#i know she probably has short hair from shearing it off every time she battles but for some reason I had a feeling it was longer

[aldoodles]

Solovet designs that have been rattling around my skull for a bit

[buckybarnabus]

Sleep Well, Bucky

Summary: Bucky has been stressed. Dawn just wants to help.

Warnings: No warnings, unless you’re not into comfort cuddles.

Word Count: 2.1k

A/N: Hello! This is my first part in a series involving Bucky Barnes and OFC Dawn. I can’t for the life of me write a whole multi-chaptered story, so this will be a series of one shots in no particular order that may or may not develop into something coherent over time. You can also read on AO3 if you want. Thank you!

Dawn knew Bucky was stressed. It was obvious in the tight line of his jaw, the stiffness in his shoulders. The dark circles under his hard eyes. She knew he was having nightmares, and she didn’t know how to help. She hated just having to sit there and watch him suffer. She knew comfort in soft touches, hugs, things Bucky wouldn’t allow himself to have, but clearly craved. She saw it in his face when she and Sam would touch each other freely, whether it be a joking caress of the cheek, a squeeze of the hand, a friendly pat to the thigh.

Bucky had his boundaries and reservations, Dawn knew that. She respected it. She only ever touched him with a single finger if she had to. But she couldn’t deal with him making himself miserable, shying away from any sort of comfort and stalking around hotel rooms, stewing in his own self deprecation.

She couldn’t take it anymore. Bucky needed someone to care for him, especially if he wouldn’t do it himself. So she came up with a plan.

She had left him in the hotel room watching tv, and came back a while later with a plastic bag in hand. He looked from her to the bag she held as she shut the door.

“What’s that?” he asked, curious.

“I have an idea,” she said brightly, placing the bag on the nearest counter and moving toward him. She leaned against the edge of the bed next to him.

“What’s your idea?” he asked, humoring her. She reached a hand out to him and pinched a strand of his hair between her fingers, tugging it lightly. He almost looked amused.

“I think we should cut your hair,” she said. He furrowed his brows and tilted his head at her, faux offense on his face.

“You think my hair looks that bad, huh?” he asked, half a grin on his lips. Dawn chuckled and rolled her eyes.

“No, not at all. Quite the opposite, really,” she said. Then her voice softened and she looked away from him as she spoke again. “I just... I think it might be good for you. Kind of like letting go of... things.” Bucky didn’t say anything, just watched her with an unreadable expression on his face.

“Only if you want to,” she rushed, awkward and suddenly nervous, taking his silence as a bad sign. “I like it long, really. Not that my opinion matters or anything, it’s your head after all. I think it would look good either way, but I just-“

“Okay,” he interrupted her anxious rambling, voice quiet, but enough to cut her off. Her eyes flicked back to his face.

“Okay?” she echoed. He grinned at her, a small thing, just barely tugging at the corners of his lips. He nodded once.

“Okay.”

They posted up in the bathroom with the supplies Dawn had just bought. She had him sit on a low stool facing the mirror, and she set to work wetting his hair and running a brush through it, careful not to touch him too long. She wanted to ease him into it, work at a pace that might be comfortable for him.

“You’re not going to completely butcher me, are you?” he asked, looking at her reflection in the mirror. She gave him a look.

“Have a little faith in me, Bucky,” she said with a grin. “This isn’t my first rodeo.”

“Fine, fine,” he said, heaving a dramatic sigh. Dawn paused as she finished brushing his hair, casting him a thoughtful glance in the mirror. He rose a brow in question, but she didn’t say anything. She was afraid if she talked, she’d ruin it all. She pulled her phone out of her pocket and found her music app, finding a playlist she thought would work. She hit the play button and kept the volume low. Didn’t look at him as she placed the phone on the counter, afraid to see what his expression looked like. Music from well before her time flowed through the little speakers, and she got back to work, ignoring the heat in her cheeks as she felt his gaze on her.

She clipped away at his hair for a while, finding a basic shape to play off of before plugging in the electric shears, and they were quiet as the music played. She was brave enough to chance a glance in the mirror every once in a while, enough to watch his face slowly soften as he listened to the music. There was a far away look on his face as she cut, like he was lost in thought.

