarks.

“It’s your birthday,” Carlos argues, a little flatly, but he is poorly attempting to repress yet another yawn.

“I’m aware,” he says, amusedly, as walks around the kitchen island and reaches to take his hand into his own. He presses a soft kiss on his knuckles. “All of this is really nice, and I love it, but it also pains me to see you so tired.”

He blinks slowly, but his smile is lopsided, but still full of adoration. “I wanted to do something special for you.”

TK remembers faintly that he had told him on his last birthday that his birthday rarely was a priority, always getting entangled to the preparations of the holiday season, and he had certainly not meant anything with it. But Carlos, being a strong contender for the title of most considerate person in the world, had hung on his words and decided to indulge him on his silly wish of having a proper birthday.

TK had snorted when they had picked up the keys of the cabin and the receptionist had frowned when she clarified that there would be no Christmas decorations, per request, but Carlos had just grinned at him.

“And it is,” he reassures, squeezing his hand slightly.

It makes his stomach flip as he thinks how much effort he has put into the whole thing, just so that he would feel loved and cared for.

“Maybe,” Carlos admits softly, “but going to sleep before eight wasn’t really part of the plan.”

Carlos lets go of his hand, but places both of his hands on his waist and pulls him closer. TK has no objections against that, and he loves the feeling of their bodies being pressed together. He loves the closeness of it, and it feels like the most natural thing in the world to be so up in each other’s personal space.

“Yeah, just one of the many perks of dating a first responder,” he deadpans, resting his other hand on his bicep.

Carlos huffs amusedly. “Because there are so many of them.”

“Our never matching schedules,” he offers. He lets his other hand run along his spine and settles it to hold the small of his back.

“Monthly hospital visits.”

TK glares at him. “They aren’t monthly.”

“Bi-monthly,” Carlos corrects himself with a shit-eating grin and it makes his nose scrunch, and it is one of the most adorable things TK has ever witnessed.

“Constant fear and worry,” he adds.

He knows he should be almost used to it. Since early childhood, he has had to learn to live with the fact that one day his dad might not make it to home, and now almost everyone he loves and considers family risks their lives on daily basis to help others.

He should be used to it, but the truth is that he isn’t. The fear and worry still sometimes knock him off his feet and take over every part of his body, but he can cope with it. Most of the time. Although, he loathes the fact that his standards for a good day have been lowered to the simple rule of if they both make it home in one piece, it’s a good day.

Carlos nods and presses a soft kiss on his forehead. He doesn’t immediately pull away. “The way you smell like smoke,” he murmurs against his skin.

TK lets out a surprised laugh and the ghost of his kiss still lingers right above his eyebrows when he pulls away. “I could always shower again.”

He has gotten into the habit of showering at the firehouse when the shift ends, because Carlos does have a point about the smell hazards. Most of the time he reeks after the shift and he had rinsed his skin today too, and the shift hadn’t been terrible. Only one fire at the 24-hour diner when their deep fryer had caught on fire, but that was hours ago.

“You’ve smelled like it since the day we met,” he points out, “I’m not sure a shower is going to help.”

“Hey,” TK protests, but he doesn’t bother to hide his grin.

“I wouldn’t change any of it for anything,” he says under his breath, “apart from fearing for your life.”

Over the couple of years, he has known Carlos, he has noticed that certain things happen when he gets thoroughly exhausted. His accent becomes thicker and he becomes sappier than usually and he starts to lack a certain filter. It’s mostly just amusing and endearing, and he loves that side of Carlos just as much as any other, but he also wants to take care of him.

It makes a certain kind of knot of uneasiness to form in his stomach knowing that he is burning the candle from both ends for him.

“I know, me neither,” TK reassures, softly, but pushes him a little backwards, “but seriously, you should go to bed. And you don’t even have to go alone.”

He is also a little weary after the shift. His muscles are achy, and he wouldn’t mind sleeping around the clock. And as always, seeing Carlos yawn, makes him sleepy, too.

“Your pickup lines are terrible,” he retorts, but takes a couple steps backwards towards the bedroom.

TK snorts. “They worked well enough on you.”

He still keeps walking backwards, his left shoulder only slightly bumping against the doorframe as he enters the bedroom. “They didn’t. I didn’t need pick-up lines, it was that damn smile.”

He ought to add getting complimented by him to the list of things he should be already gotten used to, because Carlos does it a lot. It’s a casual comment here and there, and it definitely isn’t always about his looks, but still no matter how many times he hears them, they always make his stomach twist in a best way possible.

Even now, the bubbling feeling of happiness settles into his chest and his lips are curling into a smile, and he knows it’s giving away everything he is currently feeling. The happiness and adoration mixing into together and spilling out as a soft and bright smile.

“That’s the one,” Carlos whispers, contently and almost in awe, and few seconds later his fist is full of the soft fabric of TK’s grey sweatshirt and he is pulling him close again.

“Yeah,” TK finds himself saying, but he cannot tear his gaze away from his lips and judging by the glint in his brown eyes, he has noticed it too, despite the sleep deprivation.

Sometimes, most of the time really, it is like electricity humming underneath his skin when Carlos looks at him. It feels like it now, too, and while they established very early into their acquittance that they are into each other. It was painfully obvious from the way they glanced each other while dancing and from the way they ended up hooking up within an hour.

Still, TK cannot help but marvel the that the feeling of sparks and electricity is still there, but it is still different. All the rush and fumbling are gone because there is more certainness now, of that the other is not going to disappear and that any of the lingering touches would be the last ones.

Now, every moment is like a small declaration of love.

He tugs the hem of Carlos’ shirt and gently yanks it upwards and helps him to undress it and Carlos helps him to get rid of his sweatshirt and tosses it somewhere on the floor. Suddenly, his lips are on his again, and the kiss is soft, but it still makes TK’s heart beat faster and toes curl up with want.

He runs his hands along his arms and squeezes his left forearm slightly. “Mmh, not when you’re that tired,” TK mumbles against his lips.

He knows where it is heading unless he breaks it off, and while he wants to, it still defeats the whole purpose of his grand plan of Carlos getting enough sleep.

Carlos immediately takes a step back, like he always does when he lets him know he is not up for something, and his smile is mischievous, but still a little flustered. “I’d not fall asleep on you,” he adds, as he takes off his sweatpants, but this time he folds them neatly and picks up their shirts from the floor.

“You have,” TK points out, kindly, as he gets rid of his own pants, “and you probably would now, too.”

Since their schedules don’t always match, they tend to take up any opportunity that arises, but a couple of times, after double digit shifts, Carlos has fallen asleep before they have even properly started, and it’s no big deal. TK knows he has fallen asleep on him too.

He mostly finds it endearing, but it also means to him that Carlos trusts him enough and is comfortable enough to fall asleep without a second thought to it.

Carlos just hums amusedly as a response and gets into the way too huge bed.

The bedroom is tiny, and the bed takes a ridiculously big part of it, but he is surprised to find it to be incredibly soft and comfortable. Still, as TK sits on the bed, he pushes his pillow closer to his because he is not sleeping twenty inches away from him.

He settles down, lying right next to him and Carlos immediately drapes one arm over him, resting it on his chest and nuzzling his shoulder. TK’s hand fumbles a little until it finds Carlos’s other hand and curls his fingers around his.

“I’m--,” Carlos starts, quietly, but TK cuts him immediately off.

“Don’t you dare apologize again,” he says, softly. “This is all I ever wanted and it’s perfect.”

He runs his fingers along his forearm. He hopes that he knows that he doesn’t mean the cabin or any of it, but just that he gets to spend his birthday with him.

Twenty-year-old TK would have laughed if someone would have told him that his best birthday would be in rural Texas, but there he is, more content than ever.

“How did you know what I was going to say?”

He glances at him. “I can hear you think.”

Carlos exhales softly and TK can feel his breath against his bicep. “I just wanted to do something nice for you. You deserve all of it and more.”

It has been a long process to learn that he deserves nice things and to be loved, because of everything and despite of everything. He has Carlos to remind him about it occasionally, but still he cannot help but wonder what he has done to end up with more love than he could have imagined a couple of years ago.

He turns his head to press a gentle kiss on his temple. “Why this place?”

TK has wondered about it since the moment they arrived. He has never heard about the place before and albeit, his knowledge of anything about Texas outside of Austin is a little wobbly, but the whole place seems to be quiet and has a little hole-in-the-wall feeling to it, like you would have to know about its existence to find it.

“It’s a dumb story,” he murmurs against his shoulders.

“I wanna hear all of your dumb stories.”

Carlos shifts a little. “We came here with my family when I was maybe thirteen,” he starts, slowly and absentmindedly tracing some sort of pattern against his ribs. “I loved this place, and we had great time, but it still filled me with dread ‘cause the place was full of happy couples and families, and I was pretty convinced at that age that I couldn’t ever have any of that on my own.”

His heart breaks a little as he listens to him. He meant his words that he wants to hear all of his stories, dumb or not, but now he regrets a little of ever asking because he knows that his coming out process hasn’t always been the smoothest and deep south hasn’t been the most forgiving place for him to live and grow up.

“But,” Carlos continues, “I had this dream that one day I’d bring here someone I’d love.”

TK breath almost hitches in his throat. It’s almost too much, but in the best way possible. To know that he has had that idea in his head for years and that he decided that he would be worthy of being a part of that. It makes his heart soar.

“I did try to warn you it was dumb,” he mumbles, taking his silence in the wrong way.

“It’s not dumb,” he rushes to say, “it’s actually really sweet.”

It’s not the most eloquent response, but it’s too difficult to pinpoint anything he is currently feeling or to put them into comprehensible words that would reflect any of the love he has for him.

“Yeah, well, you’re the only one I’ve brought here, so there is that too,” he adds, his gaze focused on his jawline, but he looks up to his eyes too, with the softest of smiles.

He is convinced his heart is going to burst. “Thank you for sharing it with me,” he whispers, right below his ear, “and for including me in it.”

They lay there for a moment, in silence, only listening the steady breathing of each other’s, but eventually TK sits up to reach the corner of the duvet and tries to settle it so that it covers both of their bodies.

“Are you going to hog all the blankets again?”

Carlos has closed his eyes already, but his voice is light and teasing.

“I don’t hog ‘em.”

He sputters out a laugh, and it’s warm, happy and genuine, and TK loves to hear that particular laugh.

“Oh, so I’ve been sleeping without one willingly for a year and half,” Carlos asks, quizzically, but it looks like another fit of laughter could erupt from him at any given moment.

“What?”

“You always steal the blankets, even if there are two,” Carlos explains, sounding almost fond as he looks at him.

“I don’t?”

TK hates how it sounds like a question to his own ears, too. He is aware that he moves a lot in his sleep, and his ex-boyfriends have given him so much shit about it, which is also why he tried to avoid staying the night when he started seeing Carlos.

Nothing is more charming than elbowing significant other in their sleep or kicking their shins. Still, Carlos has never said anything about the way he sleeps.

He knows that their bed is a goddamn mess every time they wake up, the blankets are usually disregarded somewhere, and they are not in the same positions as they fell asleep to, but he had no idea that he was the main cause of it.

“Mhm, you do,” Carlos hums, his eyes closing again.

TK shoots perplexed glance at him. “Why haven’t you woken me up?”

He is a little more than appalled that apparently he has been doing it since the beginning of their relationship, but he is only hearing about it now.

Carlos opens one of his eyes, squeezing the other one shut. “Yeah, wonder why I haven’t woken up my boyfriend, who on regular basis pulls twenty-four-hour shifts,” he mumbles, but there is nothing but kindness in his voice.

“You could have,” he argues, flatly.

“I’ve tried to steal them back sometimes,” Carlos admits, his gaze landing back to him, and his eyes are gleaming. “But there’s no point. You just steal ‘em back. I’ve extra blankets, too, but there is no limit to how many blankets you hog in a night.”

Not for the first time around Carlos, TK finds himself to be a little loss for words. This time it is because of completely different reasons, he is a little too stunned and confused to talk.

“The way you clutch to them and collect them is almost adorable,” he adds with a low chuckle.  

“So, every time you have said you sleep better when I’m there with you has been a blatant lie?”

He almost wants to laugh. It’s a bit more than ridiculous that he is only learning about his own nocturnal habits now, and Carlos has told him multiple times that he sleeps more soundly and deeply, that he feels safe, when he is around, and he has always found that a little more than endearing, but now it feels impossible to wrap his head around that it would be anywhere near the truth.

“Nope.”

“You really expect me to believe that the best sleep of your life happens without blankets?”

Carlos blinks, but the look he gives him is soft and laced equally with love and fondness. Still, he gently pokes him in between his ribs. “Am I in the habit of lying to you?”

“No.”

“Then there’s your answer,” he replies, easily and effortlessly, as if he has accepted the fate of sleeping without any blankets, ever.

TK grunts and picks up his phone from the nightstand and starts typing.

“Are you seriously reading a WikiHow article about how to stop hogging the covers?” Carlos questions, as he peaks the article he started suddenly to browse through.

“Yes.”

He cannot put his finger to what actually bothers him about this small revelation so much. The unnamed feeling in his chest grows and it starts to resemble something similar to guilt, even though some logical part of his brain is telling him that there is no reason to feel that way.

He can admit that it makes him uneasy to know that Carlos has stayed silent about it for so long, especially when it must have affected the way he sleeps, too.

Carlos chuckles, softly. “It’s not that big of a deal, Ty,” he whispers, pressing a kiss on his shoulder.

“Apparently we could sleep separately,” he reads aloud as he scrolls through the surprisingly long article.

“Out of question,” Carlos replies, without missing a beat.

He huffs in some sort of agreement. It’s not the solution he would be eager to try any time soon, but he wants to find something tangible to make the uneasiness in his heart to go away.

“Somehow trap the covers underneath the mattress, smaller bed, bigger blankets--,” he continues to slowly read as he makes through the list, until Carlos gently yanks the phone away from his hand and places it face down on his chest.

“We don’t need to do any of that,” he reminds, “I sleep perfectly fine. You cling like an octopus and you’re like a walking radiator, I don’t need a blanket. And above all, I like sleeping with you.”

It’s a tiny confession, but he sounds sure of it and there is genuine fondness in the way he says it, and he cannot help but believe that he means it.

TK loves the way they sleep. There is so much closeness in it. Their bed is pretty wide, but every time he wakes up, they are close and touching each other, in one way or another. A hand resting on a thigh, fingers against hip, face pressed against shoulder blade, entangled legs and arms.

He is pretty convinced there are no moments when they are not touching when sleeping. He sort of likes that. That they drift towards other, even when they are completely unaware of it. They move in their sleep. Carlos always falls asleep on his side but ends up lying on his back. He moves around a lot more, but the fact that they always wake up pressed together, means that they move together.

When the other moves, the other follows. Invisible string connecting them in their dreams. Like magnets pulling each other in.

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you earlier,” Carlos continues to fill in the silence, “I knew you’d get stuck in that beautiful mind of yours about it, but I didn’t know it’d bother you this much.”

There is a question hidden, and he knows he is giving him the space not to answer, but he wants to.

TK groans, quietly and softly. He places the phone back on the nightstand and rubs his own face. “It’s just that—you simply decided to put up with it,” he tries to clarify, still trying to make sense of the emotions that keep bumping against each other inside of him, “instead of telling me to do something about it.”

He knows that he cannot control what he does in his sleep, but he would still like to try and make it better.

“I get that, but sayin’ that I’m putting up with it makes it sound too negative,” he says, exhaustion leaking back into his voice just slightly, “and I’d have told you if truly bothered me, but it doesn’t.”

“Yeah.”

He strokes his side, in slow moments, with his thumb. It sends small shivers along his spine. TK glances back at him, but his eyes are closed again. “I love you and I’ll gladly sleep without a blanket for rest of my life, it’s a small price to pay.”

Silence follows, and TK can feel how he tenses up slightly next to him. It’s a small change, but he knows him well enough to spot the difference.

“That’s pretty much wedding vow material already,” TK jokes, planting another kiss on his forehead because he wants him to know it is okay, and that he is not freaking out about any mentions of their shared future, and that he can say stuff like that to him.

That he wants to hear it.

Some of the tension immediately leaves his body when he pulls away from the kiss.

“I know,” he slurs, sleepily. “I should write it down.”

“Height of romance.”

He laughs, even though he manages to make it sound tired too, but it is still a beautiful sound. “Damn right it is.”

“I’m gonna buy a bigger duvet when we get home,” TK declares.

“You don’t have to.”

“No, but I want to.”

It might not help anything, and Carlos does seem pretty content with their current arrangements, but he still needs to do something. To try, at least, even if it is something as small as blanket hogging.

Carlos opens his eyes again, clearly fighting off the sleep. “Promise something.”

He is a little surprised by his words, but he cranes his neck on the pillow so that he can get a better look at his face. “Anything.”

“Don’t start to overthink it, the way you sleep isn’t something you should actively think about. You’ll only lose sleep,” he tells him.

TK knows he has a point. It’s definitely an easy rabbit hole to fall in, and to become too self-conscious about every moment and not being able to relax and just be. Maybe he should take Carlos’ word for it.

“I’ll promise I’ll try my best to get over the fact that I’ve forced you to freeze your ass every night for over a year.”

Carlos’ eyes are shut, but the grin that forms on his lips is bright and brilliant. “We live in Texas, it’s hot and humid most of the time, my ass is fine.”

“It is.”

He laughs again, mostly against his fluffy pillow. “How did we end up having this conversation?”

“About us, the blankets, the future or the future of our blankets?” TK asks, deadpan, just to mess with his sleep deprived brain.

“Any of it?”

“I don’t know, you started it,” he tells him, amusement shining in his soft voice

“I’m too tired,” he half-slurs, but the smile still lingers on his lips.

“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you,” TK points out, kindly, and moves his other hand to run through Carlos’ hair, massaging his scalp soothingly.

“You’re right,” he breathes out, and TK can hear the smirk in his voice, “just this once.”

He laughs quietly, trying not to stir him any more than necessary, and he thinks he might have already fallen asleep, and he almost startles when he hears his voice again.

“Ty?”

“Yeah?”

“I don’t need any blankets, just need you.”

He would have expected his voice to be light, teasing and joking, but it sounds surprisingly sincere and like it half-accidently escapes away from his exhausted mind, but it sounds still so goddamn sincere that it makes TK’s heart flutter.

“Smooth,” he remarks, quietly, unsure what to do with all the happiness that keeps bubbling inside of him, but the only reply he gets is the quiet and steady breathing.

[gimmesumsuga]

Sweeter than Sweet (88)

AO3 Link

Pairings: Jimin x reader, Yoongi x reader, Jimin x Yoongi, Namjoon x reader, Taehyung x reader, Jungkook x reader, Jin x reader, Hoseok x reader.

Warnings: Nil of note

Word count: 9.3k

Previous / Epilogue 

So.  The final chapter.  It’s finally here.  It’s been a long time coming and honestly, it’s been so nerve-wracking writing this and hoping that people will like it and GOD I HOPE YOU’RE OK WITH THIS ENDING.  After two and a half years, trying to find a way to tie this all together has been... quite the task.  But anyway, enough rambling from me.  

There’ll be an epilogue after this - just a short one - so we don’t have to say goodbye quite yet but... yeah.  I hope you enjoy.  

“Whatcha making, hyungie? ”  To your right, Jimin’s eyes remain fixed on his phone as he calls out to the elder vampire pottering to and fro between the kitchen counters and the stove.  With one of Jimin’s thumbs caressing the side of your knee and his other scrolling through whatever Korean article he happens to be reading, you’re surprised Yoongi even realises his young lover is addressing him, so casual is his tone.  

“ Kimchi-jjigae ,” Yoongi murmurs in reply as his knife rhythmically thunks against the chopping board, and to your left you hear Hoseok longingly sigh at the mention of food. 

You can empathise with the feeling that spurred him to make such a sound.  You’ve been a vampire for less than a month and already you’ve started to miss the taste of real food, unable to imagine what it must be like for those around you for whom it's been so much longer.  It’s all too easy to understand why they sometimes give in and indulge despite the inevitable gastric upset that it brings. You’d done the very same just last week, unable to resist sneaking a slice of Jin’s vanilla bean cheesecake only to lament its vengeful return back up your oesophagus just a few minutes later - an experience unpleasant enough to sufficiently silence any cravings you might’ve had since; the smell of broth wafting over to you now no more tempting than that of cut grass or fragrant shampoo. 

And anyway, it’s not as though Yoongi is cooking with the intention of the meal he’s making actually being eaten.  He’s cooking because it gives his restless hands something to do - a task on which to concentrate and thereby silence the anxious thoughts that would otherwise occupy his mind - and Yoongi isn’t alone in his attempt to keep pre-occupied.  

One by one you’d gathered together in the kitchen as the day had drawn into night, some having woken early and some having not yet slept at all.  Namjoon’s imminent arrival has everyone on edge, and rather than remain in bed tossing and turning to and fro, all seven of you had ended up gravitating towards one another instead, seeking the reassurance found in numbers.  

Jin had already been here, in the kitchen, when you, Jimin and Yoongi had arrived here together, his brows furrowed in concentration as he furiously tapped away at the keys of his laptop - yelling when he’d lost at whichever game had him so engrossed.  Alarmed, Nova has been giving him a wide berth every since, hiding under the legs of the furthest possible bench and glaring reproachfully each and every time Jin dares make a sound. 

It was Jungkook and Taehyung who had joined you next, and they continue to occupy one another now, some hours later; Jungkook with his sketchpad in hand and tongue poking against the inside of his cheek as he tries to capture Taehyung’s likeness from where he sits posed across the other side of the table, a sleeping Yeontan in his arms.  

Hoseok arrived last of all, completing the set  He's been strangely quiet ever since he joined you, yet still seems to have trouble keeping his limbs from wanting to dance as he watches various choreography videos on his phone, volume turned down low.  It seems as though even in times of stress he’s unable to keep that innate sense of rhythm he’s blessed with at bay.  

You can’t help but note the subtle sense of guilt that settles in your stomach as you observe them all.  If it weren’t for you and your wanting to do this, Jin’s eyes might not be marred by such dark circles, nor Yoongi’s thumb-nail so thoroughly well-chewed as he stands gnawing on it in front of the stove.  Jimin’s knee wouldn’t be bobbing up and down so restlessly, the two youngest might still be in bed, sleeping in as late they usually do, and Hoseok…. Well, there are a lot of things that might be different for Hoseok if it weren’t for your arrival into their lives, but the less you dwell on that the better, you suppose.  