She let him stay in his head while she went to work with the electric shears, and she was done faster than she thought she would be, lost in her own head. Dawn set the shears down on the counter and almost hesitated before settling her fingers in the now short locks. She did a broad, gentle sweep through the strands with her fingertips, clearing away any stray bits left behind. It didn’t escape her notice as Bucky took in an aborted breath as she ran her fingers over his scalp. She paused for a very brief moment, quickly taking in his reaction. He didn’t seem angry. Just uncertain, stiff.

Hesitantly, meaningfully, she dragged her fingers back through his hair, using her nails to scratch lightly at his scalp. His eyes shut and his brows furrowed. He tried to keep the shuddered breath to himself.

“Does it look okay?” Dawn asked, soft. She pulled her fingers from his hair in order to let him focus. He opened his eyes and looked into the mirror, turning his head this way and that in consideration. She held her breath while he looked at his reflection. His eyes met hers.

“It looks great. Thank you, Dawn,” he said, a soft smile on his face as he touched his fingers to the short locks. She looked at his hair in the mirror, and lifted her hands back to his head, pulling her fingers back through slowly, contemplating her work, as the music continued to pump softy in the background, the smooth croon of a woman filling the air.

“I like it,” she said honestly, a bright smile on her face. Dawn would miss the long hair, of course, but she did like it short as well. He made it work. She pulled away from him after a moment, setting to work cleaning up the mess of hair littering the floor. After she finished cleaning up her mess, she left Bucky to shower and rid himself of any irritating shavings left behind. He didn’t fight against her touch, and Dawn didn’t know what to do with that. He seemed uneasy, that much was certain, but not unwelcoming. Dawn supposed that was as good a sign as any she was going to get. She settled in to watch tv, turning out all the lights aside from the lamp on Bucky’s bedside table. She kept the volume low. The air felt too fragile to break with something loud.

Dawn carefully kept her eyes glued to the tv once Bucky stepped out of the bathroom. She listened to him shuffle quietly around the room as he got settled in for bed, then took her own turn. She took her time under the stream, trying to rid herself of the residual nerves that pulsed through her the entire time she cut his hair.

When Dawn was done, she emerged from the bathroom warm and clean, comfortable in sweatpants and an old t shirt. It may have been a shirt that belonged to Bucky at one point, but they’d shared enough hotel rooms and baggage space that she couldn’t really be sure anymore. He was watching tv, absently petting at his head, eyes heavy. But the same tight line in his jaw remained, the same stiffness in his shoulders. He didn’t want to sleep. Not when a nightmare might be right around the corner.

Dawn was taken over by nerves all over again as she hesitated in the bathroom doorway. But looking at him strengthened her resolve and she padded quietly over to his bed, making brief eye contact as she shut off the lamp and hopped up next to him, pulling the covers over her legs. She turned her gaze to the television and ignored the fact that she could feel him watching her. If she pretended hard enough that it was a normal, every day thing, then maybe it wouldn’t be the scariest thing she’d ever done.

After a while, she shuffled down in the covers to meet him, turning on her side and propping her head up in the palm of her hand. When she looked at him, he was already watching her.

“You should sleep, Buck,” she said, almost whispered. She almost regretted shifting her position. They were so close, suddenly. It felt so personal. Intimate.

“I will,” he said, matching her tone. She grinned, small.

“No you won’t,” she said, rolling her eyes. “Don’t think I haven’t noticed.”

He sighed, a rueful smile on his lips. “I’m fine, Donnie,” he tried. Her heart fluttered just a little at the nickname, but she ignored it. There were more important matters at hand. She wasn’t convinced.

They watched each other for a heavy moment, almost a battle of wills, then Dawn slowly, carefully reached a hand out, stroking feather light fingers down his cheek. His brows pinched together, a frown pulling at his lips.

“Dawn,” he whispered on a sigh. He sounded so tired, so sad. She let him pull away from her touch.

“Bucky,” she echoed. He didn’t meet her gaze, instead he stared somewhere over her shoulder. He swallowed thickly. She tried again, slow and careful, lifting her hand to brush her fingers through his hair. He shut his eyes, brows still pinched. It wasn’t a grimace, it didn’t seem like any dislike of her touch. He was probably just too afraid to look at her.

Dawn shut her own eyes and lazily ran her fingers through his short locks for a while, occasionally scratching at his scalp and the back of his neck. She made no move to do anything else. If this was all the comfort she was allowed to provide, then she would be okay with that. It was still progress. It was still Bucky letting himself have a human moment.