“Princess?” As if somehow sensing your need for distraction, Yoongi’s voice calls out to you.  “Fetch me the pork belly from the fridge?” 

“Sure,” you agree quickly, flashing Jimin a smile as he’s forced to relinquish his grip on your bracelet so that you’re able to move.  He smiles back having ceased his fiddling, though you can’t help but worry it looks a little strained, very aware of the soft sigh he releases as you make your way over to the refrigerator as instructed.  Inside, on the bottom shelf in a large glass bowl, is the meat Yoongi had left to marinate in there some half an hour or so earlier, and as he takes it from your hands and pulls back the covering film, the scent of rice wine is so pungent it almost makes you cough.  

“Thank you,” he wishes you softly, brushing a kiss to your temple as he passes on his way to the stove where he tips the pork into an awaiting pot, fat sizzling as it meets the heat.

“Do you need anything else?” Wanting to make yourself as useful as possible, you hover at his side as he resumes his place at the chopping board, slicing through mushrooms.  

“I’m almost done,” he assures, not taking his eyes away from the task at hand, “But thank you,” he says again, the corners of his lips curling into the smallest of smiles as he briefly glances your way.  

Dismissed, you wander back towards the group in hopes of finding further diversion.  You don’t dare disturb Jin - the last time you did he looked as though he might throw his laptop at you for having interrupted whatever kill-streak he was in the middle of.   Glancing up from where you’d been absent-mindedly watching Jin’s pink-haired avatar run across the screen, your eyes meet Jungkook’s, a smile tugging at your lips when he beckons you over.  

“What do you think, noona ?” he asks as you come to peer over his shoulder at his sketchbook.  He holds it at just enough of an angle to keep his drawings hidden from Taehyung’s view as the blonde-haired vampire squirms from side to side to try and take a peek.   

“He hasn’t given me boobs again, has he?” Taehyung pouts, and whilst you try to stifle a laugh a wicked grin appears on Jungkook’s face.  His muse groans, slumping forward till his head rests on the dining table and his torso hides Yeontan completely from view.  

“No, Tae, he hasn’t given you boobs,” you reassure, smiling just as hard as Jungkook at the thought of it, “Though, I’d really like to get a look at that sometime.”  

“ Jagi! ” Taehyung whines all the more, sitting up straight to hit you full-force with the adorable full pout of his lips and wide-openness of his eyes.  

"I’m only playing,” you grin whilst still sneaking in a side-glance to Jungkook that tells him you’re really anything but.  “It’s really good, baby,” you say, running your fingers absently through the ever-lengthening tresses of Jungkook’s hair to feel him preen at both your praise and his pet-name.  “Looks just like you, Tae.” 

And honestly, it does.  Even if he were to bestow Taehyung with some additional assets , the likeness would still be uncanny.  Jungkook has captured both him and Yeontan perfectly; from the delicateness of Taehyung’s long fingers carding through his playmate’s fur to the softness of his expression as he gazes down at the perfectly shaded puppy curled up in his lap.  

“You’re sure?” Taehyung checks, doubt seeping into his tone as he watches the way the youngest vampire curls his arm around your waist and coaxes you down to sit on his knee, adoration in his eyes.  It wouldn’t be the first time you and Jungkook have been partners in crime when it comes to playing pranks, so you can’t blame him for being suspicious, but when Jungkook finally relents and flashes the drawing Taehyung’s way, you can’t help but smile at the genuine delight you see written across the blonde vampire’s face.  

“Can I keep it when you’re done, gguk?” he asks, that boxy grin of his making an appearance when Jungkook swiftly nods, putting pencil to paper to continue shading the strong angle of Taehyung’s jaw.  You smile fondly at them both, placing an arm across Jungkook’s shoulder to keep yourself steady when Hoseok suddenly lets out a disgruntled sound from beside you. Nose wrinkled, he’s busy shoving Jimin back up off of his lap from where the younger vampire has flopped down in hopes of using his hyung’s thighs as a pillow.  Jimin’s grinning, his whole body going purposefully limp as Hoseok struggles to sit such a dead weight back up again (pun intended) and it only makes you smile more to see it, laughing when Hoseok finally gives up with a loud ‘yah!’ of frustration as Jimin’s head falls back into his lap.  

For someone who so freely lavishes affection on others, it never fails to amuse you just how unwilling Hoseok can sometimes be to being on the receiving end of it.  

“Hey Kookie?” You press a kiss to his temple to gain his attention.  “Can you do me next?” He looks up at you, one eyebrow raised and a dirty smirk twisting his mouth.  

“You want me to do you, noona ?”  A light smack to his shoulder has him laughing, eyes twinkling with mischief.

“I meant draw me, you perv.”    

“Like one of my french girls?” he persists, smiling all the more lewdly when Yoongi starts to chuckle along like some dirty old man from where he’s stood stirring the contents of the pot now bubbling away on the stove.  

“Have you even seen Titanic, Jungkook?” you laugh, just about to reach down and tweak one of his nipples through his shirt as punishment when Jin suddenly throws his arms wide and exclaims, “I’m flying, Jack!” and sends the whole room into peals of laughter.  

And that’s it, then.  Once Jimin sits up and starts to belt out a somewhat pitchy rendition of ‘My Heart Will Go On’, any remaining tension left in the room is well and truly broken.  Jin joins in, Taehyung does too, and then Jungkook, Hoseok, Yoongi - or at least, he tries, bless him - until finally even you’re singing your lungs out with tears of laughter leaking from the corners of your eyes.  

And as sappy as it sounds, it almost does feel as though you’re flying as you’re sat here amongst them - heart soaring whilst you’re surrounded by these silly, wonderful men that you love so very much.  

The seven of you are singing so loud that if it weren’t for the exceptional hearing you’ve so recently been blessed with, you might not have heard the resounding knock that suddenly echoes through the manor.  You do, though - all of you do - and as another knock comes, somehow even louder than the last, the whole room falls silent, bodies tensing and eyes wide in time for the third and final knock to sound.  

“He’s here.”  

Eyes narrow and breaths are held.  Your gaze meets Jimin's as he sits up straight, on high alert, and there's an emotion written on his face that you can't quite put a name to right now.  Not whilst you're so preoccupied with how strange the absence of a furiously beating heart feels. All the same feelings Namjoon usually inspires in you are still there; your body just lacks the means to properly express them, now that you're dead.  

There's no clammy hands.  No quickening of breath. It's disconcerting and yet reassuring all at once, reminding you of just how different of a person - how different a creature - you are since you and Namjoon last met.  Now, even if he wanted to hurt you (though, you're sincerely hoping he doesn't) you doubt he'd be able to.  

You're a lot more than just the 'family pet' these days, that's for certain.  

You stand from your seat on Jungkook's lap quicker than you realise, body moving before your mind has the chance to catch up.  You're nervous - undoubtedly so - but part of you is just eager to finally go and lay to rest all the history between you. To settle things once and for all.  That eagerness gives you the courage to straighten your spine and square your shoulders; a tentative smile on your face as you turn to the others. 

Before you have the chance to speak, however, Jin promptly snapping his laptop shut mid-game completely derails whatever it was you were just about to say.  

"What're you doing?" you ask as almost perfectly in sync, the vampires around you abandon their various pastimes to join you on your feet, beautifully poised for action.  

"We could never let you do this on your own, jagi. " Taehyung's impossibly long fingers slip between your own, squeezing your hand in his as Jimin comes to your side and claims the other - stoic and silent as his gaze meets yours.  The weight of his hand in yours feels like an anchor; solid and grounding. It's comforting - just as comforting as the sweet kiss Taehyung brushes across your knuckles before placing your hand into Yoongi's waiting, open palm.  

"You can always change your mind," Yoongi reminds you, searching your gaze for any sign that you may want to turn back.  You appreciate the offer, and you're sure that deep down, some of them may wish that you would, but it's too late now. You need to see this through.  

"No.  I'm sure," you reply with as much confidence as you can muster, and out of the corner of your eye you see Hoseok nod to himself with a look of grim determination.  

"OK," Jimin says in that sweet, melodic voice of his, "Then let's go." 

The short journey from the kitchen to the entrance hall has never felt longer than it does now, with a heart so full of trepidation.  You can only recall one other occasion where you felt such dread whilst taking these same steps; back when rather than walking side by side with your lovers you had run towards them instead, drawn by the sounds of Jimin’s frantic cries.  It’s a memory that enters unbidden into your mind, pulled to the surface by Namjoon’s arrival, and you squeeze Yoongi’s hand as you attempt to push away the image of his delicate body cradled limp and bloody in Jimin’s arms. It’s not something you want to think about when you’re about to come face to face with the man responsible for having made that happen - can only hope that the vampire waiting outside your front door is now very different from the one who was forced out of it the last time the two of you met within these walls.  

You hesitate as the manor’s solid wooden doors come into sight, a lump in your throat as your footsteps falter.   It’s not that you’re scared, per se - it’s just that you’ve never been very good with confrontation even at the best of times.  You want this to go as smoothly as possible - if such an outcome is even possible at all. You just hope that - 

“Allow me.”  Sweeping past you in all his handsome glory, Jin approaches the front door with nary a hint of nervousness.  There’s a formidable expression on his face, one that sits totally at odds with the soft, over-sized sweater he’s wearing.  On his stomach, an adorable cartoon whale swims amongst fluffy sky-blue fabric - far too cute a fashion choice for someone who looks as though he's just one wrong move away from kicking serious ass.  

You murmur your thanks regardless of whether Jin might hear you over the sound of him unbolting the front door with deft, graceful hands.  Him having taken charge removes the chance for you to hesitate even more than you already have, and before you know it - before you've even had a chance to take whatever bracing breath you'd imagined you'd take before coming face to face - the door is swinging open.  

The weather has gotten more mild since last you and Namjoon met.  Rather than the howling wind and freezing rain that accompanied his sudden exit from your home some weeks ago, the breeze that ruffles through your hair now is by far a more pleasant one; the sun's warmth lingering despite its absence.  

"Evening, hyung, " Namjoon greets in that deep voice of his, little more than the tips of his hair visible over the top of the elder vampire's head.  Even with the door wide open, Jin's shoulders are so broad that even at Namjoon's greater height, he's almost entirely hidden from view.  Without loosening your grip on either of the hands you hold, you find yourself rocking forward onto the balls of your feet to try and get a better look, but to no avail.  Jin seems determined to shield you, one of his hands planted firmly on the door frame to block Namjoon's entrance.  

"Hello, Namjoon," he replies, and though his tone may sound pleasant, there's a tightness to it that puts you on edge.  "Before you come in, I just wanted to remind you-" Namjoon laughs wryly, cutting Jin off mid-sentence as he places one of his large atop his elder's shoulder and pats.  

"I know, hyung, " he assures, and even without being able to see his face, you can hear the smile he’s wearing, "I'll be on my best behaviour."  His hand slips down onto Jin's bicep as your protector lets his arm slowly fall back down to his side, opening up the way for Namjoon to come inside.  "Promise."  

Realising what it was that Jin had intended to remind him of - his promise to kill Namjoon himself should he ever dare to cause trouble again - you really hope that Namjoon is sincere about keeping his vow.  You'd rather not witness any more blood spilt between these brothers; you've seen enough to last a lifetime as it is.  

Jin steps back from the doorway, a furrow in his brow as Namjoon steps forward to take his place.  Dressed in a burnt orange sweater that's at least a size or two too large, he looks marginally better than the last time you met - though that's hardly an achievement given how back then he'd intentionally tried to appear weak and sickly for the sake of his rouse.  

"It's good to see you all."  With his hands clasped together neatly in front of him, Namjoon almost looks contrite as you all stand and stare at one another, at a loss for what to say.  Silent and stiff, the atmosphere is unmistakably awkward.

Perhaps you should be the one to speak first?  You’re the one that asked him to come, after all, so it’s no good just standing here like the cat’s got your tongue.  

Mustering up your courage, you lift your gaze from his chest and meet Namjoon’s eyes for the first time since his arrival.  They’re just as golden as you remember, and as he looks back at you, you swear his gaze softens - a tentative smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.  Almost as if by reflex, you feel your own lips curving into shy, answering smile, and just as they’re about to part to speak -

“Thank you for coming.”  They’re four words that you never would’ve expected to hear Jimin say, but you’re thankful that he has.  As if him having spoken somehow grants his blessing on Namjoon’s arrival, the vampires around you seem to collectively relax; rounding of shoulders and softly exhaled sighs of breaths no longer held.  

“Thank you for inviting me.”  Even Namjoon looks relieved as he unclasps his hands, slotting them inside the pockets of his pants.  

“I didn’t,” Jimin retorts somewhat sharply, and as you glance to the side you note the way his jaw clenches despite your gentle squeeze of his hand.  

“What the lady wants, the lady gets,” Namjoon chortles in spite of Jimin’s hostility, “It’s good to know at least one thing hasn’t changed.”  

Pursing your lips, you almost feel mildly affronted by Namjoon’s insinuation that you’re spoilt until you quickly realise that he likely has a point, and from the smirk Yoongi’s wearing you’d be willing to bet he silently agrees.  

Well, whatever.  It’s not as though you getting your own way turned out to be a bad thing where he’s concerned.  

“So,” Namjoon continues, taking another step forward to finally allow Jin to close the door behind them, “For what purpose have I been summoned?  I have to say I was surprised to have Taehyung go to the trouble of tracking me down.” Nervousness has you clearing your throat as your hands slip from those of the vampires beside you, not quite able to look Namjoon in the eyes as you break away from the group to approach him.  

“Should we... go to the garden to talk?” you suggest, very aware of the many sets of ears and eyes focused on the two of you.  You’ll never be able to say all the things you need to say with this many people listening in so intently.  

“Lead the way.”  With a slight nod of his head, Namjoon comes forward with intent to follow after you, but when you turn around you find you’ve nowhere to go.  Jimin blocks your path, arms folded, eyes narrowed and jaw so tight that the veins on his neck are popping.  

“You haven’t forgotten what you promised?” he asks, one eyebrow rising ever so slightly as he peers down the gentle slope of his nose at you.  

“No…”  Looking around the group, your gaze lands on Hoseok just as his falls on you.  Easy-going and yet fiercely protective; sweet but firm when he needs to be. Out of all of your options, Namjoon’s successor seems the preferable one to have loitering nearby should this all turn to shit.  

As if reading your mind, Hoseok half raises one hand awkwardly into the air, shuffling his weight from foot to foot.  

“I could go with them if you like.”  Jimin’s gaze flickers back and forth across your face to gauge your reaction to his hyung’s suggestion, and on seeing your hopeful little smile, he subtly nods his head and takes a step back, clearing your path.  

“Alright.  We’ll be right here, ok?”  His glances over your shoulder towards Namjoon.  “In case you need us.”  

“I know,” you reply softly, closing the gap between you and placing on hand on his folded arms to give a squeeze for reassurance, your eyes fluttering closed for just a second as you brush your lips across his. “I’ll be fine.” 

“I’ll hold you to that,” declares another voice as hands find your hips and a similarly fleeting kiss skims the tender junction where your shoulder meets your neck.  You know it’s Yoongi not only from his tone but the delicate pout of his lips where they press against your skin.  

“Please do.”  Twisting, you smile as you and Yoongi come face to face.  He smiles back in return, content to let you take his hand and place it into Jimin’s until you should return.  Together, they’ll keep each other strong.  

“Shall we?”  Namjoon’s sudden arrival at your side pulls your focus back to the matter at hand - body tensing in response to his close proximity.  

“Sure.”  At your nod, Hoseok turns to lead the way, walking ahead as you and Namjoon follow on behind through the rest of the group towards the corridor from whence you came.  

“ Jagiya .”  A tentative touch of fingertips to your wrist makes you pause, and it’s with a sweet, reassuring smile that you try to communicate to Taehyung not to worry without having to actually say the words.  The concerned furrow of his brow remains, unfortunately, but when Jungkook slings his arm around his hyung’s shoulder and pulls him close, you know that they, too, will take care of one another.  

They all will, as they always do.  

Namjoon’s smiling somewhat wistfully as you fall back into step but remains silent.  His footsteps seem so loud compared to yours as you walk the hallway together; Namjoon in shoes that are scuffed at the heel and you in a comfy pair of rubber-soled slippers.  

“Hoseok was a good choice as my replacement,” he comments, lifting your gaze from where you’d been staring down at the motion of your feet.  Your eyes travel the length of his imposing stature to his face - still just as handsome as the first time you met despite all that has taken place between you.  He looks ahead in spite of your appraisal, his focus solely on the back of the vampire that has been filling his shoes since having left; undoing all the wrongs Namjoon had made, trying to make them right.  

Hoseok chooses not to reply to Namjoon’s compliment.  You know he’ll have heard it - Namjoon had said it more than loud enough.  

“He’s done a really good job.  Kept the guys in work and our stores well-stocked.”  Namjoon ‘mms’ along, nodding his head. “Don’t know what we’d have done without him, really.”  

You wish you were better able to read Namjoon’s expression but it seems as though he’s keeping his cards close to his chest, for now.  Whether or not that’s intentional you’re not sure, but either way, it doesn’t keep you from wishing. Is he feeling proud of Hoseok, you wander?  Resentful? Apathetic?  

When you reach the double doors to the garden, Hoseok holds them open for the both of you. You expect him to follow as you begin down the fairy-light lit path that winds deeper into the night, but he hangs back instead, loitering beside the hedgerow.  

“You’re not coming?” you ask, turning to see him standing there once you realise you can no longer hear his footsteps crunching along the gravel with yours.  

“Unless you want me to?” he offers, cocking one eyebrow, and at first, you’re really not sure.  You look to Namjoon and once again he seems unconcerned, shoulders shrugging, his hands still deep in his pockets.  

“Your call.  I won’t be offended, either way.”  In some strange way, Namjoon’s nonchalance is somewhat reassuring.  If he had any bad intentions, surely he’d be pushing for the two of you to be alone rather than leaving it all up to you?  

“I think we’ll be ok,” you say, and your stomach does something a little funny at the small, grateful smile that tugs at the corners of Namjoon’s mouth.  

“Ok.”  Hoseok leans back against the wall of the manor, folding his arms across his chest as he fixes Namjoon with a stern look despite addressing you.  “You know where I am. Just shout, and I’ll be there.”  

“Thanks, Hobi,” you smile, and then you and Namjoon take your leave.  

The garden, as always, remains tranquil despite the worry in your heart.  Now that spring is on its way, the night-blooming flowers you’d planted last year are starting to thrive, releasing their sweet scent into the evening air.  Ahead, you can hear the faint trickle of the fountain and beyond it, the gentle creaking of a swing in the breeze - your final destination.  

In silence, you sit side by side.  The swing’s slatted seat is only made for two, forcing you to cosy up far more than you’d originally planned.  You’d been aware of Namjoon’s scent - far more than ever before thanks to your newly enhanced sense of smell - but now, sat so close, it’s almost overwhelming.  Warmly spiced and fragrant, it- 

“You’re not scared of me anymore, are you?”  Namjoon’s sudden observation interrupts your runaway thoughts, and when you sharply look up from where you’d been staring at his lap, you’re surprised by the crooked smile you find him wearing.  You hesitate under his scrutinising gaze, unsure of what to say, and Namjoon laughs at your lack of reply. “I mean, it would make sense.” Taking his hands out of his pockets, he uses one to hold onto the chain suspending the bench on which you sit as he begins to rock his weight back and forth - heel, toe, heel, toe, heel, toe - to gently move the swing.  “You’re even stronger than I am right now.”  

Is Namjoon right?  Are you really not so afraid of him anymore?  Taking a moment to examine how you’re feeling as the two of you quietly swing back and forth, you realise what he’s said is true.  You’ve been nervous, certainly. You’re still nervous, in fact. But scared? Not so much. You know, now, that should you ever need to defend yourself you’d be more than capable of doing so.  Your training sessions with Jin and Jungkook have certainly helped in that department, even without your added strength taken into account.  

“I guess you’re right,” you admit and again Namjoon smiles, looking down at his feet as he exhales a short, breathy laugh.  “And while we’re on the subject,” you continue, playing with the hem of your top where it lays across your lap, “Part of the reason I wanted you to come tonight was so that I could thank you… for that.”  Namjoon looks up and meets your gaze, brow furrowing slightly as his feet fall still and the swing's momentum ceases. “For saving me, again. For turning me.”  

He stares back at you, blinking once, twice, then thrice - like he can't quite figure out what he's meant to say.  

"... They told you it was me?" he finally asks, "Can't say I expected that." 

"I mean, they didn't so much tell me.  More like Jin and Jungkook just blurted it right out."  Namjoon laughs at your admission, fondly shaking his head. "But they didn't deny it when I confronted them, either.  And don't get me wrong, it's not as though this just-" You gesture vaguely with your hands, hoping he'll gather your meaning. "-Just… Makes up for everything that happened before."  

Namjoon's expression looks pained at the mere mention of his former transgressions.  He twists in his seat to face you more directly, clasping his hands together. 

 "I know-" he begins urgently.  

"But-" You interrupt his interruption, "-But I'm still grateful.  You didn't have to come back here and help the others find me. Could've just stood back and watched me die rather than turn me.  But you didn't." Namjoon straightens in his seat, glancing down at his feet and wringing his hands. "So yeah… thank you. Really." 

Namjoon releases his hands only to rub awkwardly at the arm of his sweater; a gesture far more human than you've ever seen from him before.  It's disarming - endearing, almost.  

"Well… you're welcome."  He meets your gaze, smiling cautiously.  

You get the feeling that this is one of the last things Namjoon had expected when Taehyung had invited them here, and if you're honest, you find it somewhat strangely satisfying to catch him so off guard.  You examine his face; the earnestness in his golden eyes and the shallow dimples of his cheeks - smile not quite broad enough yet to bring them out in full force. He looks well - better than you expected him to - and he scoffs a laugh when you tell him so.  

"I've looked better," he dismisses, leaning back into the swing's seat to restart it's slow back and forth motion. 

"Well, I can't imagine you've had it easy these past few weeks…" You shift in your seat, eyes cast down to watch your fingers busily playing with your bracelet. "Where've you been staying, anyway?" Just as you look up, Namjoon looks away, scratching distractedly at the side of his face. 

"Here and there," he answers, and you wonder if the evasiveness of his reply means he's been sleeping rough more often than not.  You hope that's not the case, despite all the bad things he's done.  

"Fair enough," you say when he offers no further explanation. "To be honest, I was surprised Tae even managed to find you.  I'd kind of expected you to have moved on already." Namjoon looks at you, thoughtful.  

"I thought about leaving. Finding a new place, a new life." 

"Why didn't you?" He pauses, smiling faintly before offering an answer.  

"I guess there was just something still holding me back," he says, and as self-absorbed as it might be, your mind can't help but jump to the conclusion that that means his reason for staying was you .  Whether you're happy or concerned about that, you can't quite figure out. "I've had… A lot of time to think since I left." Namjoon opens up his hands as he speaks and stares down at the lines etched in his palms. "A lot of time alone.  Done a lot of self-reflection." 

He pauses but you remain silent, realising that he probably has a lot more to say.  Somewhere off in the distance, you hear the sound of a small animal darting through the undergrowth, its little feet scurrying between the bushes under the cover of darkness.  

"You were right about what you said."  Your head whips round to face Namjoon when he finally speaks again, eyebrows rising in curiosity. "Before, when you said that I didn't love you, you were right." He looks up at you, a deep furrow between his brows. "At least, not in the way I should have done.  The way I treated you was… despicable. The things I did? Unforgivable."  

For a moment, Namjoon seems to forget himself - moves as if to reach out and take your hands but stops himself at the last moment and keeps them clenched in his lap, instead.  

"I never meant for it to go so far or to get so bad, but once I had that first taste of you… I… I just couldn’t stop," he explains, and now that he's opening it up it seems as though the words are tumbling over one another in their haste to come out. "I was so certain I was beyond saving.  Beyond capable of being loved even if I were deserving of it…" Namjoon's expression turns into one of pain, a sadness in his eyes as he looks back at you with the golden glow of fairy lights illuminating his face. The sight puts pain in your chest; an ache where your beating heart used to be.  “But then you came and I thought… maybe…” 

“There were already people here willing to love you, Namjoon,” you interject, shuffling closer, “Long before I ever arrived.”  He smiles ruefully.

“I realise that, now, but I took too long.  The damage is already done.” Namjoon shrugs his shoulders in defeat, still wearing that same sad smile as he leans forward to rest his forearms on his thighs, rubbing his palms together.  

You wish you knew what to say - wish you could offer him some comfort regardless of his worthiness of it - but you find yourself at a loss for words.  You can’t pretend as though his former relationships aren’t as in poor shape as he says. If he were to try to make amends, it would certainly be a long and difficult road - for all of them, not just Namjoon.  

“Back when I came to the bar to warn you, you asked me what I wanted,” he says suddenly, hair ruffling in the breeze as he turns his head to look up at you, “Do you remember?”  You recall the memory easily enough - there had only been that one occasion Namjoon had ever visited you at your workplace, invited or otherwise.  

“I haven’t come to start a fight.”

“Then what do you want?” 

“The same thing I’ve always wanted.” Is it vanity that makes you presume that he means you when he says that? 

“You said what you wanted the same thing you always do,” you recall aloud, embarrassment making you drop your gaze as you admit, “To be honest, I assumed you meant me.”  You hear Namjoon softly chuckle, and then suddenly he’s touching you - lifting your chin with the curl of his index finger to bring your gaze back to his. It doesn’t startle you as much as you’d anticipated it would; doesn’t inspire the fear you’d expected should his hands ever lay on you again.  

“A reasonable assumption,” he smiles, eyes crinkling at the corners until his expression becomes sombre once more.  Sighing, he lets his hand fall, linking his hands together where they dangle off the end of his lap. “But what I really meant was… family.  First, I lost my sister, then my parents. My friends - my brothers .  You.”  He falls silent again for a moment, shaking his head as it drops forward, obscuring his face from your view.  

“Namjoo-” 

“I’ve lost everyone.”  Namjoon sits up abruptly, and when he turns his face your way you swear you see a glassiness to his eyes. “And all through my own fault.”  

Looking back at him now, you realise Namjoon really was right - you’re not afraid of him at all anymore.  If anything, you feel sorry for him.  No one deserves to spend an entire eternity alone, whether or not their exile was somewhat… self-inflicted.  Maybe… maybe if...

He shifts in his seat, seemingly uncomfortable under the intensity of your gaze.  

“I don’t expect you to say anything,” he says when the silence has gone on too long, “I know I don’t deserve-”  

“I can’t speak for the others-” You stop him mid-sentence, and Namjoon settles back down into his seat having almost stood up to leave, his expression one of cautious curiosity.  “-But I’d like to believe no one is ever totally beyond redemption.”   

Redemption.  The word is like kindling to the fragile ember of hope that flickers in Namjoon’s eyes at the mere mention of it.  

“I still want to think that somewhere inside you, deep down, is the Namjoon who cared for his sister so much that he did everything he could to save her.  Who offered his brothers immortality rather than face losing them, too.” You smile meekly. “Who saved me, knowing that to do so he would be putting his own life at risk.”  

Namjoon’s eyes search yours, though you’re not certain what it is he’s looking for.  The trace of a lie, maybe? That you’re just humouring him out of pity? Giving him false hope?  You hope he knows you better than to think you’re the sort of person that would.  

Finally, after what feels like minutes have gone by, he sighs.  

“I want to believe you.” There’s a raw, vulnerable edge to his voice when he speaks, twisting his body to better face you.  “I want… to be better. I want to… to be a man who’s deserving of your love, even if… even if I never have it.”  

“Namjoon…” 

It’s instinctive, the way you reach out - the way you gently place your hand on his cheek.  Namjoon leans into it, eyes closing for just a moment, and you just can’t help it, how your heart bleeds for him.  You should be less affected - should feel colder and more apathetic towards this man who betrayed you so badly - but you just… can’t.  There are many unflattering things people could call you, many faults that they could name, but they could never accuse you of being cold or unfeeling.  It’s just not in your nature. Perhaps some might say that’s a fault in itself, but here you are regardless.  

You wish, in another life - one where less mistakes were made and fewer hearts were broken - that you were able to hold him.  Promise to give Namjoon all the love he so sorely needs to be so that maybe, one day, he might be able to heal. 

But there’s too much water under the bridge.  Even if Namjoon were one day to come back into all of your lives, it could never be the way it was before.  You can’t be that person for him anymore. It’s time for you to both move on, once and for all.  

“Joonie,” you say again, ever so softly, and when he opens his eyes it makes your chest hurt all the more to see how desperately hopeful he looks.  “I can forgive you for what you did. I need to, for both our sakes.” Namjoon smiles, lifting his hand to place it over yours where it lingers on his cheek, but when you start to pull away his expression falters, brow creasing in confusion.  “But I can’t just forget it. Not yet.”  

You hope the implication that maybe one day that might change helps to soften the blow as you fold your hands together in your lap, offering him a sympathetic smile that at first, he turns away from.  Closing his eyes, he takes a deep breath as though to collect himself, and you find yourself on edge, wondering if your rejection will be taken as badly as it was once before.  

“I understand.”  Turns out, you needn’t of worried.  Namjoon looks sad, certainly, but there’s a resignedness about him that you find reassuring - especially when he huffs a laugh and admits, “I’d probably think you were a fool if you’d said differently.”  You laugh as well, knowing he’s right, and it feels as though a weight has been lifted as you sit up straight and run both hands through your hair, breathing out a sigh.  

“Can I be honest with you?” Namjoon asks and instantly you nod, giving him your full attention.  “For the first time in almost thirty years… I have no idea what to do. I wasn’t happy before, but at least looking after the others kept me busy.  Now there’s just… nothing.” He licks his lips, wetting them. “It’s freeing, but it’s also really fucking terrifying.”  

“I get that.”  And you do. Without the others to keep you company, you’re not sure what on earth you’d do to pass the time for the rest of all eternity.  “I know it’s pretty vague advice, but personally? I’d really like to see you start living again. Find something good , something for you to pour all that passion into.”  You smile as you playfully knock your thigh against his, pleased when Namjoon does the same back.  “You’ve got too bright a mind to dwell on such dark thoughts all the time, Joon.”  

“I’m not sure where I’d even start…  But something good sounds…” He shrugs his shoulders, offering you a lopsided grin. “... good, I guess.” 

“And there’s something else I wanted to speak to you about, as well.”  You call out loudly to summon Hosoek, and within seconds he comes running towards you, eyes wild and fists already raised in preparation to fight.  “Hobi, it’s ok,” you reassure quickly as Namjoon puts hands up in surrender - a gesture that for some reason has you holding back the urge to giggle.  Hesitantly, Hoseok lets his arms fall back to his sides and relaxes his posture, all the while his gaze flitting between you and Namjoon as though to doubly make sure that everything is as ok as you say it is. 

“Everything alright?”  

“Do you remember that talk we had yesterday?  About my old apartment?” Eyebrows furrowing slightly, he nods. “Turns out, Jimin never stopped paying the lease, just in case I ever changed my mind and wanted to leave,” you explain, turning to Namjoon, and it makes you smile to see the way his eyes start to widen as it dawns on him what you’re about to offer. “It’s yours, if you want it, and so is your share of the manor's wealth.”  Namjoon’s head turns to look at Hoseok, incredulous. “Hobi and I have already spoken about it. It’s only fair."  

"You don't have to do this," Namjoon says quickly, eyes flitting rapidly back and forth between you and Hoseok. "Really. I'll be fine." 

"We know we don't have to," Hoseok smiles, folding his arms across his chest.  

"But we want to," you correct, pleased when Hoseok nods his agreement. "You saved my life, now we're giving you an opportunity to turn things around and save yours.  We can call it even." 

"I'm not sure that's right." Despite his disagreement with your sentiment Namjoon can't seem to help but smile. "I think I still owe you rather a lot more than you do me." 

"Most likely," you grin in return.  Standing, you reach down into your back pocket to retrieve the keys you'd stashed away earlier; a silver pair that jingle against the penguin engraved disc of your keyring as they're dropped into Namjoon's open, waiting hand. "Just to warn you, there'll be an awful lot of plushies waiting for you. You might want to redecorate." 

"I'm sure it'll all be very… you," Namjoon laughs, joining you on your feet.  Falling silent, he looks down at the keys in his hand and you see his shoulders move with the weight of the breath he takes.  "Thank you." He looks so sincere as he meets your gaze again, closing his fist and then pressing it to his chest as his other hand reaches for yours.  He squeezes when you grant it to him, smiling once more as you squeeze back just as tight. 

"We should probably head back inside," you say after a beat or two have passed - sufficient enough time to memorise the feel of Namjoon's hand wrapped around yours. "The others are probably going out of their minds by now." 

"Are you kidding?" Hoseok laughs as he falls into step with you as the three of you head back towards the house, "I can hear Jimin's teeth grinding from here." 

You re-enter the house together, a seed of hope taking root in your heart at the amenable way Namjoon and Hoseok are able to converse back and forth, almost as if the last few weeks had never happened.

"Once you're settled, I'll call you to discuss the finer details, and when-"  You're distracted from their talk of practicalities by Nova’s sudden high-pitched meowing, and on looking to your right you see her coming towards you down the hall with her sleek black tail swaying gently behind her as she walks, her intelligent eyes glinting as they catch the light.  

“Hi Nova,” you greet, stopping the other vampires in their tracks when they hear you speak.  Meowing again, she winds her way between your ankles as you smile down at her, brushing against your legs with each turn of her limber body until finally, you bend to pick her up, scooping her into your arms.  Namjoon approaches her with a fond smile, waiting for you to nod before reaching out to give her the fussing she truly desires, and you laugh at the sheer volume of her purrs as she rubs the side of her face against every part of him she can reach, nibbling at the tips of his outstretched fingers.  

“I think she’s missed you,” you comment and Namjoon chuckles, giving a firm scratch to the underside of her chin.  

“The feelings mutual,” he purrs back at her, lavishing her in affection for just a few moments longer before finally dragging himself away - fingers restless at his sides you make your way back to the entrance hall, as though he almost wishes they were still in amongst her fur.  

The others seem to barely have moved since you left them.  They linger at the bottom of the staircase, chatting amongst themselves, but when Yeontan barks at having spotted Nova from across the room, silence abruptly falls. 

“Is everything ok?” Urgently, Jimin comes toward you with hands outstretched, laying both on your shoulders to keep you at arm’s length while he surveys your wellbeing, a furrow in his brow.  

“I’m fine, Jimin,” you reassure softly, offering him a small smile as he meets your eyes, searching them for confirmation.  “Really. We’re fine.” He nods, still looking somewhat uncertain, yet he releases you nonetheless, stepping back so that Namjoon is able to step forward and address the group.  

It’s sad how suspiciously they regard him, though you completely understand why they do.  You’re sure Namjoon understands, too, and to his credit, he appears to be doing his best to ignore the stony silence he’s met with - or at least not let it bother him.  

“I know it’ll never be enough to make up for all the things I’ve done,” he begins, gesticulating restlessly with his hands as he talks, “But… nonetheless, I wanted to say I’m sorry.  To all of you. For everything.” Shuffling their feet, the group as a whole looks unsure of how to respond to Namjoon’s apology. Taehyung’s focusing all his attention on Yeontan whilst Jungkook avoids eye contact altogether; Jimin’s stony faced whilst Jin’s is impossible to read.  It’s only Yoongi who meets Namjoon eye for eye and nods his head in acknowledgement. Yoongi, who almost died at the younger vampire’s hands, and yet has remained kind enough - soft-hearted enough - to at least hear his apology out.  

Namjoon’s smiles gratefully, bobbing his head in return, and when Yoongi glances your way you mouth a ‘thank you’ that the dark-haired vampire shrugs his shoulders to, feigning nonchalance.  

“I should go,” Namjoon declares when no one volunteers any further reply, recognising that at least for now, reconciliation remains a lost cause.  You follow after him as he heads towards the door, Nova still cradled in your arms, and as he reaches for the handle you quickly call out,

“Don’t be a stranger, ok?”  He pauses, twisting to look back at you and the vampires stood at your rear.  “I mean… it’ll take time for things to get better but…” You glance at the others around you before looking back to Namjoon, smiling kindly, “That’s something we’ve all got plenty of.”  Namjoon chuckles fondly and in the small of your back you feel a hand being placed, rubbing gently up and down.  

“That we have, little one,” he smiles, and even after all this time - all that’s happened - that nickname still stirs something within you.  It’s not lust, and it’s certainly not love, but a feeling of… nostalgia, almost.   

With one final parting look, Namjoon turns to leave, pulling open the heavy front doors and stepping out into the night.  Before he can disappear into the dark, however, Nova begins to squirm restlessly in your arms, letting out a loud series of meows more akin to wails. 

Namjoon stops in his tracks.  

Looking down, you see Nova peering up you imploringly with those green, intelligent eyes of hers, and you’re sure it’s just your imagination, but you feel almost as if she’s trying to tell you something as she meows again, tail swishing.  

“Joon?”  You go after him, not stopping until he’s within arms reach - close enough to allow the wriggling Nova to gracefully leap out of your grasp and into the embrace of a very startled Namjoon.  

“W-what-?” he stammers as he hastily rearranges his arms to accommodate the feline form curling up against his chest.  The sight of him so flustered and caught off guard is so endearing that you can’t help but start to grin, pressing your lips together in an attempt to stifle the laughter bubbling up inside your lungs.  

“I think the lady hath spoken,” you observe as Nova rubs her face against Namjoon’s jaw, her meows now deep, rumbling purrs of contentment.  He strokes her despite his utter bewilderment, long fingers carding through her fur, and watching the two of them you know for certain that letting her go is the right idea.  What better way to slowly soften Namjoon’s heart and give him purpose than for him to have something to care for all of his own? “Look after her, ok?” He looks up from the cat cradled in his arms.  

“Are you sure?” he asks and when you nod, he smiles so hard that for the first time since he got here, you finally get a flash of Namjoon’s infamous dimples.  “Thank you. Really,” he says earnestly, and as Namjoon wishes you goodbye, his golden eyes take one long, last lingering look up and down your form before he turns, takes his leave, and you softly close the door.  

Turning the key in the lock, a heavy exhale leaves your lungs, and for a moment you stand with one hand pressed to the door and eyes closed to gather yourself.  You’re so relieved that it’s impossible not to smile despite the nagging worry at the back of your mind that Jimin might be upset at you just having given away what was originally his gift to you, but just as it starts to push to the forefront and cause your smile to falter, Jimin’s voice rings soft in your ear.  

“That was really kind, what you just did.”  You turn in the embrace of his arms as they settle around your waist, looking up into eyes that await you.  

“Really?  You’re not upset?”   

“No, kitten,” he assures, leaning down to rest his forehead on yours, a smile tugging at his lips, “I’m not upset.  Though, you’re awfully pious for the creature of the night, you know.”

“You make it sound like a bad thing.”  Smiling, you circle your arms around him too and Jimin begins to sway almost as if the two of you are dancing, hips swinging side to side.  

“Aside from making the rest of us look bad... of course not.”  Jimin’s lips find yours in a sweet, fleeting kiss, and when he pulls away his eyes are practically glowing with affection, cheeks full and rounded with happiness.  “If anything, it only makes me love you more.”  

Yoongi appears at your side, nuzzling into the crook of your neck with a low hum of agreement.  

“What about you, oppa ?” you ask teasingly, tilting your head in order to find his lips and speak against them.  

“You already know how we feel, princess.”  Yoongi nips at your bottom lip when you whine, chuckling deep down low.  Yes, of course you know - but that doesn’t mean you don’t like to hear it out loud.  “You know we adore you,” he whispers as Jimin assaults the other side of your neck with soft, lingering kisses.  “We cherish you, all of us.”  

Your two lovers pull away to reveal the rest of the group watching on; fond smiles on their faces, Jin’s chest puffed up with pride beneath the arms he’s folded across them.  Seeing them all there safe, happy and smiling - your family, your friends, your lovers, your everythings - it’s almost enough to bring you to tears.  Never would you have thought yourself capable of being able to love someone so much, or be so blessed as to receive so much love in return.

You’re so lucky.  So, so lucky.  

“Careful,” you say, blinking back the sting in your eyes, “You’re going to make me cry in a minute.”  

“Well we wouldn’t want that, would we, kitten?” Jimin teases, taking your hand in his and squeezing it tight as Yoongi claims your other, linking his fingers with yours.  “Anyone up for some pool?”  

Almost in perfect unison, your beloved vampires throw their hands up in the air - Jungkook shouting his enthusiasm with a ‘let’s get it!’ so loud that it almost makes you jump.  

“Dibs not with Jin-hyungie, ” Hoseok sing-songs up ahead as you make your way towards the hall, cue indignant shrieking from the eldest of the group and laughter from the rest.  

God, you love them.  You love them, you love them, you love them .  

“I love you,” you call out to them, unable to contain the affection that’s overflowing within you, tugging on your lover’s hands to pull them ever closer to your sides.  You can’t imagine anywhere else they should ever be - anywhere else that you could ever belong.  

“We love you!” Taehyung shouts back, and in his arms, Yeontan yelps his wholehearted agreement.  Up ahead, Jungkook throws his arms around Jin’s shoulders to drag him down low enough to ruffle his hair as they walk, insisting,

“But I’m still her favourite, you know?” 

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

*deep breath*

Oh, I hope you liked it...

Please, it would mean so much to me to hear your thoughts. Whether it just be about the ending or maybe you've been a silent reader all this time, I'd so love to know what you've made of all of this. I've been writing this fic for two and a half years and finally drawing it to a close has me feeling... pretty emotional to say the least.

Stay tuned for the short epilogue that I'll hopefully be posting once I return from my vacation.

I love you guys. I really do. Thank you for all your unending support - whether you've only just found this fic or whether you've been here since the start. Love you <3

[aliciadelaplaya]

So what should TRF do, exactly?

Yet again there have been almost defeaning calls on SM for TRF to DO SOMETHING about the  Sussexes.  So, I’d like to address this question, maybe throw in something of a reality check.

Most people should know by now that it is not in HMTQ’s power to remove the Sussex titles.  This can only be done by an Act of Parliament, and primary legislation at that. 

This means that the “motion” has to be debated by both the House of Commons and House of Lords. 

Now, just think for a minute, a debate, in the house of commons, with all those Black Female Labour MPs banging on about removing the titles from the, supposedly, first bi-racial member of TRF. Goodness, if people thought that the Sussexes incoherent and contradictory mud slinging about “conversations” about the colour of Archie’s skin was damaging to TRF, how much worse would it be to hear elected representatives of the British people (however ignorant, biased and downright stupid) accuse TRF of racism in The Mother of Parliaments.  Now that would be seriously damaging. 

And of course The British Government has far more important things it needs to Parliamentary time for.

Also, there is some sort of notion floating around Social Media that if HMTQ asks Parliament, then it will immediately be given.  Anyone who knows anything about the hundreds of years that it has taken the UK to go from an absolute to constitutional monarchy knows damn well that a) HMTQ would never dream of asking and b) HM’s Government would in no way automatically acceed to any request made by the Sovereign. 

Some people seem to think that we live in some sort of medieaval kingdom with an all powerful Monarch. 

Yet,  there are still those who are jumping up and down, calling HMTQ and PC fit to burn because they are “Not Doing Anything”

OK, so put your money where your mouth is? 

What should they do? 

Exactly. 

Go on,

tell us. 

What would you do if one of your sons or brothers, daughters or sisters had got themselves ensnared with a dangerous narcissist? When every word of warning, every well-meant piece of advice does nothing more than drive them further into the arms of their addiction.

What would you do if their mental state before they met this person was a matter of family concern and now, far from your care, deaf to your entreaties, was publicly deteriorating to the point that they have become a world-wide laughing stock?

Tell us.  What would you do?  They are an adult, one who has not been sectioned, free to make their own choices, to lead their own life.  They are your family.  What do you do?