Dawn did it long enough that she was close to drifting off to sleep, but an unexpected feather light pressure on her waist woke her right back up. She was careful not to react for fear of ruining whatever Bucky was letting himself have. His hand rested on her waist, warm and barely there, for a long moment. The television suddenly seemed so loud. She opened her eyes to chance a glance at him and found his eyes already on her face. He looked absolutely terrified. The air between them was so fragile, Dawn was almost afraid to breathe wrong. She just watched him, took in the raw emotion playing on his face, and she could only imagine how hard it must have been for him to show her so much.

He curled his fingers a little tighter, then. Shuffled a little closer. Slowly, carefully, he moved in, and she moved with him. Their feet touched. She hooked her ankle between his. Eventually he had his arm looped fully around her waist, holding her body snug against his, using her as an anchor. She slipped her hand from the nape of his neck to tuck neatly around his side, nuzzling her nose into his neck as he buried his own in her hair.

They were quiet. His breaths were shaky. She could hear his pulse beating wildly, and she simply listened as it slowed over time. Eventually his breathing smoothed.

They stayed like that, just holding onto each other for a while, each of them hyper aware of any tiny movement. Then, with one more wave of movement, Bucky pulled her in tighter against him, held on like he was starving for such a simple thing. He let out a heavy sigh, Dawn wondering if she imagined how relieved the breath sounded. He dragged his hand up her back and buried his fingers in the hair at the nape of her neck, curled them into the strands. Sighed into her hair one more time, more gentle, more content. He scratched his fingers against her scalp purposefully to catch her attention.

“Goodnight, Donnie,” he whispered into her hair.

Her own feelings aside, Dawn was happy to just give him that. Something to hold onto. Something to make him feel a little more human. He deserved that.

“Sleep well, Bucky.”

[lamourche]

We Float | JHS

Pairing: Hoseok/Reader

Genre/au: Massage Therapist Hoseok

Tags: Agoraphobia, Sad Backstories, Angst with Happy Ending, Freeformish, y/n discusses an emotionally abusive relationship she was in before the story starts, hopefully not as depressing as these tags make it seem.

Words: 9791

a/n: Last year I was listening to too much PJ Harvey and wrote this fic. It is a little self-indulgent but what ff isn’t?

Summary:

Might as well get this over with. You sigh and raise your hand to knock, steeling yourself for patchouli and shell necklaces. The door opens. A face peers out at you. There’s no beard, no long shaggy hair. For a moment, you wish he did walk around shirtless. He’s handsome. He’s taller than you, with brown hair that almost falls into his eyes and undercut on the sides. Warm brown eyes and a cute nose. It’s fucking cute his nose. He’s wearing cargo shorts, a Hawaiian shirt and white crocs. Well, that’s better. He’s still handsome and his kind eyes make you want to confess some prior sin, but it’s easy to scowl at a guy in white crocs.

x

x

Big Exit

You shiver, raising your eyes to the darkening summer sky. The afternoon heat no longer lingers after work.

Hitching your massive bag laden with your ancient laptop and your study guides higher on your shoulder, a sharp, sudden pain spreads from the base of your skull to your shoulder-blades. You grind your teeth to stop yourself from making a sound like a dying pig.

If this doesn’t work, you are royally fucked.

You walk down the uneven cement steps leading from the sidewalk to the basement apartment.

Of course, this guy, a massage therapist who works out of his home, has potted plants surrounding the front door. Each looks carefully tended as if small birds land at sunrise for an early morning chit-chat. Of course there are vines grasping at the brick wall. They strive for what little sunlight reaches the narrow entry. Of course soothing music floats out the open window covered by a shear, purple-ish scarf.

This guy probably has a beard and walks around shirtless. He's going to talk at you about auras and chakras.

As if to scold you for your unkind thoughts, your neck seizes. Cursing under your breath, you reach the door. You just stand there, not knocking.

The problem is, the doctor is talking about surgery—expensive, many weeks of recovery with no paycheck—surgery. The muscle relaxants are so tempting and the pharmacy so willing to call your doctor for a refill (which she permits again and again), that you know it’s time to give them up. They work too well. They leave you too content in your tiny pre-furnished apartment by the freeway with your suitcases still packed, as if there were someplace else to go.