How exactly are you going to stop him talking about you, spreading lies and gossip?  Go on, tell us, we’re dying to know.

What would you do if your beloved family member had made it clear to you that if their spouse leaves them, they will kill themselves?  Go on, what would you do?

What would you do if you believed that anything your family did could be the cause of anger on the part of the narcissist and put your loved one in danger.  What would you do, exactly, to stop them? Please tell us.  There are a lot of people out there who would love to know.

“Cut them off” many people are crying!  But that is what we know PC has done, albeit after providing his younger son and his wife with a substantial gift to help set them up in their new lives, as per the Megxit agreement. 

Tell the truth about the surrogates?  Yes, we would all like that, we know that niether of those children were born of her body, that they are not entitled to a place in the line of succession.  Yet, however much we jump up and down and say that TRF is “public property”, the fact is, they too are still entitled to basic human rights, and one of those is privacy.  It is not for TRF to tell the truth about the surrogacies, it is not their story to tell.  It is for Harry and his wife.  One day the truth will come out, it always does.  The TRF can not be the ones to let the cat out of the bag.  They just can not.

OK, so people jump up and down saying that HMTQ and PC are showing weakness by not responding to all these attacks.  So tell us, what exactly would  you do?  Exactly, what would you have done when?

They said that you don’t own the rights to the word Royal (which is true)? When every single speech that woman made duing lockdown by Zoom has a dig at your family.  Would you respond?  How?  Exactly.

When they set up a photoshoot trampling over war graves, insulting the memories of both the US and the UK fallen?  What would you have done to stop it?  Go on, do tell?

I can’t be arsed to dig out the list of all the insults, swipes etc that these two have levelled at TRF, HMTQ, PC etc.  Geniunely because I’ve forgotten most of them, there have been so many, they have lost their currency, they have been devaluted.  Even the massive fall out from the “bombshell” whineathon with OW, was overtaken by more whinging, it’s a deluge.  How could the sitatuation have been helped if, as it was rumoured PC wanted to do, each accusation was thoroughly challenged.  Can you imagine?

How many of you own or run companies?  How many of you have had, in any shape or form had people complain to you about products or services?  How many of you have received unjustified/maliciious/ignorant complaints - 100% I would guess.  And what is the best way of dealing with these?  Do you engage and argue with every minor point, do you want to “win” the argument.  Does it make you feel better to win by beating the complainent over the head with your greater wisdom, teaching them a lesson, showing them for the stupid, ignorant people they are?  What happens if you engage?  It never bloody stops.  But if you reply thanking them profusely for the incredible amount of time they have taken to give you feedback, if you thank them for their custom, if you offer them a discount/money back.  If you ARE NICE TO THEM.  Guess what?  THEY HAVE NO WHERE TO GO!  NOWHERE. Believe me, I’ve done both and I can tell you hands down which is the most satisfying and, ultimately the most productive in the long term.

The situation is the same here, if TRF engages in any shape or form it will be playing directly into the Narcs playbook and the Sussexes will push back, it will excite them, thrill them, give them power.  It will be more fuel for their global whinging and victimhood. It will be more interminable articles in Hello and Page Six (Does anyone read these publications) Look at the few times TRF have pushed back and H has come in, all guns blazing with legal letters (and what happened to all that, we wonder).   Have you noticed that since the word got out that TRF were not going to stand by silently, the BS stories about HMTQ having zoom calls with the mythical child, buying waffle makers have stopped?

They are much more careful now when they try to bring HMTQ into their lunacy.

“Love me, hate me, but NEVER ignore me” is the Narcs motto and it will be driving Harry’s wife mad that they have been completely iced and are not rising to their constant baiting.  But some of the Megxiteers are.  Effectively, the Megxiteers are doing the Sussexes work for them.  That sure is some fuel for the narc.

It makes me laugh when the MSM and SM get their knickers in a twist about the latest fuckwittery coming out of Montecito (or whever they don’t live).  They want the child to be christened in Windsor with HMTQ present.  Don’t make me larff!  That is never going to happen.  This is absolute kite flying at it’s worst.  It’s poking the bear and all these ridiculous Royal Reporters nod their  heads and make seemingly wise podcasts about the prospect of this happening (and they can do it with - mostly - straight faces), as if it was actually a possibility when I’d like to think that they, like me, believe that H and his wife have been well and truly iced, they are personas non grata. 

When the wife buggered off back to Canada after the Commonwealth service leaving her useless husband to tell more lies on his own, rather than with her at his side, I was convinced then that she will never set foot on these shores again and I stand by that view now as I did then. 

So, the latest stick with which the megxiteers have chosen to beat TRF with is that the second child is now on the website as being in the line of succession.  Yes, it is an absolute abomination, yes, it offends every fibre of my being, yes I want to expose these two evil hypocrites for this egregregious fraud that they are perpetrating on TRF and the rest of the British people.  Of course, like most of you, I want to see justice done, and I want it done NOW.  But life isn’t like that.  and just as Caesar’s wife has to be above suspision so do our (much loved) RF.  Look how we all noticed the careful wording of the Baby congrats on the birth of the second child, they know, we know, but TRF have to play a staight bat, they just have to.

While, in the SM bubble we can all get ourselves wound up, upset, angry, sure that the monarchy will fall etc etc outside, in the real world, most people don’t give a flying fuck about Harry.  He’s an idiot, an ex-royal, gone, finished.  He is not important either inside or outside TRF.

HE IS IRRELEVANT.

And, if anyone is wondering while all this stuff about book deals is coming out  now. I give you this:

The Mail on Sunday appeal - will probably run into next year The Bullying accusations - will probably run into next year. Tom Bower’s book (this is a biggy) - to be published next year?

The Sussexes are aware they are losing popularity, that is why each pronouncement is more and more ludicrous and each Hello article more and more desperate.

The Sussexes are aware they are under attack by forces outside TRF, and they are making their pre-emptive strikes at the low hanging fruit, the soft underbelly of his family. 

TRF are doing exactly the right thing.  Keep Calm, Carry On and while ignoring them won’t make them go away, it will make them look increasingly ridiculous.

This is true strength, not to rise to the bait, to carry on regardless. Remember our Queen has a strong and deeply held Christian faith, turning the other cheek is part of that, whether we like it or not.   TRF should not, under any circumstances sink to the level of Harry and his wife. 

Let’s just enjoy the H show for what it is, a mentally unstable ensnared fool doing everything he can to ensure he continues to receive the favours (sexual and otherwise) of the narcissist he married.  Because, imho, that is what it’s all about. 

Remember the engagement interview.  “I hope she loves me as much as I love her”. 

Sorry mate, that ship has sailed and nothing, nothing you can do will bring it back.

[spideyfic]

As You Walk on By (Will You Call My Name?)

Peter Parker made a deal with the Devil and now he's paying his dues.

(A purely speculative fic based on the set pictures from today)

He walks down Manhattan Avenue, snowflakes settling in his hair as he alternates between checking the building numbers and the address written on the piece of paper he holds. He’s not really familiar with Brooklyn, but the Brooklyn Daily Eagle ran an article about the holiday window art in a donut shop called Peter Pan, crediting the artist as Michelle Jones, and his heart had jumped right up into his throat.

He’s wearing Ben’s old jacket with the broken zip that has to be twenty years old, the padding bunched awkwardly in the back where May had tried to save money on dry cleaning by throwing it in the washing machine, and he should be cold, but he’s flushed with nervy excitement.

He knows this probably isn’t a good idea.

But he’s doing it anyway.

It feels strange to be walking down the street as Peter Parker without anyone batting an eyelid, after six months of being public enemy number one. Spider-Man might still be wanted, but Peter Parker is just a dorky loner wanted by nobody other than his Aunt May.

He finally sees the bakery, recognizes MJ’s artwork in the windows. There’s a penguin holding a menorah, and it makes him pause for a moment, remembering the hand-drawn Chanukah card she’d given him the first holiday after the Blip, featuring very same penguin. But then he sees her through the window, placing fresh donnuts on a tray, and he’s overcome with the need to see her again. He takes five big strides and yanks the door open, practically bursting into the store.

MJ looks up as he walks in, raising an eyebrow. She’s wearing a look of disinterest and a long, white sleeved tee under a truly hideous mint green tunic with a pink collar and cuffs. “What can I do for you?”

She’s there right in front of him, alive and well, and it’s almost overwhelming. He suddenly regrets coming to find her, her lack of recognition cutting him to the core, but he’s here now, staring at her with his mouth gaping open like he’s some kind of dumbass fish, so he squints at the menu behind her. “Uh – a small Ho Ho Ho hot chocolate to go, please.”

She fills a cup with chocolate powder and milk, holding it under the steamer. “Hey, you go to Midtown, right?” she says, looking back over her shoulder. “You’re in B stream.”

That’s news to him, but he rolls with it. “Yeah. Peter. I mean, I’m Peter Parker.”

“Alliterative,” she says approvingly. “I’m Michelle.” She finishes steaming the hot chocolate and holds up a can of whipped cream. “Cream?” she asks, shaking the can when he nods and squirting a generous amount on top of the chocolate before sprinkling it with crushed peppermints. “Do you want any donuts? Maybe a bagel?” She clicks the lid down on his drink and places it on top of the display cabinet.

The hot chocolate has already blown his budget, but he looks at the five-dollar donuts anyway. A red one catches his eye, decorated with a spider web. “Hey, is that a Spider-Man donut?” he says. “Do you guys support him?”

“We’re pro-Spidey,” she confirms. “The proceeds from that donut go to the Citizens to Defend Spidey fund.”

There goes the rest of his budget. “I’ll take two – Spidey-Nuts?” He squints at the label, thinking – hoping – he’s read it wrong, but nope, Spidey-Nut is there in the neat, flowing handwriting he recognizes as MJ’s. “You remembered the hyphen,” he says weakly, trying not to die of mortification.

“The hyphen is important,” she says seriously, wrapping two donuts in waxed paper and dropping them into a bag that he crams into one of his jacket pockets. “That’s $15.” As she holds out the payment terminal for him to tap his card, he spots a necklace – the necklace – in the vee of her tunic. He has no idea why it exists in this reality, but he’s glad it does. It reassures him that the last three years of his life weren’t some kind of fever dream.

“I like your necklace,” he says, and she reflexively looks down, hooking the chain with her thumb to let the broken pendant dangle. “A black dahlia, right? Like the murder?”

She smiles then, the shy grin she’d given him on Tower bridge, six months and an unaltered reality ago. “How did you know?”

“I used to know someone was into true crime,” he says, making himself look up from her softly curving lips to meet her gaze. “How come it’s broken?”

She shrugs, tucking it back under her tunic. “I don’t actually know? I just found it on my desk. I kind of like it better broken, though. I don’t know its story, but it feels – special, somehow.”

It’s suddenly all too much and he knows he has to get out of there. “I gotta go,” he mumbles, taking his cup. “Thanks.”

MJ looks startled. “OK. Maybe I’ll see you at school?”

“Maybe.” He summons a half-hearted smile and leaves the store as quickly as he entered, the cup clutched in his hand. He drops it in the trash without even taking a sip.

He feels sick, can’t stand that MJ looked at him like he was basically a stranger. But the alternative – MJ bleeding out in his arms, her last breath used to murmur his name – is far, far worse, and he would rather have her alive and not part of his life, than dead, all her passion and intelligence and compassion snuffed out in a moment.

He rewrote reality for her.

He erased any memory anyone in the world had of Peter Parker being Spider-Man to make sure she lived.

He made a deal with the Devil to save her life, and now he was paying his dues.

***

MJ locks the door and flips over the back in five! sign before she heads out to the back of the store. She doesn’t know why, but she feels out of step, discombobulated, like something in the universe had shifted that she wasn’t quite aware of. “Hey, Ned?” she says, stepping into the prep room.

Ned looks up, his hands sunk deep into a ball of dough. “You OK?” he says, his eyebrows knit in concern. “You look weird.”

She sits on a battered stool, tucking her feet behind the bar at the base. “That quiet kid from school just came in,” she says, holding her necklace between thumb and forefinger and twisting it mindlessly back and forth. “The one who wears all the geeky science tees.”

“Peter?” Ned rubs his palms together over the sink, sloughing off little balls of dough before washing his hands thoroughly. “We used to be friends when we were kids, but then his parents died and he moved schools in second grade. I tried talking to him when he started Midtown but he’s like super shy.”

“I feel like I know him,” she says. “There was this – I don’t know, it was like a connection.” She doesn’t tell Ned that she thinks Peter is cute, or that his dark eyes and sweet smile had made her pulse quicken.

He smirks anyway; he’s not her best friend for nothing. “We should talk to him at school,” he tells her, drying his hands on a paper towel. “I saw him wearing a Star Wars shirt before Christmas break. I need someone in my life that appreciates the greatest cinematic franchise of all time.”

Ned’s her absolute favorite nerd. He’s the easiest person in the world to be friends with – he’s all sweet, open affection, the perfect counterpoint to her more closed-off nature, and his kindness is infectious. She’d usually rib him about the Star Wars comment, but she gives him a pass this time, because he’s being all earnest and shit, and making friends with Peter Parker seems somehow inevitable.

“Yeah,” she says, contemplative. “Yeah, we should do that.”

Ned gives her one of his beaming, toothy smiles and pats her shoulder. “First day back, we’ll sit with him at lunch,” he says, returning to his kneading. “He always looks like he needs a friend.”

MJ watches him work, her mind still on the boy who’d burst through the door and looked at her like he’d found a long-lost treasure.

Peter Parker was a mystery.

She wanted to solve him.

[fluffykitty1999-blog]

Burned Chapter 17

Morning found Roy awake and downstairs before either of his boys, nursing his first cup of coffee and ambling down the road, wallet in hand.

There was a newspaper vendor at the corner of his street, always had been, and he was one of the early birds that morning, purchasing a paper as he'd promised Ed.

'SUSANS WINS ELECTION' was the headline, and Roy smiled slightly at the news- Ed would be pleased to read about it later.

'CENTRAL SLASHER STILL AT LARGE' was the next headline down, and Roy frowned, carefully tearing the paper in half at the crease so only the article on Susan's victory was visible. He left it on the table for Ed to find when he wandered downstairs, heading up to his study and scanning the article on the killings with fresh eyes, hoping that reading about it would jog his memory, give him some significant detail he'd missed before... No such luck.

Hughes was probably still at the office. Roy morosely wondered if he'd even been home- probably not. He couldn't exactly blame the man. Still, it was disheartening, knowing Hughes was spending so much time on this and Roy couldn't really help.

He found himself picking up the phone and dialing the familiar number anyways.

"Hughes here." his friend picked up on the fourth ring. He sounded exhausted.

"It's Roy. How are things?"

"Not good enough." Hughes said, tone sounding clipped. "I've interviewed everyone at those talks but the politicians themselves at that talk. Susans came in yesterday, but she didn't have anything helpful, and Trevors is coming this morning. I can't reach Xavier though, we've been calling every hour for who knows how long. The election is over, he has no excuse to be unreachable right now-" Hughes sounded thoroughly pissed, which was unusual for him. "Besides, any politician who gives a damn about their voters would want to keep them safe."

"Hughes, how long has it been since you've slept?"

The line was quiet for a moment. "I took a nap a few hours ago." he said simply.

"For how long?"

"Three hours. I've got coffee, Roy, I'll be fine."

"Right." Roy didn't sound convinced. "How are Gracia and Elicia holding up?"

Another pause, this one tinged with pain. "Good, I think. I haven't really been home. Gracia calls every few hours to let me know they're still alright, I told them both they aren't to leave the house with this freak still at large... Gracia seems alright, but I know she's miserable."

"Yeah, and so are you." Roy supplied. "Look, I'm not trying to be an ass here, but you're exhausted and could use the help. And Gracia and Elicia could use some company. So- hear me out here- let us help you."

"What are you proposing?" it was a testimate to how tired Hughes really was that he was even considering the offer.

"Ed and I have to go into the office today. But once we're done with that, I'll take Ed and Al over to your place. The boys can watch Elicia and I can escort Gracia out to do some shopping. We both know she hates being cooped up in the house. And on our way home we'll stop and visit you. You can have some time to talk to Gracia, and I'll look over your case notes. See if a fresh pair of eyes finds anything new. What do you think?"

"That's a good plan. You sure you don't mind?"

"If anything, it'll give me an excuse to duck out a little early this evening. You know I despise paperwork."

"Right. I- thanks, Roy, I really appreciate it. I'll call Gracia and let her know. She doesn't complain, but I know she's getting cabin fever. See you tonight."

"See you then."

Roy hung up the phone, thoroughly satisfied with himself.

That day at the office was uneventful, although Ed had discovered he could sneakily drop pens into the slots in Alphonse's armor when his brother was engrossed in a book, much to his younger brother's annoyance and Ed's merriment.

"So- why are we babysitting again?" Ed asked as they drove down the road towards the Hughes residence, looking bored.

"Because- Hughes has been at the office for days, and Gracia needs as escort to go shopping and she wants to see her husband. We shouldn't be too long- and even if we are, it's a favor for Hughes."

"Oh- alright." Ed didn't complain, probably because he didn't mind it if it was a favor to Hughes.

They arrived at the house without much fanfare- Gracia smiled when she saw them, but the smile didn't exactly reach her eyes. She explained that dinner was in the fridge for all of them, and that Elicia would probably like to listen to her favorite program on the radio and then play board games in the playroom.

She gathered her purse, looking happy to be going but a bit nervous as she scrutinized the boys. "We shouldn't be long. Are you boys sure you don't mind watching her?"

"Psh- piece of cake." Ed waved her off, beaming a reassuring smile. Elicia was already attempting to climb on Al's suit of armor like a jungle gym behind him. "We totally got this."

"You know the office phone numbers- both of them- in case of emergency." Roy said to reassure her, nodding to Gracia.

"Right, of course. Well- have fun! Elicia- be good!"

"I will, mommy! Big brother, why don't you stand still so I can climb better!"

"Because I'm not a jungle gym! And I don't want you to fall and get hurt!" Alphonse protested.

Ed was laughing to himself, watching the scene, amused, as Roy and Gracia left, being sure to lock the door behind them.

"Do you think they're alright?" Gracia asked, as she picked through the produce nervously at the store, Mustang standing beside her in his uniform, hands in his pockets.

"I think they'll be fine. Ed's more than capable, and even if he is a little reckless, Alphonse is always there to be practical. They have the phone numbers if they need anything."

"Of course." Gracia placed some apples into the grocery basket, still looking downcast. "I'm sorry- I didn't mean to question their abilities. I know Ed and Al are fantastic. It's just... this is the first time we've left Gracia alone with someone other than my mother to watch her. And with everything going on lately and Maes being at the office so much... it's been hard."

"I understand. It's a stressful time. But the sooner Hughes gets this case done, the sooner you all can rest easy. Besides- we'll be over to see him shortly. He's looking forward to seeing you- I could tell just by talking to him on the phone."

"That's true." Gracia brightened significantly at the thought of seeing her husband, and even gave Roy a wane smile. "Then I suppose I'd better hurry and finish this shopping so I can see him sooner.".

"Horsey, horsey! Faster horsey!" Elicia chanted from where she sat, perched atop Ed's back. Ed, for his part, was on all fours on the playroom floor, a rather degrading position, if you asked him, but still, it helped keep Elicia amused and from breaking flower vases, so he'd go for it.

"Al-" he groused, walking around as fast as he could muster without knocking his rider off his back. "Isn't it your turn to be the horse?"

"No. He's metal and too big. You need to go faster." Elicia said matter-of-factly, digging her heels into Ed's ribs.

"Yah!" Ed started and jumped, before starting to run around faster.

Alphonse snickered.

Fifteen minutes later, Ed was lying sprawled out on the floor on his stomach. "No more. No more."

"Aw. No more horsey?" Elicia looked saddened.

"No. Horsey has retired." Ed admitted, tired.

"Huh. My Daddy always is a horsey longer than that." Elicia looked disappointed, before pointing at the clock. "Big brother, what time does that say?"

"7:30." Alphonse supplied helpfully.

Elicia gasped, green eyes growing impossibly wide with excitement. "That means my radio program is on!" she grabbed Al's leather hand in her own, tugging him towards the stairs. "C'mon! You have to listen to it with me! You too, little brother!"

"'M not little." Ed mumbled halfheartedly from where his face was smushed into the carpet. "An' I'll catch up-"

He could already hear the metal clanking as Elicia pulled Alphonse downstairs.

Ed sighed, gathering himself and walking down slowly after them. Elicia was already laying on her stomach in front of the radio, feet in the air and chin perched on her hands, elbows on the ground as she stared excitedly at the radio.

Al had carefully selected the channel she asked for, and now the crackling radio-operator's voice announced the start of 'The Littlest Pony" radio show.

It was hard for Gracia to hide her excitement at seeing her husband- even if it was only in the office. Maes, too, looked excited, wrapping his wife in a bear-hug and not letting go for nearly a full minute.

Roy let them talk and settled himself behind Maes desk, eyes scanning the gore-filled pictures and casefiles with intense scrutiny.

While the couple talked at length about each other- how they'd missed one another, how Elicia was doing, how Gracia was holding up- the conversation eventually circled back to the case.

"Do you think it'll be over soon, Maes?" Gracia asked, looking hopeful.

"I'm doing my best, sweetheart. Roy was kind enough to come help me look over these case files..."

"Any leads?"

"No. Well, yes." Hughes ran a hand through his hair, looking frustrated. "We've interviewed everyone except the politicians. Susans came yesterday, she didn't have any useful information, and Trevors today, nothing new, but Xavier we still haven't been able to get ahold of anyone but his secretary. I'm afraid he may be a dead-end too- and then- I don't know what we're going to do." Hughes admitted, looking defeated.

"You're brilliant, honey, I'm sure you'll think of something."

A knocked sounded at the door, and they all looked up from their respective places.

"Come in." Hughes said, sounding weary.

The door opened to reveal a rather slight woman with honey-blond hair, carrying a small gift basket. Roy recognized her from her picture in the paper today- it was Susans, the woman who'd won the election for representative today.

"Hello Lieutenant Hughes." she offered him a warm smile.

"Miss Susans. Hello. Nice to see you again. Did you remember anything since our interview yesterday? Any new details?" he looked hopeful.

Susans shook her head. "I'm sorry, but I didn't. I just won the election, though- and I know how invested you are in this case. As my first move as our official representative, I brought you a small token of thanks for all your hard work." she nodded to Gracia, offering the basket to Hughes. "I hope I didn't intrude."

"Not at all. We were just discussing the cooperation of the candidates. Or lack thereof. You were the easiest to get ahold of." Hughes admitted.

"Oh, you've been having trouble reaching them? That's a surprise. I talked to Trevors today- he was disappointed to have lost, but agreed to work as one of my assistants. Good man. And Xavier said he'd be visiting you today. I'm surprised you haven't heard from him."

"You've heard from Xavier?" Hughes looked excited. "He's the only witness we haven't been able to reach for an interview. His testimony might crack this case!"

"He's been meaning to stop by for awhile, it sounds like. He's a rather... odd fellow, though. He seemed to nervous on the night of the last debate. He even went missing for awhile- I suspect he was in the bathroom. And then- when he was leaving for the night- well, I don't want to embarrass him..."

"Miss Susans. Any detail you remember could make or break this case. Please, I need to know." Hughes had already snatched up a nearby notepad and pen, staring at her intensely. Roy had now abandoned his casefiles and was watching the exchange as well, as was Gracia.

"Well- he- when he left after the debates, he was carrying a pink handbag. He has a wife, but she wasn't there that night, so... I suppose it could've been from a lover..."

The notepad and pen fell from Hughes slack hands and hit the floor.

"I'm sorry, can you repeat that please?" Roy was on his feet, shocked and disbelieving.

"He was carrying a pink purse that evening that he didn't have when he came in." Susans admitted, looking surprised by the intensity of their reaction. "I didn't think it was a big deal, in fact, I'd completely forgotten about it until you asked. Why? Is something the matter?"

"That's our man, Roy! Xavier is our man!" Hughes boomed, looking excited. "The purse! Ed mentioned the purse! It all makes sense!"

"No wonder your office has been having trouble reaching him, he's the one!" Roy thundered, looking equally excited.

"Is this significant to the investigation some how?" Susans asked, looking surprised.

Hughes was animated enough he might have sprung across the room and hugged her.

"Yes! Yes, Miss Susans, I think you've cracked our case!"

Susans smiled, looking pleased with herself. "Well, I'm afraid I don't understand how, but I'm glad I could help. Still, I'm surprised Xavier hasn't gotten in contact with you. I just spoke to him today on the phone. I gave him the same offer as I did Trevors- to work as one of my assistants."

"And what did he say?" Roy asked, still interested.

"He turned me down. Said he was disappointing by the results of the election, but he wasn't going to let it bother him any longer. He said he had to pay a visit to one of his greatest supporters and thank him in person today..."

"And who was that?"

Susans looked surprised. "You mean you don't know? He said his biggest supporter was YOU, Lieutenant..."

"Of course. Because I've been investigating the case this whole time... But why hasn't he been here yet, then?" Hughes asked himself softly.

"Oh- he said he didn't want to bother you at work. Said he'd rather visit your wife and daughter as well. I think he was planning on going to your home."

I need a lotta lattees to make it through these days....

Just kidding! But donations are always welcome at https://ko-fi.com/fluffykitty12

[mysticalmusicwhispers]

if it’s not too much to ask... india/china hcs pls? i know u ship it so i’d love to hear what ur opinions are!!

Thank you for asking friend!! It’s never a bother :)

Length Warning: Very, Very Long, A Lot Of Rambling

Preface: I honestly don’t know much in-depth stuff about India-China history (all the “history ramblings” is based on my previous knowledge + Wiki), so I don’t have a lot of grounding in what their relationship is like. Also, when writing their history I realized I still see them as a brotp (so the first part isn’t very shippy) but there are romantic ship headcanons at the end. See this cool post for other hcs!

+++

HISTORY RAMBLINGS

- I guess in Ancient Times, I see them having a friendly trading partner vibe; my personal hc of Ancient China is of someone who builds friendships for convenience, and then starts getting attached with time, so I think this is how his attitude was at first. He and India probably had some vague contact through diplomats and travellers who brought back tales to their own country, and then once trading and influence and religious imports (ex. Buddhism) really kicked off, they started actually interacting with each other (as people, not nations) and over time, that just kicked off into being closer and closer friends until they were basically lovers.

- In Hetalia canon China goes along with Zheng He (Ming Dynasty, early 1400s) on his voyages around the world (the episode with a giraffe), and historically they did make stops at India, where they traded and visited Buddhist temples and stuff; this would be fun to examine in terms of Indchu. I’m sure they had more opportunities to visit each other in person (in contrast to Romechu, the true long-distance relationship) but I’d like to see them just checking in on each other, talking about the news of the day and stuff! Talking about trade and the places they’ve seen; Yao rambling on and on about where he’s headed next, India interjecting time to time about things he’s heard about places far away from them. A moment of peace where they’re just super comfortable and relaxed with each other would be amazing

- Ok fast forward a bit to the 1850s-60s: Qing Dynasty is resting in pieces, the Opium Wars have thoroughly beaten China, the government is unstable from the Boxer Rebellion and there’s a bunch of hate at the ruling people, stuff happens. India has been taken by Britain and it’s Not Fun; these two old men are down in the dumps and being bitter together. I don’t think they’re “dating” or whatever rn because there’s just too much on both of their plates, but they are still close friends and still mutually hate England together. I can see them having tense arguments with each other out of pure stress, complaining about who has it worse: India, who has been made into a colony! *gasp* “My pride has been killed, Yao!” and China, who is basically a colony to 5 nations all at once and also reeling from losing HK to Britain. They know exactly how to hurt each other by this point, but they also know they don’t really mean it, and things usually blow over after they’re in their right minds again.

****Also, Indian sepoys were used by Britain to fight China, and Indian opium was shipped to China as well; I think that might have been a sticking point for a while, but I think Yao would’ve slowly accepted that India was not the one making decisions in the end. 

- The World Wars: India is in the Gallipoli campaign, conscripted by Britain, China is fighting on the side of the British and French but does not gain a single thing from winning, and has also lost the First Sino-Japanese War (I think Hetalia canon says China got his scar from there). Then Japan invades China, and he and India are fighting together in WWII against China’s estranged sibling/brother/vague relation. Both are beaten to the core, still bitter, but they keep reminding each other that they will just have to weather the storm and wait for their moment. This too shall pass. Same mood as the beginning of imperialism, but more tired and more done.

- After India’s Independence and China’s Government Overhaul: 1950s: India was one of the first non-Communist countries to recognize the PRC instead of the old ROC, but I think they started distancing from each other a little while after? There were territorial disputes with Nepal and I think both countries’ governments might have told them to cut it out and be less friendly with each other because they had rather clashing agendas

- Things seem to be relaxing just a bit, but then the Sino-Indian border dispute (1962) happens, and then there are other clashes near the border, and they don’t know if they can trust each other. Additionally, there’s the Sino-Soviet split, and India is getting help from the Soviets, and it makes things more complicated between them. The relationship is on shaky ground right now, and if they meet in person, both are putting on an impersonal facade. Not very friendly. I think they’re still cooling off until at least the late 1970s, when China’s economic reform happens.

- Skipping to Modern Day: they are cool again and are close friends again. However, they know their countries are competing in population, economy, world status/power, but they’re still friends. They know it might end badly, but I think they’ve learned to roll with the good times and savor it; their pride and hearts have been stomped on already so they don’t care anymore and take risks even if they might come out feeling a bit broken. They are buddies, and they might be dating, and they don’t really care about the boundary between friends and lovers. They are comfortable with each other.

- This article, published in 2007 by Harvard Business Review, presents an interesting take on China and India’s relationship, and in particular, their economies: it says that although people think they’re destined to be rivals because of their competing business sectors, they have developed complementary strengths and it’d be foolish not to work together. I think that could somewhat summarize Indchu’s relationship with each other in the hetaliaverse; they complement each other, and even if they might become competitors, it won’t affect their friendship/relationship because they just fit together. They click; it’s not forced friendship or whatever, they just integrate into each other so well (it’s almost like they’re meant to be together).

- There are border skirmishes (ex. the incident in June 2020), but I’m not really sure how that would factor into their relationship? Maybe they’ve gotten over it and they both know the other personification doesn’t like the fighting, and that their government’s opinions come first? Or maybe it’s still unresolved between them, because India has known Yao for a long time and knows what he’s capable of, and Yao knows what a potent force India can be when he wants? Idk. I think the idea of unresolved tension is more accurate, but I also like this ship because it’s soft and /mostly/ pure in modern day and I sometimes really want to ignore historical accuracy

ONTO THE GENERAL SHIP HEADCANONS!

- They argue with each other a lot, basically like an old married couple; their jibes at each other don’t mean anything though. China insists it’s so their wits stay sharp.

- Also they have debates over various academic topics; it’s basically their fun hobby by now. They’re both intellectually matched and read rather voraciously, so it’s a fun challenge (and keeps their wits sharp)

- I mentioned it before but it’s worth bringing up again: they know exactly how to hurt each other with their words; they just don’t get into bad fights often so they don’t need to cut each other to pieces.

- China is the less sentimental one, but they’re both really good at picking out tasteful, meaningful gifts for each other. “Experiences over material items/gifts” doesn’t really appeal to either of them; they’d much rather stay home being cozy than “gifting” each other a week in the Caribbeans or something.

- T e a  l e a v e s (No Teabags unless Strictly Necessary). No coffee, sugar, cream, or milk. Sometimes India jokes about switching over to coffee or drinking tea the British way, and Yao just goes “You’re canceled”, dead seriously.

- They wear each other’s traditional clothing sometimes. Occasionally Yao asks India to wear a hanfu instead of a changshan (men’s equivalent of qipao) because he thinks it’s more traditional (qipao was invented in the 1920s). India has managed to stuff Yao into a qipao at least three times, and has pictures to prove it.

- India likes running his fingers through China’s hair (he says it’s really soft, a comment that makes Yao scoff every time) and he sorta hates his ponytail for that reason alone. Yao knows this, and he tries to make up for it by letting it down more on weekends, when he doesn’t have to look presentable (also India insists Yao looks presentable all the time, another comment that always earns a scoff).

- They teach each other their own dishes. China has been getting in the habit of substituting beef and pork for other things, mainly tofu/chicken/shiitake mushrooms

- They take walks together in the evenings after dinner when they’re in the same place. As long as it’s still light out and the weather’s not too bad, they will do it every day (even if it’s raining, they might just bring an umbrella).

- Their way of showing affection is a) with gifts and b) just talking to each other about anything. It’s their way of winding down for the day and being comfortable with each other; they have long talks about random, silly little things that happened, perhaps a funny (or stupid) meme/joke their siblings sent, or dumb stuff that happened with their boss at a meeting.

- I think they’d call each other nicknames in private. It wouldn’t be something too “sickly sweet” I guess, but something to show they care. They use nicknames sparingly as well, so it doesn’t lose meaning through overuse. (I personally hate nicknames so I’m not giving out any suggestions here, but I think Yao would use something like “亲爱的” for India, basically means “dear/beloved”. Not too flashy or sweet, but still affectionate.)

- China gifts houseplants to India’s apartment/house because he knows India likes them (I think he’s a green thumb). China doesn’t really bother with decorative plants; he prefers to grow spring onions and other low maintenance shit that he can use in his cooking lol he’s all about the practicality

- During ancient times, they had lengthy, invigorating discussions about mathematics, either through letters or in person.

- They aren't really affectionate in public; PDA is limited to hand holding and occasionally a kiss on the cheek. Neither China nor India are the type to “show off” their relationship or their partner.

- Adding onto that, they don’t really announce their relationship to everybody but if you ask them, they’ll tell you. Basically you have to be the one to notice something’s up; they just don’t think it's necessary to share every little bit of information about their lives with people. They're the “secretly married” couple trope; signs of affection are rather subtle but still noticeable because they don’t act that way to other people.

- China forced India to get a Wechat so he can send India 10¥ red packets every week just because he has the app

- Not really a ship headcanon, but these two would throw the best parties??? Like if you want a party that’s really loud and noisy and fun, ask them. They may be old and “not fun” or whatever but they know how to organize large scale events effectively and how to achieve the correct atmosphere, and despite all Yao’s siblings’ trash talk, they usually pull off very stylish, sleek functions/events. Maybe it’s a little tacky here and there but it’s barely noticeable, and everyone is just. Awed.

Yeet that’s it; thank you for reading! This got really long, and I feel like a lot of the headcanons were rather platonic, but yeah! Hope you like it!

[apex-academy]

Chapter 5: Caring Is a Hazard to Your Health (#24)

After an extended nap and some light reading, I head out to supper. 

Seems quiet in here.

Only natural at this point. Just 8 people—

Stop. It...

It’s just quiet because Aidan isn’t here at the moment. Yeah.

Still, silence beats fighting. I hop in the kitchen to make some vaguely lumpy onigiri and eat it in there. Not feeling sociable yet. I’ll probably head upstairs for the rest of the evening. Get a few games in. Or...

“I could go further upstairs than that...”

I still feel like I haven’t been that thorough looking through the new floor, and now...

Where did that key come from, anyway? To show up in the gym... It was right after we got our motive, so any of us could have dropped it then. Even Monochap.

There’s no telling. I’ll just investigate and hope this doesn’t turn out to be some kind of trap. If someone wanted this to be found, then... probably Kanagi? She started Horse. Not easy to believe she’d mastermind a trap like that, though, so I won’t point any fingers yet. It’s probably just what it looked like, anyway. Slipped out of a pocket somewhere.

Impatiently, I finish up my supper and head out. I cross Tsunyasha in the hall, but she doesn’t make any death threats, so not worth my attention. Maybe I ought to be hunting Mahavir down instead, but... I’ll just burn myself out if I’m not careful.

I check the Nurse’s Office anyway, but it’s empty.

Upstairs, then.

This many flights is a bit of a haul, but I’m not that tired. That, and I should probably double-check the shutters they’ve been using in here.

...Yup. There’s still a flight closed off. At least it keeps moving up.

“All right. Let’s see if I can get into anything.”

I dig around the Computer Room first, just in case I may somehow get access to a computer, but it’s not looking promising. If there are any secret compartments in here, they don’t have visible keyholes. Kind of a long shot, anyway. 

I go ahead and try the mysterious office at the far end of the east wing, but the key doesn’t even start to fit. Figures.

Finally I move to the Secretary’s Office. The door is unlocked, but...

“Probably my number-one suspect.”

I jiggle the key into the file cabinet’s key slot. It actually goes in, which is a good start, but it sure doesn’t want to turn. Maybe I’m wrong.

“Doubt I’m going to snap this thing in half, though.”

I give it another two rounds of heave-ho before it finally turns. I rub my fingers to try to get the key impression off of them before reaching for the topmost handle.

“Is there some way to make sure I’m not about to set off a bomb?”

Not that I know of, so I’ll just have to hope. Can’t see any wires running into the cabinet, so that’s a good sign.

The drawer offers some resistance, too, making a series of clangs as I pull and push on the handle. But then something manages to rattle loose, and the drawer comes on out. Not all the way, thankfully, since that probably would have knocked me over. But far enough to see the contents. Five files hang between the sides of the drawer, so widely spaced it still feels eerily empty. All but the first are labeled at the tab.

“Aidan, Aki, Arthur...”

These are files on us? In... first-name alphabetical order for some reason, but the secretary’s personal preferences probably aren’t worth worrying about. I reach for the unlabeled file. The thing is full up, but it looks like most of the papers are copies of blank forms. Mostly demographic-looking. Not terribly informative. But at the front...

“ ‘ Recruitment Guidelines’.”

If the files in this cabinet are on students, I doubt it’s guidelines for recruiting staff. As far as the student side goes, I honestly know precious little aside from the fact that they do recruit. I think there was something flowery about my qualifications on my acceptance letter, but I can’t remember the details now. So I can’t exactly verify this, but it looks authentic enough.

“ ‘Must be a legal resident of Japan or be or become fluent in Japanese within one year’...”

A lot of the qualifications are kind of arbitrary with a nice touch of legalese, so that’s not helping me any. The only thing that really strikes me is how vague the most significant qualifications are.

“ ‘Has performed a feat or collection of feats that could not be expected of any other student’.”

“...Have I done that?”

I guess tournaments must count. Otherwise, I’m not sure how I qualify. But it makes sense. It was probably similar for Kazusuke and Kanagi, and maybe some of the artistic talents. Seems boring, almost, but otherwise this school would just be a collection of obscure world record-holders, wouldn’t it?

At any rate, this isn’t helping my search for the young master. Or whatever I’m searching for right now. Honestly I feel like I just showed up over here without an actual goal in mind besides “try key.” But whatever. No one else should be coming in here, so I can take all the time I need. Might be nighttime soon, but that just means less chance of anyone being out to see me by the time I finish.

Anyone who follows the rules, at least. But no one would be looking for a victim so soon, right...? I won’t worry about it. Maybe bring some kind of blunt implement with me on the way back, but. Not worth any more thought than that.

I put the recruitment guidelines away semi-neatly and browse the rest of the cabinet. There are a few files in each drawer. At least, each drawer I can get too. Bottom one’s thoroughly jammed. I can deal with that later if I feel the need to. For now...

“...My file.”

This is the closest I could possibly get to verifying this cabinet’s info. I pull out the file with my name and stare at it.

“Why do I feel nervous about opening it?”

It’s not like it's a report card or anything. Probably? Would they have those mixed in here, too?

But there’s no reason for me to be nervous about that, anyway?? Just shut up and read it.

I start flipping through. Aside from a few oblique mentions, I don’t see any grades in here. Just the demographic-ish paperwork. That, and a few grainy copies of championship certificates. Guess I got accepted here for consistency, because no single one of these is that huge a deal. Unusual for someone my age, maybe, but... 

“Anyway, seems legitimate enough.”

Time to check out the rest. I put my file back and start at the top. Aidan’s first, then. I remove his file and gaze at it in my hands for a while. Seems kind of personal, now that I think about it. But most of this would be public information, anyway, right? That, or something that’s no big deal, like hometown.

Well, I won’t find anything either way if I don’t even look. Open sesame.

First few pages are the same forms, filled out differently. He is indeed from America, specifically Oshkosh, Wisconsin.

“Never heard of either of those, but sure, why not.”

Blah, blah, height, weight, medical conditions... Nothing earth-shattering. And then...

“What the heck? Everything on this page is redacted.” Aside from a few prepositions that don’t tell me anything, all the text has been reduced to a stuttering black line.

I try looking at the other side, then holding it up to the light, but it gets me nowhere. Nothing I can do with this besides think about it, and I can save that for later. There’s a newspaper clipping in here that looks a lot less difficult to read, so I’ll try that.

“ ‘Bioterrorist Attack Kills Three, Hospitalizes Eleven Others’.”

It goes on to summarize a recent anthrax-like attack on an air control tower that pretty much took out everyone there, lethally or otherwise, within a few minutes. One Abe Sorakubo managed to hang on long enough to redirect traffic despite technical difficulties and guide one plane safely to the ground when it was unable to change course. Abe remains in critical condition...

“...’but has received a better prognosis than the 12-year-old child caught up in the attack alongside him’.”

The child had already stopped breathing by the time EMS found them on the floor of the control tower wearing one of the controller headsets. Abe stated that the child was an aspiring air traffic controller, and he wanted them to be able to wear it before they died, even if they were already unconscious at the time.

“...........”

Yeah, three guesses who the 12-year-old child was. Is it really okay for me to be reading this? I mean, if it was in the news, a lot of people already have, right? And whoever was putting together the recruitment files read it, too. They even highlighted the bit just before Abe’s statement.

I quietly refile the papers and put the folder back. Next is Aki...

“...”

I don’t know if I can do this right now. Maybe I... I’ll come back to her later. 

Arthur, then.

Still hurts a little to thumb through his profile, but it’s a muted enough pain by now. At least we weren’t really friends. Classmates, for sure, but...

“...........”

Anyway.

Born on some kind of British military base in Germany, looks like. And lots of travel from there. Even his list of actual residences goes on for pages. Nothing in here seems suspect, though.

Instead of third-party material, his additional insert is more of a handwritten memo. Notes on his total distance travelled, the success of his blog, and an addendum that Super High School Level Hitchhiker may not be a very standard sort of talent but would nonetheless fit him and the standards of the school.

I flip through everything again just to be sure, but still, nothing of interest. “He’s been a lot of places” is about the whole gist of it.

“Ichiriki, then.”

I sort through his main file, which tells me a whole lot of nothing. Heir of the Tokino Hardware empire. No major moves.

No psychological profiles or anything, either. That would be too helpful, huh?

Instead of a single news article, his has several, though none of them actually have photos of his art. A few of them explain that he considers photography an abomination against everything chalk art represents. None of them specify what it’s supposed to represent, but I guess that’s to be expected.

At any rate, it really does look like he’s here as the Super High School Level Chalk Artist. As much as I’d like to say he has some fake talent to hide his involvement in this whole thing as some kind of warped observational psychologist, between this and his actual art skills, I really have no basis for saying anything like that.

Darn. He’d make an awfully convincing bad guy.

Maybe not so much at the moment, but. Overall. I can’t discount him entirely just because his talent is genuine, though, so there’s still that.

And that’s all the files for the top drawer.

“...........”

I’m weirdly tired already. Maybe I should take a break before I start overlooking any real clues. This cabinet won’t be going anywhere, right? And it probably is getting late by now.

“...”

I lock up the cabinet with much less struggle than it took to unlock it. I tug at each drawer afterwards, but they’re all sealed up pretty well.

All right, then. I can jump back in tomorrow morning.

Assuming nobody’s dead by then.

“...............”

Let’s just get moving.

[BACK] [NEXT]

[taexual]

HOLIC - 44 | jb x reader

pairing: Im Jaebum x Reader

genre: enemies to lovers au | roommate au

warnings: it’s just raw angst

words: 7.2k

disclaimer: i do not own the gif, please let me know if it belongs to you, so i can give proper credit

           prev / next

It only took you a few days to finish editing all of the pictures you’d taken of Jaebum that night. You ran them by him first – and smacked him when he tried to make you swear he’d always be your only model – and then emailed them to his agency. You still needed their approval so, even though Jaebum had insisted you take these pictures, it was possible that his employers were going to end up hiring someone else, after all.