You spend those evenings in a daze watching dramas on your phone. The next thing you know the sun’s gone down, and you haven’t eaten. You can’t fall asleep, either. No longer in pain but unable to turn off the thoughts that wander and float in your brain, like the cars that whoosh past. You don’t even mind that you can’t sleep, you’re too content to just exist without excruciating pain. In the morning, too many cups of coffee do little to revive you.

It doesn’t bother you, is the problem. The fact that you can’t always remember where you left your wallet or if you left your apartment unlocked. You’re too content to exist in a fog.

So, a weekly massage in a basement apartment with a guy that probably calls everyone "buddy" and likes to talk about how Burning Man has become too corporate is worth it, right? It’s worth not having surgery. It’s worth not taking the pills.

Might as well get this over with. You sigh and raise your hand to knock, steeling yourself for patchouli and shell necklaces.

The door opens.

A face peers out at you. There is no beard, no long shaggy hair. For a moment, you wish he did walk around shirtless. He’s handsome. He’s taller than you, with brown hair that almost falls into his eyes and undercut on the sides. Warm brown eyes and a cute nose. It’s fucking cute his nose. He’s wearing cargo shorts, a Hawaiian shirt and white crocs.

Well, that’s better. He’s still handsome and his kind eyes make you want to confess some prior sin, but it’s easy to scowl at a guy in white crocs.

It’s the fucking easiest, actually. This makes you feel better for some reason.

But instead of welcoming you or asking you for your sign or talking about how your aura needs work, he looks around you to the street. He gives you a tight smile.

"I’m here for the five o’clock appointment," you say, hoping to move things along. You want to get this over with.

"Can you get that for me?" He looks disgruntled, as if you are somehow blocking his way, which you kind of are, you guess.

"Seriously?" You say, before you can stop yourself. "You want me to get your that box for you?"

He stands a little taller. "Is it really that hard?"

"No, but… whatever."

You turn around, neck twinging, to walk back up the steps to pick up the brown box. He doesn’t even say thank you.

Turning back to the front door, you pause on the stoop. If it wasn’t for the surgery, if it wasn’t for waking up in constant pain or mind-numbing delirium, you would’ve left the moment you saw the purple window covering and the potted plants.

But it took two buses to get here from work, and it’s going to take another one to get home, so you might as well get it over with. You follow him through the doorway.

It’s like entering another world.

The small basement apartment is inviting with mismatched, comfortable furniture that looks cozy. Each and every thing has its place. Colorful boxes and woven baskets are tucked here and there. Bookshelves and a couch sit to the left of the door, with a kitchen beyond. A small square table squats in front of the narrow sink and counters. There’s a half refrigerator and a miniature oven. It’s a bit like a large-sized play kitchen.

On the right is a curtain behind which you can see the massage table and a small end table with a pitcher of water. Just beyond is a short corridor leading back to where the bedroom and bathroom must be.

He moves to the kitchen, pulling a kettle off the stove. "Rose hip or sage?"

You neglect to roll your eyes, so you’re proud of your maturity. "Whatever," you say, wondering how long you’re going to have to talk to this guy.

He doesn’t answer, just raises an eyebrow. He pours the tea, sets two mugs on the table and sits down.

"You should put down that bag before you fall over."

You drop the bag to the floor, but your body feels odd without it. As if the extra weight is needed to force your body in the unnatural position it now thinks is normal. It now thinks is living.

"How long have been in pain?"

You sit down, trying to think of an answer.

"The insurance company sent over your paperwork." He explains, continuing to sip his tea.

"About a year," you answer.

It’s been longer, but you don’t want to admit it. You don’t want to admit that the first time you took the steroids and were pain free, you cried great big sobs of relief and joy. It’s been a year since you started treating the pain. The pain began long before.

He narrows his eyes at you. You resist the urge to look down, taking refuge in a sip of tea. It tastes like boiled grass water more or less, and you try to hide your disgust.

"Likes coffee," he mutters. He busies himself with your paperwork.

You wonder what’s written in there—probably—has no one to drive her home after surgery, has no emergency contact name.

"Well, I think I can help you." He sighs, looking you up and down.

"Great, thanks. Otherwise, what am I doing here?"