Except, as you learned on your way to work that Friday, they didn’t. As it turned out, the only problem Jaebum’s producer had with the pictures you’ve taken was that he couldn’t choose one. It felt like the biggest compliment you’ve ever been told.

The entire day would have been wonderful – Fridays already carried a certain aura of just being plain great – had it not been for a text Jiho sent you right when you were wrapping up, ready to head home. Apparently, his old friend was holding an exhibition at one of the out-of-town galleries he’d worked with before so you needed to keep your Saturday free.

Grateful that he’d warned you—sort of—in advance this time, you texted back in confirmation and were surprised to learn that Jiho actually expected you to bring your camera to the exhibition. For a moment, you thought he’d found out you’d taken Jaebum up to the balcony and had completely stolen Jiho’s photoshoot spot, so he was now going to get back at you by taking your camera and locking it away or something equally as unrealistic. But then you realized that made no sense – even if he had learned about your impromptu photoshoot, why would he try to get back at you? You’d done nothing wrong. Quite the opposite, actually.

Getting the approval of Jaebum’s agency provided you with a huge boost of confidence that you obviously needed. They liked your pictures so much, they didn’t know which ones to use – that had to mean you were, at least, somewhat better than average at what you did. What was more, that had to mean that, perhaps, you’d been too pessimistic about the number of opportunities you would get to make yourself known. Maybe you wouldn’t have to completely rely on Jiho to get your name out there, after all.

In the time leading up to the exhibition you had to attend with Jiho that Saturday night, you couldn’t get the memory of the photoshoot with Jaebum out of your head. Taking pictures of him had been nothing short of wonderful. You both had fun – although you did nearly freeze your hands off – and just seeing him through the lens of your camera inspired you so much, you had come up with three new ideas for a photoshoot if this one didn’t work out. But it did work out. Not only did you thoroughly enjoy the photoshoot itself, but the end result was also splendid. You couldn’t have been happier.

However, ruining the utter bliss of your routine with Jaebum as the two of you munched on pizza in his bed that Friday night, you got a call from Hyojin who was demanding to see you immediately. Normally, you’d have turned any offer to go out down – there was simply nothing you’d have rather done that what you’d already been doing – but because she was one of your best friends and, frankly, she sounded absolutely terrifying on the phone, you forced yourself out of bed.

“Are you seriously leaving right when Johnny Depp discovers the—”

“Oh, no,” you stopped Jaebum by extending your hand in front of his face. “Just because you’ve seen Sleepy Hollow before doesn’t mean you get to spoil the ending for me. Or watch it without me. Pause it, I won’t be long.”

“That’s not the ending, it’s barely even the middle,” he mumbled, pausing the movie nevertheless. “And are you saying I’m going to have to stare at the ceiling while I wait for you?”

“It’s just fifteen minutes,” you said. “Jacob’s dropping her off in front of our building. There’s no way Hyojin will make him wait for very long.”

“Why is she coming all this way over here, anyway?” he asked, already knowing all about your friends and their boyfriends. “And, at this hour, nonetheless?”

“It’s nine on a Friday night,” you said matter-of-factly. “She was probably out drinking like normal people do. It’s just you and I who get drunk on a Monday night instead.”

Jaebum grinned at the jab. “Fair point. I’ve paused the movie for you – consider that when you’re out and don’t keep me waiting for too long.”

“I will keep your sacrifices in mind,” you leaned over to kiss him and then stumbled out of his bedroom, your jeans still only halfway on.

Hyojin hadn’t been to your neighborhood before and it showed – she had her boyfriend drive around the block three times before she called and got you to come to the building they’d eventually parked outside of. But even despite getting lost, she looked like she thought that coming all the way over here was worth it.

“It’s great to see you,” you told her after the two of you hugged hello. “But, seriously, what’s up? You’ve never driven this far for me before, usually we just—”

“No, I know,” she cut you off, pulling her phone out of her pocket. “But you need to see this. I couldn’t text you the link because, well, yelling at you over text is not the same as yelling at you in real life. So, here. Look.”

She pressed something on her phone and then passed it on to you.

From the looks of it, Hyojin had opened up a tabloid site – with some very bad formatting that warped the text in every second paragraph – but you didn’t get to check what kind of site because your eyes immediately caught Jiho’s name in the headline. And then your name following right after.

“Oh, shit,” you muttered under your breath, reading on.

The article seemed to be a quick recap of the dinner you’d attended with Jiho earlier this week. It was accompanied by some high-quality pictures of the people who were there – and thus, you realized that this wasn’t actually a tabloid site at all, this must have been a blog-like website by one of the dinner guests – but its’ main focus, without a doubt, was the “budding relationship between the most promising young photographer” – Jiho – “and his muse” – you.

“I’m not—this wasn’t supposed to—oh, fuck,” you tossed around helplessly, handing Hyojin her phone back. “How did you even find this?”

“I didn’t. Jacob showed it to me,” she replied, her face executing every sign that she was about to scold you good. “One of his friends from publishing was at that dinner, so he was showing Jacob the pictures and Jake thought he’d recognized you. Turns out, his friend was actually looking forward to meeting you. He’d referred to you as “Jiho’s girlfriend.”

“God, no, it’s not—”

“Yeah, I sure hope it’s not,” Hyojin continued, too fired up to let you finish, “because this implies that you’re still in touch with that asshat and, not just that, but you’re also dating him.”

You momentarily recalled your last conversation with May at Mark’s bar. Evidently, she’d kept quiet about the revelation that your entire future depended on Jiho, so Hyojin was completely in the dark about it all.

“I’m not. I swear, I’m not. I would never! Jaebum—he’s right upstairs, waiting—God, this is messed up,” you brought your hands over your face in an attempt to collect your thoughts so you’d finally form a coherent sentence. “Listen, you can’t tell anyone because I’m not sure if I’m allowed to speak about this – at least not to the press – but—”

“Well, go right ahead,” she urged, “I’m not the press.”

“Yeah, but Jacob is,” you nodded your head towards the car Hyojin had just stepped out of – or, perhaps, sprinted out of would have put it more accurately since she hopped right out, slamming the door shut before you even got a glimpse of her boyfriend.

“He’s not that kind of press,” Hyojin rolled her eyes. “He doesn’t care about some photographer that’s fresh out of the womb. No one does. No offense.”

You didn’t take offense – she was right. As Mark had pointed out in his bar the other day, the only people who cared about photographers were other photographers.

“Right,” you swallowed. “Well, this was Jiho’s idea. He thought I should get some exposure before my exhibition.”

Hyojin frowned. “Why does he get to decide that?”

God, you thought you appreciated May for not telling the rest of your friends about this – she must have thought you should have been the one to do that – but now you wished she had, just like she revealed the truth about who your roommate was. You’d planned to keep Jaebum’s identity a secret but ended up spilling it all to her while wine-drunk and, in turn, May had told the rest of your friends. If she’d done the same thing now, perhaps you wouldn’t have had to face Hyojin’s judgemental eyes.

“Because,” you closed your eyes, “it’s his gallery.”

“What?”

“Yeah,” you groaned, your fingers suddenly very drawn to your scalp and, particularly, ripping your hair out of it. “God, it’s a long story.”

“Honey,” your friend put her hand on your shoulders, a very determined expression on her face, “I’ve got all night.”

Jacob pulled his window down, having overheard her say this. “You really don’t, love. We have a movie to catch in half an hour. Hello, by the way.”

“Hey, Jake,” you gave him an awkward wave which he acknowledged with a nod and then slid his window back up, giving you and Hyojin some privacy – even though he could, clearly, hear everything from inside of the car anyway. “You should go, Jin. I swear nothing’s happening. His gallery reached out to me and offered me… something. It’s not just an exhibition, it’s a whole ton of other stuff, too. It’s a great contract, really. But before I get to lay claim to any of those perks, I have to become more well-known so that my first exhibition isn’t a complete bust. That dinner is a part of a-a PR stunt, you know? Like, we were supposed to appear together as two photographers, having dinner—”

“Is that not what you did?” she asked, interrupting you.

“It is, but—well, they’re calling me his muse,” you replied. “Not his colleague. So, that’s not exactly what was supposed to happen but, I guess, it’s still exposure.”

“Are you going to do something about this, then?” she continued.

“I don’t know what I can—”

“And what does Jaebum think about this wonderful stunt?”

Her questions already made it difficult to catch your breath but this last one seemed to punch you right in the lungs.

“He doesn’t know,” you wheezed out, not raising your eyes from the pavement.

For the second time that night, Hyojin’s jaw opened and froze in that position. “What?”

“N-no, I mean, he knows I’m doing these events for publicity,” you tried to explain, guilt flashing all over your face. “He just doesn’t know—”

“That they’re with Jiho?” she raised her eyebrows in an oddly accusing manner. “Babe, what are you doing?”

“I’m—”

She shook her head, choosing not to listen to another excuse. “You have to tell him.”

“I will!” you said, sounding far too exasperated. You’d already told everyone but Jaebum and the constant promises you made about telling him were starting to weigh down on your consciousness. “He’s just been so happy, getting that contract with an agency, and all. Everything’s going so well, it just doesn’t feel right to piss on his parade. He wanted this for so long.”

That sounded like an excuse and both of you knew it.

“Don’t think you’re doing him a favor by not telling him,” Hyojin reprimanded immediately.

“I know I’m not,” you said. “And I will tell him. Just not right this moment.”

“Well, if he sees the article, it will be too late, won’t it?”

“He won’t see it,” you said and then, after a moment of panic, added a fearful, “will he?”

Hyojin sighed. “Honestly, no, he probably won’t. The only reason Jake even saw that was because of that co-worker who showed it to him. There are probably, like, six people who read that website and I don’t think Jaebum is one of them. I hope that isn’t the kind of publicity Jiho meant.”

“I hope not,” you echoed. “Although it makes sense that no one cares about this. We’re irrelevant.”

“No, he had one thing right – people don’t care about these dinners but they do care about who’s dating whom, even if the people in question aren’t too famous,” she said. “Sex sells—”

Your eyes widened. “Sex?”

“You know what I mean,” she waved your surprise off. “People care about that shit. They want to know who’s sleeping with—”

“It’s just—just a few events,” you cut her off, just the mere mention of anyone assuming you and Jiho were having sex enough to send your stomach into a panicked frenzy. “Any publicity is good publicity, right?”

“Well, Jake would disagree but he’s not trying to become a celebrity. He just writes about them.”

“Right,” you nodded, allowing the looming awkward silence to finally engulf you both.

“Are you sure you’re doing the right thing?” Hyojin asked another uncomfortably long moment later.

“No. I’m not sure about anything,” you replied honestly. “But I want that exhibition and if that’s the only way—”

“You know it’s not,” she disagreed right away. “And, frankly, faking a relationship with someone doesn’t seem worth it.”

You continued to count the tiles on the pavement, feeling – and looking – like a scolded kindergartner. Any other time, you’d have felt like she just didn’t understand your situation. Merely a few days ago, you were convinced you weren’t good enough to find a place to host your exhibition some other way, but now you’d achieved a huge breakthrough with the pictures you’d taken for Jaebum. Now you believed in yourself a little – oh, alright, a lot – more.

“This isn’t long-term,” you decided to say. “It’s just a few weeks tops. That’s two or three more events and I’ve got another one tomorrow night. It’ll all be over before long: I’ll have my exhibition and then I can forget all about Jiho.”

“Hmm,” Hyojin had crossed her arms and was now looking decidedly skeptical. “And, I suppose, you’ll tell Jaebum about this another decade later, yeah? I don’t really understand why you—”

“I’m afraid,” you cut her off. She didn’t seem to understand why you sounded so agitated so, after sighing so deep, your whole chest began to ache, you explained, “I don’t want to lose him. I’ve already fucked up before and it lead to some hefty arguments. But that was before we were together, so they weren’t as significant.”

“When are arguments ever not significant?”

“Fine, they were significant,” you said. “But they never posed a threat to our relationship because there wasn’t one. And now that there is, I’m afraid that if we fight, it will break us up.”

“So, what, you’ll spend the rest of your life walking on your tip-toes, avoiding arguments with him because you’re afraid?” Hyojin asked. The more she talked, the less your words made sense to you. Suddenly, you couldn’t understand why you kept talking at all.

“No,” you said awkwardly. “No, that’s just stupid, I can’t avoid arguments with him for the rest of my life, but it’s so soon. We’ve only been together for, what, a few weeks, a month—”

“When did you move in with him?”

“I-I don’t know, a few months ago,” you blinked, not sure how this question was relevant. “Maybe three, three and a half—”

“Alright, so you’ve been with him for three and a half months, then,” Hyojin concluded.

“No, but we weren’t together before—”

“No,” she declared louder so she could talk over you – just like she seemed to do the whole night tonight. “No, babe. Every argument you’ve had with him since the day you moved in was equally as significant, and yet, not a single one posed any threats to your relationship. Not-a-single-one, you hear me? Because, from what you’ve told me, you and him have gotten pretty intense with each other before and yet, neither of you moved out. Not even when you didn’t think you were going to end up together. You have some real stuff between you, you know what I mean? The kind of stuff that can’t be broken by arguments… but might get irrevocably stained by secrets.”

You didn’t have a response to give her and sighed instead but Hyojin understood everything you couldn’t say just from your breath.

“You don’t want to do this with Jiho, either,” she said gently. “So, don’t put yourself through something you don’t want to do. Do it your way. So what if it takes longer?”

It wasn’t the first time someone had said that to you and it certainly wasn’t the first time that you considered the weight of these words. They were heavy but that was the case with the truth – it weighed you down until you could barely move.

“We said we were going to do this together,” you whispered under your breath, the engine of Jacob’s car nearly drowning your words out. “So, if I don’t do this, I’ll just have to watch him walk away from me.”

“Walk away from—honey, no,” Hyojin sighed, wrapping her arms around you, her sweet perfume so familiar, you almost started to cry. “He wouldn’t.”

“He wouldn’t have a choice,” you insisted. “That’s how life works sometimes. I don’t want it to. I don’t want him to—I just want us to do this together.”

“And you will,” she promised, pulling away slightly so she could look at you. “But maybe at different speeds. But who the hell cares? You were together before fame and you’ll be together after. You’ll wipe your stars on the Hollywood Walk of Fame together and then walk into the sunshine, hand-in-hand. Who cares if you’ll host your exhibition a month, or a year after he releases his album?”

You cared, sniffling as you refused to meet her eyes. “A lot can happen in a year.”

“And a lot will,” she nodded. “But you two had already gone through so much, you might as well go through a little bit more.”

“What if that’s where the breaking point is? What if we don’t have a year—”

“Sweetheart,” she stopped you, suddenly grave serious. “What if I reach down inside of you, grab that paranoia of yours, and strangle it so it no longer bothers you, hmm? That would save us all a lot of time.”

You couldn’t control the snicker that passed your lips and got Hyojin to smile as well.

“Go back,” she told you then. “And don’t forget where you’re going, okay?”

Your eyebrows furrowed. “What do you mean? Where am I going?”

Hyojin smile meaningfully. “You’re going home.”

Hyojin’s last words helped you more than you’d realized at first, and you woke up the next morning with a decision – tonight was going to be the last event you’d attend with Jiho. Once it was over, you would sit him down and tell him that you had to find another way because you simply couldn’t approve of this one. He’d have to agree to let you host your exhibition right now and not “when you were more popular.” You’d tell him about the pictures you’d taken of Jaebum and how much his agency liked them if he refused to listen to you.

And then, if he’d agree, you’d go home, talk to Jaebum, host your exhibition, and live happily ever after. And if he wouldn’t, you’d still go home, talk to Jaebum, and find a way to live out your happily ever after without getting your exhibition.

You hoped for the former but, as you applied your make-up for the night, you braced yourself for the latter. You knew that the chances of Jiho agreeing to just cut straight to your exhibition were slim – you and him were only seen together twice; surely, that wasn’t going to be enough in his eyes – but you trusted your ability to sound convincing. He’d insisted the gallery wanted you for your potential, so, maybe he’d fight harder to hold on to you and agree to your terms, after all.

In the end, whatever happened tonight, this was going to be the last time you were out with Jiho for publicity.

You nearly blacked out when, after leaving a note to let Jaebum know you were off to a photography event, you walked out of your building and saw Jiho step out of a limousine. A sleek black limousine – as if you two were headed to your wedding or something.

“W-what is—” you began but didn’t get to finish before Jiho’s bright laughter cut you off.

“I thought we’d arrive in style! What do you think?” he asked. You thought he was a lunatic. “Attract some more attention, hmm? Come on, get inside – got your camera? Good! – there’s champagne.”

You felt like you’d just skipped through, at least, three chapters of your life when you climbed into his limousine. Who were you, exactly, to have this expensive ride with undoubtedly equally as expensive glass of champagne thrust into your hand as soon as you sat down?

It was impossible to understand what was happening – although, from the laid-back way Jiho was acting, you’d have thought he took the limo to go to work and do his grocery shopping, so this wasn’t weird to him in the slightest – and, what’s more, it was impossible to figure out what would happen next.

As it turned out, what happened next was silence. Jiho was texting someone on his phone, so the only sound in the car was the rapid click-clacking of his fingers against his screen and the ever-so-often sip of champagne. You, on the other hand, refused to drink and remained completely quiet and overly alert the entire ride. When thrust into a situation you’ve never experienced before, it was probably best to stay sober and aware of your surroundings.

Once the limousine stopped – tossing your heart from your chest to your heels – about fifty minutes later, Jiho finally put his phone away and turned to look at you.

“Here’s the plan,” he declared in a way that made it seem as though you two were about to rob a bank Bonnie-and-Clyde style. “I didn’t tell you to bring your camera just so people would know you’re a photographer. That will come up anyway. I asked—”

“Will it?” you cut him off reflexively.

“What?”

“Will it come up?” you repeated, deliberately this time. You had decided to tell him you didn’t want to do this – even though he had to know that himself already – and you were going to stick with that decision. “Because, judging from the article written about us after the dinner, I’m not actually a photographer at all. I’m just a girl on your arm.”

Jiho, for some reason, hadn’t expected you to have read the article. Once the initial surprise wore off, however, he looked pleased that you’ve seen it and was almost inclined to ask who’d shown it to you. Clearly, you had your own sources and he was all the more curious to know who they were.

“Right, but that’s where it starts,” he insisted. “Slowly, more and more people will stop focusing on the fact that we’re together and, instead, will start to focus on us as individuals. I mean, come on, there are only so many speculations that can be made about the relationship of two people. Sooner or later, people are bound to get bored.”

“If they’re bored, they’ll ignore me and focus on you,” you said, “and I will still be the girl—”

“Quit thinking I’ll be quiet through it all,” he cut you off, showing you, for the first time since you’ve met him, that he also had the ability to get annoyed. “I’m doing this for you—for the gallery. Obviously, I will do everything in my power to make it clear that we are both photographers. Hence your camera here, tonight. I want you to capture this event from your own point of view. I will use one of your pictures in my review of tonight’s exhibition – with proper credit, of course – and that’s how everything will kick off.”

You bit your lip, looking down. If he’d told you of this plan earlier, perhaps you’d have felt less revolted riding this limousine with him. Still, though – was the expensive car so necessary?

“Fine,” you said, choosing to leave the conversation about how you wanted to finish doing these events until after the night was over. You were sort of an expert at postponing potentially complicated conversations. “Let’s just get this over and done with.”

Jiho smiled in response – the smile, that was most likely fake, looked so real that you started to wonder if he’d been faking this nice exterior the whole night tonight – and, opening the door of the limo with one hand, extended his other one to you.

“What do you want me to—”

Not waiting for you to start questioning his motives again, he took your hand against your wishes, and helped you get out of the car. There were three people taking pictures of the guests arriving at the exhibition and all three of them suddenly had their cameras on you and Jiho, eager to capture you two stepping out of the car, hand-in-hand. It was almost blinding and most surreal.

“Good to see you, Jiho!” one of the photographers hollered, his flash going off every two seconds. You were sure you had your eyes closed in every single picture he took. “Is that the missus?”

You cringed – but hoped it wasn’t too noticeable – and tried to pull your hand out of Jiho’s grip now that you were out of the car, but he didn’t let you.

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” Jiho replied sneakily, shooting a wink in the direction of the camera. “I’m here to have a grand night, admiring the artwork of a dear friend with a dear friend.”

“Is she just a friend, then?” another one asked. You felt yourself clutch the camera in your hands tighter in hopes of drawing more attention to it. “A close friend, perhaps?”

“She’s all of that and a lot more,” Jiho replied and you felt a cold wave wash over your entire body at his words. “And she’s one of the most talented young acts I know. Careful, boys, her pictures tonight might just overshadow yours.”

“We’re looking forward to it, Jiho!” the photographer said as Jiho lead you inside. Your feet were nearly frozen solid. “Have a great night!”

“You, too!” Jiho wished with a gentle wave of his hand and the two of you finally escaped the cameras by entering the building.

As soon as the photographers were behind you, you pulled your hand out of Jiho’s a little more forcibly than you’d intended and gave him a horrified look.

“What the hell are you saying to them?!” you demanded, not even trying to keep your voice down. “You told me you’d leave our relationship up for speculation and then you went ahead and—”

“And what?” he snapped, your sudden outrage frustrating him much more than your persistent doubts in the limo did. “What was it that I said to them that wasn’t precisely that? I’m planting the seeds of doubt—”

“You’re planting rumors!” you disagreed vehemently. “Do you really think they’ll care about my photographs now that you’d made it seem as if we’re together? As if we’re in love?”

“Of course, they will—”

“They couldn’t care less about that shit!” you continued, noticing how each swear word out of your lips made Jiho cringe and look around to see if anyone heard. “All that their cameras focused on was you holding my hand. I’m nothing to them—”

Jiho cut you off by taking a threatening step towards you, his face dangerously close to yours as he whisper-yelled through clenched teeth, “how do you expected to be something when you haven’t done anything? Popularity is earned. I’m earning it for you so show more gratitude and stop making a fucking scene.”