He crosses his arms in front of his chest. "I’m not sure exactly, with that attitude."

"Can we get on with this? Some of us have real jobs and I need you to fix me up so I can do mine."

Instead of moving things along, he leans back in his chair. "I’m surprised your doctor hasn’t recommended surgery and rehab."

"She has."

"What are you doing here, then?"

"I’m not sure."

"As long as we’re on the same page."

"The rehab is helping, but I don’t want the surgery. Also, insurance is paying for you even though I don’t go for all this."

"All this," he says, voice even harder.

You wave your hand dismissively at his apartment.

"What the fu—" He slaps a hand over his mouth before.

Oh god, you just made the man with kind eyes swear at you.

"I’m sorry." He stands, pushing back his chair. "That was completely unprofessional."

You stand, wincing from the pain in your lower back. "It’s okay. I was unprofessional, too."

He huffs a laugh. "But you’re a paying customer."

"Not really, insurance, remember?" You follow him to the curtain. "You can be as mean to me as you want."

"Well, maybe we should start over. I’m Jung Hoseok. I’m a massage therapist and usually I don’t swear at people."

His smile brightens his whole face. You want to capture it, put it in your pocket for when you need it. See, you don’t even need pills for the weird thoughts.

"I’m y/n l/n." There really isn’t much more to say.

He pulls back the curtain. There is a massage table, a faded colorful rug underneath and low music playing on the stereo. Moving in an efficient, graceful manner, he lowers the thick sheet,

"I’m guessing even after the steroids and muscle relaxants you’re still fairly tense, so I won’t do anything too deep." He pauses, looking you up and down, hands on hips. "Undress to your level of comfort, but I recommend taking off your bra as it will make working on your neck and shoulders easier. It’s definitely up to you, though. Put your things on the chair over there."

You glance around.

"Just let me know when you’re ready. Take your time. It’s important to be as relaxed as possible."

He leaves shaking his head. You are certain he’s already figured out that you’ve never been relaxed, ever. Not even before this new city, new job and new life.

You undress, folding your pants and blouse neatly on the chair and hanging your suit jacket on the hook. After a battle of nerves, you take off your bra folding it and setting it under your pile of clothes. You leave your underwear on, black but nothing fancy.

As you climb on to the table, a feeling hits you so harshly, you fumble and clutch at the sheets.

It’s nothing profound. It’s nothing earthshattering. It’s perfectly ordinary, like you.

You just wish you weren’t so ugly, is the thing. You would even settle for not pretty or not that bad or not a face people forget as soon as they see it. You don’t think about your body that often, no one sees it much, not even you, really. You don’t pay much attention to it. It just gets you places and lately it just hurts. But all of sudden you dream of it, a you with glowing skin and perfect hair and bright eyes.

You wish your arms didn’t have burns from all those summers spent working in kitchens. Your fingers on your right hand have those scars from when you fell into the rotating fan droning back and forth all summer in the house where you grew up. You wish your knees and legs weren’t scarred from a childhood spent scrambling over rocks and climbing up trees and falling into haystacks, a kind of courage you can’t even remember having, you can’t even hope to reclaim. It makes you feel older than your twenty-five years. Like a patchwork cobbled together, as if you were a repaired stuffed animal with obvious stitching and a floppy ear that’s the wrong size. You wish could tear off the outer covering and reveal something new and beautiful underneath, a new you to go with your new life. You’re always a before picture, but not an after.

You sigh, shaking your head.

This guy has seen more bodies than a bartender at a strip club. He’s handsome and relaxed and probably has a girlfriend or a boyfriend who’s kind and has a nice laugh and takes him to brunch and they hold hands across the table. You sort of hate this person whoever they are.

You need to stop this foolishness. It's been so long since you talked to anyone who wasn’t a bus driver or a co-worker asking your name for the fifth time that you’re getting weirder than normal. You get under the covers, face in the cradle as instructed and wait.

"Uh, are you ready?"

"Yes, shit, sorry," you call, looking behind you.

He opens the curtain, looking down at your body, like a mechanic assessing a car that needs repairs. You might as well be the robot you feel you are. You put your face back in the cradle and squeeze your eyes shut.

"I’m guessing you don’t want any scents."

"Oh fuck no."

He huffs in quiet laughter, moving around you gracefully you imagine.

"Let’s start with some deep breaths," he says, as he lays the sheet over your body. You only met him half an hour ago, but you can already picture him looking down at you, hands on hips and shaking his head at your poor body that you have somehow let get into this state.

He starts by laying his warm hand on your back putting just enough pressure for you to feel your body respond by sinking into the table. You hate how your body responds to his instructions as if you were an instrument to be tuned. He takes a deep breath and you follow, annoyed, wondering why you didn’t just have the surgery rather than lying on this man’s table in his basement apartment. He instructs you to breathe again. You hold back a snide comment that your body knows how to breathe. It is one of the few things it’s been doing successfully on its own. This is an hour and two bus rides you will never get back. What the fuck are you doing here?

An hour later, you don’t wonder anymore.

He drags his fingertips one last time over your temples, and you stop yourself from arching back as if to chase the feeling. He pats the bed gently, one hand on either side of your face.

"All done." He says softly. He stands from the stool behind the massage table.

You open your eyes and look up at the ceiling above you. He busies himself at the counter. You hear him squeezing water from a towel and walking the length of the massage table. He places a warm towel on your feet. You don’t flinch, you don’t startle, you don’t do anything but exhale and wonder if you really knew how to breathe before you met him. You can’t remember the last time anyone touched your feet. Has anyone ever? How are you so relaxed about this?

He's giving you some thoughtful instruction, but you can’t quite follow.

Your body feels inhabited. You don’t feel like a ghost hovering just outside your body, always watching, always criticizing, always berating you for your actions. It's like a kind of reverse exorcism where instead of removing a demonic presence from your body he has instead inhabited it with an angelic one. One that is like you, but not you, because she’s not reminding you of all the fuck-ups in your life.

Your limbs don’t feel like robot arms that you have to think about. Your mind is clear. You aren’t thinking about anything. You don’t remember feeling this relaxed maybe ever. Is this what normal people feel like? If your life was a musical, you would burst into song. Jung Hoseok would dance with you around his apartment, maybe on top of the table. Goddamn, you feel better than you have in ages. For the first time in a long time you want something, you want to feel like this always.

He moves around you, talking about drinking water and taking it easy the rest of the evening. He places a hand on your thigh. It’s not intimate. He’s just reminding you that he’s there. "Take your time," he says. "Don’t get up too quickly."

You don’t speak, worried about breaking the spell. It is so fragile, and it is so newly obtained you want to cherish it like the gift it is. You want to be this person in a bubble untouched by the outside world. You don’t want obtrusive thoughts coming in and taking this from you.

Shutting the curtain closed behind him, Hoseok leaves the small area. You can hear him moving in the kitchen.

You roll onto your side slowly, feeling sad that you have to put on clothes. You blink a few times. You can do this. You can put your clothes back on and walk outside. The feeling will stay for a bit, won’t it?

Your hair is in a braid, but now strands are falling every which way. You’re sure you will look like a fool in your work clothes. As if seeing your crumpled black suit for the first time, you wonder when you ever bought such a thing. It is the ugliest fucking polyester suit you have ever seen in your life. You don’t want to put your bra back on, but you figure it is a three-block walk to your bus stop and a half hour bus ride to your apartment, so you probably need to put it on, as much as you don’t want to. You’re not even sure you could carry off not wearing a bra even in the right kind of clothes. You put on your sensible heels. You’re wondering what clothes you could wear without a bra. Is that a thing you could do? You’re about to ask Hoseok but quickly reign yourself in. The filter keeping such tight control over your thoughts has been loosened. You might really break out into song.

When you step out from beside the curtain, Hoseok doesn’t say anything, just hands you a glass of water. He looks down at you critically. "Do you want to stay for a bit?"

You shake your head. All of a sudden going home and unpacking sounds like a good idea. A little bit of work, and it would be done.

"Thank you," you say, handing him the glass of water and smiling at him. Your face feels odd with the sensation. "I haven’t felt this good in I don’t know how long."

His whole face brightens into a smile that can only be described as blinding, but in a good way. He grasps the glass of water to his chest with both hands.

"Really? I’m so glad."

"Really," you answer, moving to pick up your bag.

He looks at you critically. "Can you get a back pack or cross body bag. I’m in pain just looking at you. Why do you carry all that stuff on your back?"

You shrug. You’ve never really thought of it.