He stepped away a second later and, if you hadn’t been there, listening to him curse and put you down, you probably wouldn’t have believed it. Jiho was a fantastic actor, truly – the way he kept his composure around you all of this time was admirable. But there had to be a reason why you were so adamant to get away from him at all times; clearly, it wasn’t just because you’d misunderstood his intentions the first time you met him. It was also because somewhere deep in your subconscious, you figured he was just playing a role of Jiho, the sweet and eager-to-help photographer, while his real personality was buried deep underneath.

Well, you’d caught glimpses of his real face just now and, when he told you to straighten up and proceeded to wrap one hand around your waist to enter the exhibition hall, smiling as if you hadn’t just argued, you knew that the decision to drop everything, cancel the contract, and find another way to get your name out there was the right one.

“Jiho, I—”

“Shh,” he hushed sharply. “I need you to stay quiet right now. I’m looking for the host, I’m going to introduce you and then off you go, taking your pictures. Got it? I’m not in the mood to talk to you right now.”

“Me neither. I was just—”

His grip on your waist tightened. “What did I just tell you?”

His voice sounded like it came straight from hell and yet, instead of feeling intimidated, you felt incredibly relieved. You weren’t wrong, Jiho may have just been the devil incarnate with some very well-trained – albeit pretend – manners.

You stayed quiet, allowing him to search for the host of the night because you figured that if you had to end the night without a contract – you didn’t think it was possible that Jiho would agree to cut short to your exhibition instead of just dropping you right away – then it’d be great if you would get to meet a few more influential people beforehand. They probably weren’t going to help you out, knowing their relationship with Jiho, but it wouldn’t hurt to have them learn your name.

As soon as you shook the hand of the photographer whose pictures hung on the walls of the hall around you – your face hurt from all the fake smiles already, even though you’d only been here for less than twenty minutes – something happened that made you regret leaving your house tonight even more. You should have bolted in the opposite direction as soon as you saw the limousine approach, really.

“Hello,” an awfully familiar voice sounded next to you. You thought you experienced what falling from the twentieth story of a skyscraper must have felt like when you turned around to meet Jackson’s eyes. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”

“Oh. H-hey,” you choked out, painfully aware of Jiho’s hand still on your waist. “I’m here with—”

“Hello,” Jiho turned around as soon as the host of the exhibition walked away. You may have feared Jaebum meeting Jiho but you couldn’t even begin to imagine what was going to happen when one of Jaebum’s best friends met him instead. “I don’t believe we’ve met. I’m—”

“Could you excuse us for a moment?” Jackson asked, his hand coming to rest on your waist instead.

Taking advantage of Jiho’s confused features, Jackson pulled you away from him and – before you could protest – walked you to the closest bathroom he could find, closing the door behind you.

“I’m sorry for cutting it straight to the chase,” he spoke as calmly as he could given the situation, “but, shit, who the hell is that?”

“T-that’s Jiho. He’s—”

“A scumbag that’s about to get his ass kicked, I hope?” Jackson finished for you. “What are you doing here with him?”

“I’m—God, it’s a long story,” you said, the exhaustion you’ve felt since you signed the contract showing in your voice. “I’ve signed a deal with his gallery, so I have to—”

“Does Jaebum know you’re here?”

“Jackson—”

“Because, I swear to God, I have no idea what you’re doing but I—”

“Jackson!” you said louder, suddenly afraid of the fire behind his eyes. He looked frantic. He looked like he was going to knock Jiho out right after he left the bathroom and his hand was already reaching for the door handle. “Please listen, I’m just—I came to the exhibition. I’ve signed a contract with a gallery Jiho represents and I need some exposure—”

“Some exposure?” he frowned, the look on his face depicting every frustration you were feeling inside. You were afraid to look him in the eyes. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“It means I can’t host my exhibition while no one knows who I am,” you answered. “I need to—”

“That’s bullshit!” Jackson snapped. “How are you supposed to get exposure without hosting any exhibitions? Did he convince you this was a good idea?”

“No, I don’t think this is a good idea, I—”

Jackson threw his hands in the air, startling you. “Well, then what the fuck are you doing here?!”

“I’m trying to get my name out there!” you replied in agitation. Jackon’s accusing tone and the questions he was firing at you confirmed that your raised voices in this bathroom were going to be nothing in comparison to the storm this would cause with Jaebum. “Fuck! I’m just—I’m trying to get some publicity. That was part of the contract.”

Jackson scoffed. “That guy has you pressed against his side like you’re his trophy wife. I don’t know what kind of publicity you’re seeking but I can assure you, this isn’t it. Jaebum—fuck, is he on board with this?”

You almost flinched when he mentioned Jaebum again.

“Of course he’s not—actually, uh, he doesn’t know the—”

“He doesn’t know?!”

To say that Jackson was appalled would have been an understatement.

“He doesn’t know the details!” you tried to explain, feeling yourself tear up but desperately trying to remain calm – or, well, as calm as you could with Jackson looking at you like you’d just killed your way through the West Coast. “He knows I have to attend these events for a little while, he just—I didn’t tell him about Jiho. The three of us go way back, he hates the guy.”

“Oh,” Jackson said in an uncharacteristically high-pitched voice. It was scary to hear his deep, somber tone take such a sarcastic chirp turn. “So, that makes all of this better!”

“It doesn’t,” you tried. “And I’ll tell him—”

“Like hell, you will.”

“W-what?”

“If you hadn’t told him yet, clearly, you’re not that eager to tell him at all,” he stated.

“No, I want him to know,” you insisted but you weren’t sure if you meant it. Hearing Jackson voice your real intentions was the ultimate turning point and every single ounce of guilt came pouring out of your eyes in tears. You really didn’t want Jaebum to know. “I-I just don’t want to fight with him about this—”

“Then maybe don’t do this!” Jackson continued, still as loud as before but gentler now that you started to cry, “if you’re doing something that’s going to start a fight with your boyfriend when he finds out, then you’re probably stepping out of line in a major way, don’t you think?” he paused as soon as he realized how riled up he was. He brought his hands through his hair to calm himself down. “God, I’m sorry, I can’t—I seriously have a hard time understanding this. W-why did you think this was a good idea? How the hell did you think faking a relationship with someone was going to go under your own boyfriend’s radar?”

You sniffled, trying to focus on your breathing so you wouldn’t sob out loud, “I’m not faking a relationship—”

“Oh, okay, well, don’t worry about that – that guy out there is doing it for you,” Jackson countered.

“No, I—this,” you felt yourself hiccup, “it w-wasn’t supposed to be like this.”

“Fuck, what was it supposed to be like?” Jackson asked. “Because last time I was on the phone with Jaebum, he was in my studio, writing a fucking song about you. I definitely didn’t think I’d hang up the phone, turn around, and see his girl walk right past me with another guy.”

You barely had enough time to process what he had just said when a knock came on the bathroom door.

“Is everything alright?” Jiho’s voice called out. “I hate to bother you but we should probably get back out here. We’re here for your benefit, after all.”

“In a moment!” you replied through a stuffed nose. Jackson sighed, his hands on his hips and his eyes focused on the floor. The fact that he couldn’t even look at you felt like a whole new stab of pain. “Look, this is the last event I’m doing. I’m ending it tonight. If they won’t let me host an exhibition, I’ll find another solution. I won’t do this anymore.”

You wiped the tears from your cheeks and tried to steady your breathing.

“How many events like this have you done already?” Jackson asked another moment later. He may have been angry with you but he hated to have been the reason why you started to cry.

“Just a few, it hasn’t been that long—”

“And how long were you planning on doing this for?”

“N-not long,” you said, your breath hitching again. You exhaled slowly before finishing,  “ideally, I want to end this tonight.”

“But you’ll still work with him – with a guy who’s obviously very interested in making the public think he’s dating you – and Jaebum will still not know about it, is that what you’re planning?” Jackson continued, watching your eyes fill with tears again but not being able to stop himself. He’d have put his life on the line for his best friend and it was starting to feel like that was exactly what he was doing right now because he knew he was going to wish he was dead as soon as this blew over. The sight of you crying because of the things he’d said was too awful to bear. “Jaebum will come to your exhibition, not having the slightest clue that there’s a guy who’s—”

“I’ll tell him!” you shouted desperately, pain spilling from your eyes without the slightest intention of stopping. “God, I will! I’ll tell him everything.”

“Will you? Will you, really? Because he’s my best friend. I can’t just stand here after I learned about the shit that he doesn’t know but should know. Fuck. I think you’re great, I really do. And, God knows, I’m so sorry I’ve made you cry tonight,” he added and then, even despite all that he’d just said, stepped closer to provide you with some comfort by carefully wrapping his arms around you, “I think the two of you are perfect for each other but, fuck…” he sighed after hearing you sob against his shoulder, “you know his heart better than I do, but even I can tell that you’re walking dangerously close to breaking it.”

“I wouldn’t,” you whispered, pulling away from him to look him in the eyes. “I couldn’t. I would never, I-I—”

“I know you probably don’t mean it,” he said softly, releasing you. “But he’s going to hate the fact that you’re keeping this a secret.”

“I know he is,” you nodded, stepping away from him and sniffling before slowly bringing your index fingers under your eyelids. Your make-up was most definitely destroyed but that was the least of your worries right now. “That’s w-why, the longer I stay quiet, the harder it gets to find a way to tell him.”

He sighed again. “You know someone has to.”

“J-Jackson, I—”

“Just go, okay?” he asked, turning away from you and resting his hands on the sink, his head hanging low. It was you who felt beyond ashamed and yet he looked like he was the one making the biggest mistake of his life. “That guy’s waiting for you out there.”

“Please, I’ll tell Jaebum about this, I just—”

“Go,” Jackson repeated. “Please.”

You reached the door but turned around as soon as the last tears slid down your cheeks. You waited for him to turn around to look at you but he wouldn’t.

“I don’t want to hurt him,” you said slowly, the ball in your throat from the tears and the pain and the guilt suffocating you. “I love him.”

Jackson whipped his head to face you. “Does he know?”

Looking down again, you didn’t even dare to shake your head – and you didn’t have to, Jackson knew the answer already. This was another thing you’d never gathered the courage to tell to Jaebum.

Jackson looked away again and, after another torturous moment, you dared to exit the bathroom, closing the door behind you and feeling yourself tear up yet again as soon as you saw Jiho’s polished shoes.

“What was that about?” he asked you right away.

“Jiho,” you said sternly, your vision clouded with tears. You thought you saw him take a small step back in shock once he saw your puffy red eyes. “I won’t do this anymore. I need an answer right now – can I host my exhibition at your gallery or not? Because if not, I’m ending the contract right this moment.”

“Well, of course, you can,” Jiho replied, surprised. His fake face was back on and you wished nothing more than to claw it off. “You just need a little bit more exposure and—”

“No,” you shook your head. “I don’t like this. I didn’t like the article written about us, I didn’t like what you told those photographers out there, and I don’t like the fact that we’re, essentially, pretending to be in a relationship. I’m not—I don’t want to do that. Either, I host the exhibition now or I’m leaving.”

“Well—that’s—where is all this coming from? I thought we’d reached an agreement. You’re so close to—”

“The only thing I’m close to is ruining the only thing that makes sense in my life,” you were the one who kept cutting him off this time. It was nice to have the upper hand for a change even if you had a feeling it would backfire. “So, tell me right now: will I have the exhibition at your gallery or not?”

“I-I can’t give you an answer immediately,” he replied. “I need to check in with the gallery and we need some time to consider this.”

“Okay. Consider it, then,” you said, exhaling shakily as you turned around towards the front door of the hall. “And give me an answer as soon as possible.”

“Wh—right, but where are you going?”

You didn’t stop as you answered curtly, “I’m going home.”

    chapter directory

[bondsmagii]

I mean to ask this genuinely, no hostility, but can you explain how you correlate scp to being in a cult? I dont disagree, I just cant articulate the reasoning as to why I dont disagree, and would like to see where youre coming from with this. Also, could you tag it with cults or cult discussion or something similar, please? Thanks! Have a good day.

OK [cracks knuckles] I will try and keep this as short as possible, but you have to understand I’ve been observing the wiki in the wild literally since its inception, so there is a lot of stuff to consider. anyway let’s buckle up.

[EDIT: after finishing, this is obnoxiously long. sorry. I encourage people to read it though, because yikes.]

I base this theory on a set of guidelines set out for spotting if an organisation might be a cult. generally cults are religiously based; obviously this does not apply here. as far as I’m aware, nobody sees the SCP wiki as a religion (yet). because of this a couple of the points regarding spotting a cult are irrelevant (they concern things like separation from the Church which obviously doesn’t apply) but nearly all of the others (even some religious ones) can apply if we provide context. so without further ado:

Signs You’re In A Cult and How the SCP Wiki Literally Fits Into All of Them

let’s start with the most obvious:

opposing critical thinking

something that has long pissed me off about the SCP wiki has been its complete inability to think critically. staff will literally ban people for criticising them, and the parameters of “criticism” have only grown wider and wider over the years. anything that is the “party line” is sacred; nothing can be improved upon because it’s already perfect, and Staff Knows Best. any policy changes are law, and any dissenting voices are silenced – even among younger staff members (length of service wise, not age wise). I have seen staff put on probation or demoted for arguing against pointless or pedantic policy changes; I have seen people of all levels banned for arguing with staff. if this doesn’t happen right away, arguing with staff over their decisions will absolutely get a target on your back, and they will find a way to ban or demote you as soon as they can.

any criticism on the wiki is frowned upon unless it comes from the Major Staff Members – these are people at the top of the hierarchy who can do no wrong, and as you can imagine, they’ve done some shit. staff has always had a problem with elitism, bullying, and even abusive behaviour (blah blah blah #NotAllStaff, but the ratio is quite concerning) and any criticism of their behaviour or even pointing this fact out is dangerous if you want to remain on the wiki. hell, I know many people who are aware of this who don’t speak up because they’re genuinely scared of retaliation. a lot of staff are really nasty people, and because of this attitude they are beyond criticism.

isolating members and penalising them for leaving

the penalising them for leaving part isn’t strictly accurate, because as far as I know, nobody has ever been bullied or threatened into staying on the wiki. however, I do remember a while back (2011/2012-ish) when the Foundation RP community began to show up on Tumblr, and the wiki began to get a fanbase that wasn���t contained on the site itself. staff were not happy about this and to this day they still constantly try and get a monopoly on all off-site locations. they have an official Offsite Outreach Team (yes, that’s its real name) who “reach out” to communities on other platforms (YouTube, Reddit, Tumblr, etc) and set up an Official Presence there, and then they encourage everyone to use the Official Presence rather than the fan-made ones (which are often more established and better/more consistently run). there have been several off-site spats between staff and the fandom, because they arrive demanding the authority and respect they have on the wiki and get Big Mad when they don’t get it. just recently one (now ex) staff member, djkaktus, went absolutely primal on Reddit and banned a whole bunch of the community for daring to say that they didn’t like the new LGBT logo for pride month (many of these people were LGBT themselves and felt as though it was pandering/putting targets on their backs); several more years ago (2014, I believe?) I myself had a run in with the Outreach Team and it was one fucking hell of a headache that ended in a malicious smear campaign against me, so like. yeah.

as for isolating members, they do this via elitism. the above is an example of it (making everyone feel a sense of obligation or loyalty to the Official Presence), but a huge part of it has always been the elitist attitude prevalent on the wiki. the SCP wiki has high standards for writing (allegedly… I’ve seen some garbage on there tbh, same as any other website) and it uses this to bully and demean its users. criticism of writing is overly harsh but highly encouraged; anyone complaining that it was too cruel (which it often is) is ridiculed for being too sensitive. (staff have been working on this for years, but really nothing has changed; people have just gotten more between-the-lines about it.) this encourages a kind of desperation among new users to “rise up the ranks” and earn respect so they can be the ones dishing out the criticism instead; they will do so and then immediately act in accordance to their status, bullying others how they were bullied and sticking to their own “rank”. brief interruption: staff and bootlickers if you’re reading this and thinking of reblogging to defend yourself, the code word is yeet. if I do not see the word yeet in your reply I will know you have not read this thoroughly and tell me why I should then bother reading anything you have to say.staff themselves is incredibly removed and closed off from the rest of the community; they have a bunch of private chat rooms they hang out in, and inter-dating is common. they don’t tend to interact much outside the flock, and are the definition of cliquey. joining this rank is supposed to be an achievement, but really it’s probably the most dangerous place to be. I have seen so many staff members have literal, clinical mental breakdowns over the strain and treatment they suffer.

(there’s nowhere to neatly slot this in, so: I don’t know how many people have noticed this, but SCP fans, when you spot them on other platforms, are snooty. not casual fans, but those involved with the wiki? I can spot them from a mile away, because whenever the Foundation is mentioned, there they are, acting like they’re part of some cool club. some of these people are innocent (they’re just mimicking the behaviour of other members) but some of them really do seem to think that their site is somehow better than whatever site they’re on, and it’s really creepy to see.)

emphasising special doctrines outside of scripture

obviously this is religion-specific, but with context it can fit. if we take scripture to mean SCP lore, and special doctrines to mean differing headcanons, ideas, writing styles, etc… oh boy.

there’s something that’s often said on the wiki: there is no canon. buddy, there is. yes, you can write whatever you want technically, and you can disregard headcanons you don’t like and you can build on different things and theoretically people can just ignore your shit if they don’t like it, but that is not what happens. there is absolutely a canon, and deviating from it will get you downvoted into oblivion and even personally attacked. people will accuse you of the most ridiculous shit, like desecrating the wiki or betraying the universe or whatever. so where does the emphasising part of this come in?

why, it’s simple! if one of these special doctrines (headcanons or whatever) comes from staff or an Approved Member, it’s fine. go nuts. even if it’s something that anybody else would be absolutely slaughtered for, it’s fine if staff approves. there is no creative freedom on that wiki, and anyone attempting to carve a piece out for themselves will suffer for it. one of my close friends still gets hate for an SCP he wrote featuring heavy headcanons and building on existing lore about a well-known character, and some of this hate is because he didn’t set the fucking article out “how it should be”. 

seeking inappropriate loyalty to their leaders

oh boy. staff are god on that website. they’ll deny it, but they know it’s true. many of them are arrogant and, in my opinion, some of them are pathologically narcissistic. they think they are hot shit, and they encourage people on the site to believe the same. a huge majority of users on the wiki are high school students, so 15-18 years old. the next huge group are college-aged, so 19-22 or so. several staff members are in their mid-20s up to 30s, maybe even coming 40s or early 40s now. when you’re in your mid-20s, it’s very easy to look cool to a 15-year-old. it’s very easy to look at a young userbase and convince them that you’re hot shit, and that’s what staff do. they act like it; most users respond to it, and if anyone dissents? see point one.

staff have always had double standards. from the very beginning of staff, they have gotten away with a lot more than the average user. staff have been allowed to bully, ridicule, harass, dismiss, shit upon, and target people with reckless abandon, usually only meeting punishment when other staff members feel too inconvenienced by them. a lot of the time when they’re punished, it’s a lot lighter than it would have been for an average user (a month ban rather than a permaban, for example). this is seen as almost a point of hilarity for a lot of people, who think it’s cool and just a right you get when you’re staff. you know best, you’ve seen some shit – who can blame you for slamdunking a 15-year-old’s first SCP?

the amount of respect and adoration these people demand is ridiculous, and anybody daring to criticise them ends up on a shitlist. staff show up in other areas (Tumblr or Reddit) and expect that same amount of respect, even among people outside of the wiki who might just be casual fans. they act a lot more important than they are, and demand that everyone treats them appropriately. I’ve seen staff members throw shitfits because they didn’t get enough upvotes for their articles, and many staff members’ quality of work declines when they make staff, simply because they know that they’ll get easy upvotes as soon as people realise it’s a staff member who wrote it. downvotes are enough to get you put on a shitlist. 

publicly, their word is law. you are not allowed to debate with them in the forums if they put a “stop” on the topic; the same applies in the IRC chat. if staff says “stop”, you will be punished if you mention it again. you are allowed to discuss it with them privately, but I think that’s rather insidious, as staff have been known to twist facts and withhold information before. this gives them a public persona of always being right – and something else that cults do is silence dissenting voices so nobody who might agree can see other people saying the same things and feel encouraged/emboldened. 

crossing Biblical boundaries of behaviour

again, we’ll need to contextualise this. if Biblical boundaries are things like sins and all the stuff the Bible says Do Not Do, then in this context these are the wiki rules. staff (and their friends) will constantly cross the rules, as previously mentioned, and they will get away with it.

the wiki rules say “don’t be a dick”. I have caught staff bullying people countless times, and no doubt there’s more I haven’t caught. even out in the open, staff are argumentative, dismissive, rude, intimidating, and oftentimes plain nasty. the wiki rules say “don’t coldpost articles; get feedback”. staff is just out there throwing their shit onto the wiki and expecting an avalanche of upvotes in five minutes Or Else. policies are made that set parameters and staff changes them whenever convenient – for example, the long-standing rule that things that occur off-site are not the responsibility of the Disciplinary Committee (yes, its name.). unless, of course, it’s someone they don’t like. a major staff member bullies somebody on Tumblr? “sorry, it was offsite, not our problem”. someone staff doesn’t like gets into a brief spat on Reddit? banned for harassment. 

there are countless examples of this, from small things to major things like bullying, harassment, and even abuse (or enabling of abuse). staff will punish people for transgressions and then turn a blind eye to a fellow staff member committing a transgression that was ten times worse. they have even protected rapists and sexual predators in the past – another kind of behaviour common in cults, because that’s what happens when you combine narcissism and entitlement with total authority.

that’s the main bulk of it

but now the context has been established, here are a few more concerning things I’ve noticed (quickfire now):

cults shit on former members

and the wiki does the same. any staff member that’s grown fed up of the groupthink and the cliquey attitude and how nasty people are or who has been mistreated by staff themselves; any regular user who feels the same and vocally quits? shat upon. lauded as a bastion of whatever is wrong with the wiki. declared an Enemy and rallied against. it is so creepy.

cults use Us vs Them mentality, especially in language

broad declarations establishing a community and a community spirit in the face of adversity are common in cults. appeals to emotion and loyalty are used in a very manipulative way. catastrophising and fearmongering is common, too. I’m seeing this in how the recent drama with the legal issues is being handled. broad appeals to “defend the wiki”, hashtags being encouraged, emotional speeches from staff about how it’s a make or break situation… 

…and this is being reflected in the absolutely insane comments people are responding with.

this is a fucking writing website. the above is not a normal reaction at all.

the attitudes of regular users quickly grow concerning

people very quickly get obsessed with the wiki and it defines their lives. they seem to feel as though they owe something to it or they need to serve some kind of a purpose; many people try and “get the word out” and become voluntary spokespeople. they go around practically preaching, and I do not see the users of any other website doing this.

cults want full control over how they’re seen by outsiders

and the scp wiki does the same. as mentioned previously, when the fandom grew and spiralled off the wiki to other sites, staff debated for weeks over what to do. brief interruption the second code is shrek is life.they were not comfortable with the idea of the wiki having an independent fandom, and for years now they have been in constant struggle with offsite communities, trying to gain the same amount of control they have over the wiki. it’s impossible to do so thoroughly, and it’s clearly an annoyance for them.

cult leaders will let “lesser” members do their dirty work for them

and guess what staff does? rather than wade in there and get their hands dirty with internet arguments, they’ll sit back and let regular users dogpile on dissenters and say all the things staff shouldn’t be seen to say in public. note how even if this would violate the bullying policies, they’ll just get a warning so long as staff agrees. 

in conclusion

@ everyone on the scp wiki: yall know you’re in a cult, right?