He raises his eyebrows. "Well, I guess it will give me some job security."

You move to the door. "So next week, same time same place?"

"I’ll be here," he says, smile dimming.

"Thank you, really. I just… thank you." You aren’t sure how to express exactly what it means. He smiles and nods and closes the door behind you.

The sun has set in the meantime, and the autumn chill in the air is strong, but you aren’t cold. You can’t remember the last time you weren’t cold.

That weekend you unpack all the suitcases in your apartment, even buying a few dishes and some silverware. The apartment is still ugly—with terrible corporate furniture that looks like it fell off a truck and the freeway is your only soundtrack—but you have a book on the shelf and a mug in the kitchen and its yours, whatever the hell this place is.

The Mess We're In.

So that’s how it starts, and then it continues. Every Friday you show up on his doorstep at five o’clock.

The thing is, it works. Every week you feel less like a person trapped in a robot body. You had long ago started limiting your movements, like an old woman nervous of falling. You didn’t realize the way in which your body had become encased. Every Friday, a little of the hardened shell molts. You start to think of Hoseok's apartment as a kind of magical place. A place where a little of you comes back with each visit. Your bag seems to lighten with every block that you walk from the bus stop to his small, narrow door.

You remember that you like broccoli but not peas. You remember your favorite song and listen to it over and over again, the words reverberating in your brain as you try to go about your day. You remember that you like to go to the movies. When you have a few extra dollars, you go to a Sunday matinee. Alone of course, but you’re out of your apartment. You’ve showered and put on clothes and you are existing in the world. You remember that you like bookstores. You see a copy of one of your favorite books in a store window, and you start to cry. The tears come so suddenly that passersby give you a wide arc. So you aren’t exactly normal, but you’re feeling things again. Even as odd and confusing as they are.

You don’t really talk to anyone unless it’s the barista at the coffee shop or the guy that checks out books at the library. But it’s something. Every Friday Hoseok performs some kind of magical spell and a little of you comes back, more and more the curse that you’ve been living under, is lifted.

He doesn’t talk to you when you are on the table. After the first few attempts, he quickly realizes that you don’t want to chat when he is working on you, but before and after though, that becomes much less awkward.

Hoseok knows the names of things, you realize. When you tell him you like the flowers growing in the pot on the stoop, he tells you they are crocuses. He knows the words for the parts of your body that he slowly unwinds. The words wash over you as he mutters them above you like an incantation.

You don’t know the words for anything. You know spreadsheets and data. The work is all engrossing. You like having your corner of the world organized in neat boxes. It’s satisfying to get it done, to find a problem and fix it. But at the end of the day you look up and you realize you haven’t spoken to anyone.

Now that Hoseok knows you better, he doesn’t hesitate to tell you when you are doing something incorrectly, when your posture is slumped, when your body is trying to return to its former hardened shape. He can tell how many hours of overtime you’ve worked by the way you walk down the steps to his apartment.

Sometimes on a Sunday, you take the bus to his neighborhood. You want to hate it. All the attractive people with bikes with wicker baskets and artisanal cheese and cut flowers. You go and wander like a tourist in this part of town, because your neighborhood isn’t really a neighborhood as much as it is a freeway off-ramp. The only other person who lives there without a car is the homeless guy with the shopping cart. There isn’t much to wander among. Just your apartment building and a fast food place and a church in an industrial building and a business park that looks like it houses Ponzi schemes.

You have long ago stopped pretending you aren’t looking for him. He loves all these places, you think, and his house is filled with books and flowers and fresh food. He is like the healthiest human you have ever met. You want to run into him, talk to him outside of his apartment, do something normal to prove to him you are a normal person.

You aren’t, though. You can pretend for a while but that’s all it is. One day after work you sit on the bench at the bus stop and just don’t… move. You don’t stand when your bus arrives. Before you know it three hours have gone by. So you aren’t normal yet, but you're remembering how to pretend to be a person so that’s something.

If it wasn’t for your appointments with Hoseok then your lack of human interaction would be particularly troubling. But it’s a start. A new job, a new apartment. It takes a while, doesn’t it?

Hoseok on the other hand, always has people visiting, friends arriving for dinner after your appointment.

One Friday, two months after you started, the cold weather is starting to grip the city. It is windy and raining and depressing and you just want it to be over. You want sun.