[ohwhatamessiam]

Self Control - Chapter 12

Summary: The end of the semester is upon you, but the drama is not done yet! 

Pairing: Professor!Chris Evans X TA!Reader

Word Count: 3.5k+

Warnings: Language, uncomfortable feelings, and maybe some secondhand embarrassment. 

A/N: Hi y’all! I’m back much sooner than intended, but you know, quarantine and social distancing dictate life now! There’s 1 chapter left in Self Control, and if you’re lucky, I might spring an epilogue on ya (we’ll see how the next month or so goes)! Thank you to @fangirlisms-22​ for beta’ing my sudden writing binge. I tried to tag everyone, but some blogs have deactivated, changed urls, or won’t let me tag them. Let me know if you need me to change your url on my list. Here’s the Spotify playlist for the entire fic.

I love feedback, so send me your thoughts, feelings, wishes, etc!

Tags are still barely open for this story, so send me an ask here to be added to it or my permanent list!

Self Control | Masterlist

You had no idea how much two weeks could change your life. 

You and Chris had barely spoken to one another, only given polite greetings when running into each other at the office. The rest of your communication was through email. 

And Robert had sent the story you were working on from before break to a few of his friends and former students at literary magazines. The story you had started during break was becoming more of a means of therapy, a confessional of your relationship with Chris. And it was helping you process what happened.

It was the last day of classes, and the last day before semester papers were due. The assignment was for the students to choose their favorite story or writer of the semester and then to expand upon what they learned in that specific unit. Whatever specific story or person they chose, they were supposed to research who else has used it as inspiration for work since. It could be modern television or film, or another story or author that was influenced. And then they had to explain why they chose that subject. What made them interested enough to do further research upon it, and how it might affect their future consumption of art and literature.

It was a relatively open-ended subject and for the first time the whole semester, students were actually using your office hours.

And one student in particular who’d been giving you the cold shoulder turned up. 

Tom.

He’s perched on the edge of the seat across from you, his laptop on the ground as his hands dig through articles he’d photocopied at the library. He’d chosen Keats as his essay topic, and knowing that you also held a soft spot for Keats, he wanted your opinion. 

And the deadline was approaching dangerously quickly.

“So I covered all the adaptations and inspired works, and his legacy. And I wrote about how his work is going to change my perception of poetry moving forward. I just think I’m struggling with why Keats was my favorite unit this semester.”

“That’s okay, sometimes when you get so used to academic writing, it becomes hard to write about yourself, and your own feelings. But putting sources and quotes aside to examine your own mental processes is an important part of literature and writing.”

“Okay, I understand that. But I don’t think that my honest answer about why I took an interest in Keats is appropriate for this paper.”

“If you’re worried about Chris or I reading something personal, you don’t have to be. Anything you write will be private. We won’t say anything to anyone.”

Your mind wanders to what could make Tom so worried. Did it have to do with family or his childhood? Keats had a difficult and tragedy filled childhood. Did it have to do with Keats dying so young, or the discussion of his possible addiction to opium?

His eyes drop to the folder on his legs, his fingers picking at the edges of its pages. “Are you sure?” You nod but his nerves aren’t done. “My reasoning might not be very appropriate for an academic setting.”

“Tom,” you say, your eyes softening as you watch him. “Your reasoning doesn’t have to be an expansive philosophical or literary reason. It can be, but it can also just be as simple as you liked his poems. That you found his life tragic but fascinating. Or that the words and rhyme schemes were pretty or interesting.” His eyes meet yours, the edges of his mouth ticking up the slightest bit. “Don’t overthink it. Just be honest with yourself and the text.”

He nods, letting out a deep breath. “Okay, (Y/N). I will be honest. And I’m going to try to trust you and Prof. Evans.”

“Thank you.” You give him a short nod, showing your gratitude in a punctuated fashion. He watches you for another moment, his brown eyes searching for something. But then he gulps and stops. His fingers place his materials back in his bag. 

You sit up in your chair a little, almost saddened that your time with him is up. It was nice speaking with someone who didn’t look at you with desperation (because of finals) or pity (because of Chris). Tom’s thoroughly preparedness had made this the most interesting and easy conversation in weeks.

He packs his bag quietly and you let him. He’s a student, no matter how much you appreciate this time with him, there are clear boundaries. You will not cross them. After everything, that’s something you’re damn sure of.

At your door he pauses and says thank you. You give him a small smile, “You’ve done well this semester. I look forward to reading your paper, Tom.”

He cracks a smile, and you notice the slight rosiness that colors his cheeks. He raps his knuckles against your door for the last time this semester, and then he goes. 

A pang of guilt lands in your gut, but you don’t know what to do with it yet. His blush probably meant nothing, he was just flattered. But that guilt stays nestled there, a reminder of what has happened, and a warning about what’s to come.

_______________________________________________________________________

Finals pass without a hitch, for both you and your students. You’re able to read the final papers from your apartment, away from any pity or other heavy feelings. You and Chris had decided to randomly split up the workload so you could get through them quickly and give thorough feedback. But final grades are due on Tuesday and you plan on going into your office to enter them and pick up the last few things you’ll need for next semester.

You get to your office in the afternoon Monday, hoping to miss Chris who said he’d come in early if any students wanted to dispute any last grades with him.

You did not end up with Tom’s paper in your final stack, and you wonder what he ended up writing for the rest of it. You’ve been in your office for almost two hours when you decide you’ll let your nosiness win, and you find Tom’s submission online. As you're opening the file, a heavy knock echoes from your door.

He speaks before you get the chance to look up, “Uh (Y/N)?” The way he says your name reaches your skin, your pulse, well before you find the strength to see him. You close your eyes for a moment, letting out a shallow breath before you answer.

“What can I do for you, Chris?” 

He’s still the Chris you first met, clean, crisp lines composing his appearance. The Chris he might have always been. Maybe you just got a private viewing of him, a show for only your eyes. Maybe your Chris was a piece that he never let out. Maybe just an alias. A way to distance his actions from who everyone thought he was. 

There is no trace of your soft or rumpled time together.

His eyes catch yours, and there’s something there. A pain, a distance, a longing. But it goes away.

And then he’s stepping into your office, “I wanted to ask you something privately?” He closes the door behind himself, but remains standing.

Does he want to get back together? Is he going to divorce Jennifer? Is he ready to choose you?

With your mind running wild, you make a conscious effort to clasp your hands together and keep your face blank, eyes steady.

“What is it?”

“Have you read Tom’s final paper yet?”

All that hope, gone. A pang of annoyance settles in your core. And it’s accompanied by that hint of guilt.

“I have not. Since you graded it, I didn’t need to.”

“Well… I think you should.” There was something in his eyes again, a spark nearly indicating intensity or concern.

“Okay, um. I’ll take a look at it.” You do not tell him you already have it open. You skim the first page, finding nothing but brief analysis and lots of references. “So far, there’s nothing unusual here. It’s a solid paper.”

“Keep going.” The tension of him standing in your office, waiting for you to finish reading agitates your nerves. Your eyes flick to his, but there’s something else mixed in with his previous intensity. There’s an edge, a little too sharp to ignore.

You keep reading. The second page is finished, and it’s literally everything you two had already discussed. The third page is where things get interesting. 

Tom wrote that he enjoyed the lyricism of Keats, but what really cemented the poet as his favorite was his TA. 

You.

He wrote that since Keats was one of your favorites, he paid more attention to it. That he saw you view Keats’ work as beautiful, giving it a reverence that he argued Keats should even be honored to have. That he looked up to your opinion and your interests, and that’s how he fell in love with the poetry.

Heat spreads across your chest, your face. You’re honored, but also, this is not what you expected from Tom. You look down from his paper, trying to search your mind for any conversations you had with him that would indicate that he was paying too much attention to you. And unfortunately, it’s there. So is the guilt you felt the last time you saw him. 

But you know nothing happened here. You would have never entertained anything more than your positions in this academic institution allowed.

“Seems like he really learned a lot from you this semester.” The edge is there, and this time you can identify it. Humor.

“What are you trying to say?” Your words come out more defensive than you intend.

“(Y/N). This kid has a crush on you. Hell, in his hormonal mind, maybe more. Did you know?”

You shake your head. “No. No, if he has a crush on me, that’s his business. I was nothing but kind and open to Tom, but I didn’t know about this.” Truly, you’re referring to the paper more than Tom’s supposed crush.

The humor leaves him. “Kind and open? Are those two things strictly professional?”

The warmth of your skin turns into something worse, anger. “They were. I would never cross that line with a student.”

His hands brace his body as he leans onto your desk. His face mere inches from yours. “But you’d cross it with me? Your colleague and your boss.”

His words hit you like a slap. You flinch in response. How dare he insinuate that you might be a problem here, a repeat offender of an inappropriate relationship. 

You want to yell at him, to let your rage out. But instead, you put on your best passive aggressive smirk. You remind yourself of everything that’s happened. He doesn’t get to see you angry or upset anymore. He gets a civil, bare minimum now.

“I will repeat it. If Tom has a crush on me, that is his business. I know he dropped by my office hours pretty often this semester, but I figured my hours fit his schedule better. And no. I was not crossing any boundaries with him. I would not do that.”

He opens his mouth, his eyes clouding with a hint of regret.

“And I don’t know if you noticed, but I’ve been pretty occupied trying to hide a different relationship all semester. I didn’t have the time to consider Tom as anything but a student, when most of my time was occupied by someone else.”

The guilt you felt before dissipates, but Chris’ downturned lips and furrowed brow just indicates that it has found another home. 

“I’m sorry (Y/N).” He sighs and pulls back from your desk. “I know. I shouldn’t have said that.”

“Well, you can’t take it back.” Even though every ounce of you wishes he could. Hell, you wish you could take back this entire interaction. That he had never walked to your door. “So let’s just move on.”

“Okay. I can do that.”

Yeah, he’d been doing that without you for a while. 

“I don’t know how you want to handle this situation though,” he adds, still standing over you. “If you want to talk to Robert or call Tom in to talk to-“

“Robert doesn’t need to be involved. Tom may have crossed a line into a personal territory, but he’s never acted upon his feelings. So there’s no need for administrative intervention.”

“Are you sure?”

“Chris,” you sigh. You know what you’re going to say next will hurt and may not be completely true, but you don’t need your professional reputation questioned again. “I already lied for your sake once this semester. You could return the favor by keeping this to yourself.”

“I don’t kn-”

“Don’t put a target on Tom’s back.” Your voice comes out strong, authoritatively. You’re settling this now. “I remember being his age and getting dumb crushes on TAs. It doesn’t mean anything, and it doesn’t need to be mentioned again.”

He freezes in front of you, fully taking you in. Maybe he only got little pieces of you this semester too. Maybe it was time you both saw each other for who you fully were. 

“Okay.” He nods to himself, letting out a deep breath. “Okay.”

He stays stuck in that spot, accepting your argument.

“So, if that’s settled…” you begin. But his hands squeeze together and his eyes focus on the edge of your desk again. You watch him, wondering what would cause him to look as lost as he did the last time he had been in your office.

“I uh, I wanted to tell you something else.” His blue eyes are back on you, and there’s that twinkle again. Is it longing or pain? Just the fraying of his nerves? You don’t say anything, just let his gaze burn through you, waiting for him to work up the courage. 

“I’ve been writing again.” Sebastian had told you he’d been writing when you two were together. You hoped selfishly that he’d stopped when he went back to Jennifer, but apparently not. “The novel I’m working on. It- it’s inspired by some of what happened this semester.”

So you weren’t the only one working through your feelings with writing. But your writing had been vague. It was different characters, different situations, just some of the same emotions and complications. What was he using from the last 4 months? You’d made it through your affair without ruining your career here. Hopefully, he wouldn’t blow your life up with some story about you two now. 

When you don’t answer, he turns his back to you. His breath comes ragged, he’s worried. “I just thought you should know.” 

“As long as you don’t use my name, or anything too specific, I guess that’s fine. I can’t stop you.”

He turns back quickly, his eyes wide. He must not have expected you to let this go so easily. But you can’t blame him for using the same coping mechanism as you are.

“I don’t even know if it’ll turn into anything important. I just didn’t want it to be a surprise if it did.” 

“That’s fine.”

He leans onto your desk again, making sure his eyes are level with yours. They’re so earnest, it hurts. There’s a piece of him there that you used to see so often. That you used to think was yours. 

But it had been three weeks. And it makes it a little worse knowing you might never see that sincerity again. 

“I’ll make sure if it does go somewhere, that you get to see it first. I owe you that much.”

You nod, your eyes trained on him. He doesn’t look away. 

The intensity between you two is still there, pulling you toward each other. But you said you were done with that. You couldn’t change his decision, and it seemed he hadn’t taken it back either. 

His face moves to you, his mouth nearly on your own. You hadn’t been this close since before Thanksgiving break. You can feel his breath on your lips, it tickles your skin. The person you were before break would have used his mouth to relieve the itch. But that’s not who you are anymore. 

You pull back from him, putting the necessary distance between you two. He stands up straight, his expression somewhere between confused and upset. 

You tell yourself something very important in the moment: he doesn’t get to be upset that you’ve changed. And you don’t get to be upset anymore that he wouldn’t. All that is past you.

“Thank you, Chris.” You say loudly, but without malice. “If you have nothing else to add, I think we’re done here.”

“Of course,” he whispers. He closes his eyes, and the next time he opens them, all those previous emotions are gone. Like no part of the last several minutes happened. He leaves your office door open, just as it had been when he’d come in. 

And as you look up, you notice two sets of eyes watching you from the hallway. It is Elizabeth, and her friend and fellow grad student, Letitia. They watch you with pity. You want to be done with that. You force a smile to them, and then close your office door.

_______________________________________________________________________

Two hours later, all the final grades are submitted, and your stomach aches for something to eat. After the day you’ve had, maybe you’ll pick up Italian on your way home. You deserve large amounts of wine and pasta.

As you’re walking on the path to the parking lot, the sun setting around you, you hear feet pound against the pavement behind you. Looking over your shoulder, you see Sebastian jogging toward you. ‘Hey (Y/N),” he calls out. You slow your pace so he can catch up. 

He takes a moment to catch his breath, his hair is all messed up. The soft and fluffy look works for him. But then you chide yourself for noticing that. 

Once he composes himself, there’s an apologetic smile smeared across it. “Look, I’m sorry about how I acted toward you at Thanksgiving. I didn’t know what was going on with you and Chris.”

If you’re done with the pity, you’re done with this too. “Don’t mention it, Seb.” He grins at you, his eyes crinkling as his apologetic face disappears. “Yeah, I’m trying out the nickname.”

“Good. But are you sure? I was absolutely a dumbass about you two this semester.”

“Sebastian. It’s over. I’m done with Chris. I’m walking into winter break ready to be done with this last semester. I’m ready for something new.” He watches you, his eyes wide. He must notice that you're serious because he settles into a nod.  

“Okay. I’m right there with you. My semester has been messy too.”

You quirk a brow at him, wondering how messy his semester could have been compared to yours. What, was he living up to his reputation by sleeping with his TA too? Or did Chris say that to scare you away from him?

“Look, I’m going to tell you a secret, (Y/N). And when I meant messy, I meant messy.” You watch him as he looks around the campus to see if anyone is nearby. “I know Chris has already suspected part of it, but while he was with you, Jennifer was with me.”

Instinct takes over and you slap his arm. 

“Hey, they were on a break. And she’d been flirting with me for a whole year!”

You want to be mad at him for him sleeping with his friend’s wife. He violated a serious code of friendship. But for some reason you can’t. And you’re feeling something dangerously close to relief.

You can’t stop yourself, you laugh, loudly. If anyone else had been around, their lives would have been interrupted by the sound.

“I can’t tell if you’re taking this well.”

You smile at him genuinely. “I am actually. And I feel almost sort of, relieved?”

“Oh, have my fuck ups made yours feel less bad?” You wouldn’t have called your relationship with Chris a full fuck up. You didn’t regret it like that. But Sebastian wasn’t wrong. You reach the parking lot where your cars are and he turns on his heels. He gives you a little bow, “I’m so happy my stupidity could be of service.” 

You pull your keys out, ready to unlock your car. “Thank you for that, Sebastian.”

“By the way, keep working on that.” He leaves your side as he heads for his vehicle.

“Working on what?”

He unlocks his car from his key fob as he pivots. “My nickname. I want to make sure you have it down for next semester.”

“Is it really that important?”

He gives you the most devious smile you’ve ever seen from him. And from the time you’d spent together, he’d given you many. “It is to me. I prefer that all my TA’s are comfortable enough to treat me as a friend.”

Your jaw drops. You hadn’t heard who Robert was pairing you up with for next semester. You knew it wouldn’t be Chris, but you’d been hoping that he might give you a semester off of assisting.

This time his laugh rang out through the campus. 

“Yes (Y/N). Take the break to recharge and prepare. We’re gonna have a hell of a time teaching creative writing next semester.”

_______________________________________________________________________

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[loulougoingsolo]

Why so sour?

I got a little sidetracked after today's GMM, trying to find out what the internet says about Iliza Shlesinger, who joined Rhett and Link today for a game of eating sour things. I've heard of her before, but I haven't watched any of her comedy special on Netflix, so I wanted to know more about her before writing this post. After reading a few articles, I decided to ignore them for the duration of my commentary, and stick to her GMM visit, which was objectively speaking quite enjoyable. And later, I may watch her Netflix show, and figure out how I feel about her comedy all on my own.

(A side note: I finished the Tiger King today after Rhett recommended it on Ear Biscuits. I recommended it to my brother earlier this week, and he binge watched the whole thing last night. It took me several days, there was something about how absolutely odd everyone was in the series that exhausted me. What a bizarre group of characters. But I suggested my parents they should watch it, too.)

But now, let's try not to pucker, even if things get a little sour! Rhett, Link and Iliza take turns trying to guess which of the other two has eaten something sour, based on their expressions, so in order to win at this game, instead of a pucker face, you need to have a good poker face (pun definately intended).

I love sour things, especially when combined with sweet, in my daily life. I haven't gone as far as to eat a lemon straight up, but the thought of doing just that makes my mouth water, in a good way. Of course, you don't normally make something like sour cookie dough (yet there is sour dough bread...). Rhett had no difficulties guessing, who got ended up in the sour patch in the first round:

Watching this episode should not be making me hungry, but I really want eggrolls right now. Or very sour candy. Rhett doesn't show any signs of eating a sour eggroll - either, it wasn't sour enough, or he is a no-pucker genius. He definately didn't need to hear he has a beautiful mind or that he's like a hotter version of Rainman.

I couldn't tell anything about what Chase said, but does he own a lime scooter? Back in the day when I lived in a more urban environment, I used to want a scooter...and that has nothing to do with this episode.

The final round is a lightning round where all three eat five sour things, and whoever puckers the least gets the point. I'm not entirely sure if Link understood the game. Somehow he managed to mess up all five rounds, and lose the whole game in the process. He looked like he was going to cry, poor thing.

So, Rhett IS a no-pucker genius. This time, however, there was no prize for winning. Instead, Link gets this lovely sour face from Iliza:

In More, Rhett, Link and Iliza try out every Sour Patch Kid product available. Iliza knows quite a bit about her favourite candy!

In More things are always more relaxed than in the main episode, and today is no exception. The platonic conversation starter candies were very inspirational. I love how when Iliza started to come up with her own texts, and said: "Is that an eggplant", Link started laughing by himself and tried to hide behind his hand.

Speaking of hands, why do I feel eating icecream by hand from the same tub with two other people was something from Link's nightmares? While Rhett instantly followed Iliza, because he's the kind of guy who doesn't flinch, and who'd never let a girl win a game of dare, Link was probably weighing his options very thoroughly. If he uses a spoon, will he hear about it for the rest of his life? And yes, this way, they kept the spoons clean, but also, Link didn't get to do the dishes.

Who would have guessed there was a very picky and judgemental dog called Tofu under the desk all this time? She scared the living crap out of Link, but that's what you get for disturbing a sleeping pup. Tofu refusing the icecream looks a lot like my doggy sister when she is offered medicine in a piece of sausage: very suspicious and unenthusiastic. Why is my human trying to poison me?

Omg, "Good Sensual Morning". That's what she said.

I admit, after Tofu came on screen, I mostly had eyes for her. I don't really think she was quite as judgemental as she first seemed, but I think she just doesn't like alcohol breath (who does, really?). Is that drink something you can buy in a store, or is it something you mix yourself? We have a horrible drink here in Finland, which has salty liquorice in it (salmiakki), and it can also be made by dissolving salty liquorice in vodka. I've tasted the store bought version once in my life, and it almost ruined salty liquorice (which I love) for me. Almost, but not quite. But somehow I feel, doing the same with sour fruit candy would be a better idea.

I feel Link really needed that shot after the traumatic icecream moment. Now, who else wants to see Rhett and Link do shots? It could be a game, or a vlog, or whatever they want, responsibly of course.