Someone is leaving Hoseok’s apartment when you arrive. The man carefully shuts the door behind him. The single bulb beside the door gives a harsh light. The blond man is tall and broad-shouldered. Wearing a dark pea coat, he looks regal almost. He is literally one of the most attractive people you have ever seen in real life. Seokjin, you think. You’ve met him before. When you had lingered drinking water after your appointment. Hoseok had been trying to think of different teas you would like and asked you questions about your particularly unhealthy diet, trying to get you to improve it.

"You pick that up for him?"

You nod. Most of his friends don’t speak to you. They look at you like you’re just a customer, and that’s the way it should be. That’s all you are.

"You’re his Friday regular?"

"Yes."

He looks at you closely, narrowing his eyes.

You feel uncertain under his gaze, as if you are being assessed, graded and falling short. "Is everything okay?"

"It’s been a year. Almost to the day."

Your confusion must show on your face.

"He hasn’t told you?"

You shake your head.

Seokjin sighs. "Be easy on him tonight. I told him to cancel, but he didn’t want to miss your appointment."

With that, Seokjin moves around you. The chill in the air is harsher now. You wish you had one of Hoseok’s thick, black parkas that hang by the door to put on. You brush your hair out of your face. The wind stings. If it was important for him to keep the appointment, then you should do your part too. You pause on the doorstep. What would you have done if he had canceled? Even if it is human interaction that you’re paying for, even if it doesn’t mean anything beyond his kindness to any client, these Friday afternoons are the only thing keeping you sane. If he had canceled, you would have been lost. You don’t know what’s going on, but you’re thankful. You wonder if he knows—that this is the only human interaction you have, and you pay for it and you know you should feel like a failure, and you also know you don’t care, because it’s helping.

You knock on the door softly.

"It’s open," he calls from the kitchen.

You enter the apartment to see him sweeping. He's wearing a worn-out t-shirt and sweats. He doesn't look bad. He never looks bad, but he looks like he just woke up—no, he looks like he hasn't slept.

A chair stands in the middle of the kitchen, the small table moved to the side. He must have just had his hair cut. It’s a little too short and it looks a little too severe on him, like a school boy on the first day of school. Suddenly you wished you knew more about him. He’s good at deflecting questions, always moving the conversation away from himself. You don’t know anything about him other than he’s a massage therapist and knows the names for plants and flowers and he has given you a gift you can’t ever repay.

You wonder if he has a boyfriend or girlfriend and, in that moment, you can’t help but be jealous of anyone who knows him, truly knows him. All the feelings you’ve tried to push down rise suddenly to the surface. Because whoever that person is, they should be here making him feel better and fussing over his hair and making him tea and giving him a hot meal. Whatever it is you imagine significant others do, that person should be here doing it. It’s clear that he isn’t himself. His expression is tense, and he doesn’t put the broom away or the small table back in the middle of the room. There are dirty dishes in the sink. You glance about. Books on the coffee table, clean towels on the couch waiting to be folded. What’s going on?

"No tea tonight," he says, in a voice that seems to be admitting defeat. You’re about to offer to make it, but the look on his face stops you. His mouth is set in a firm line.

You nod and put the package on the book shelf where he likes it.

Without another word, you move to the other room. Tonight, the familiar ritual of undressing and moving under the sheets is a comfort when everything else feels so odd. This is an alternate universe Hoseok. You wish you knew how to get your Hoseok back. You can’t be the most relaxed person in this apartment because that would mean something was terribly wrong with the universe. You still can’t touch your toes. You still take the muscle relaxants when you can’t sleep. You aren’t normal and if you are the most normal one here then something is hopelessly lost, and you can't begin to know how to get it back.

He doesn’t fuss over your sheet and ask you about your week like he usually does. He’s quiet, moving around the room without a sound so you start a little when he puts his hand on your back. He begins with the breaths, but he’s rushed and shallow.

What should you say? If only you were a person capable of the basics of human interaction, then you would know what to do, but you aren’t, so you do nothing. You lie there and try to find that center, that feeling that has never escaped you every time when you’ve been here in the past. You go through the motions, trying to relax. The fact that he doesn’t call you on it, is all you need to know that something is wrong.

You turn over at the halfway point. As usual, he starts with your hands. There is something so incredibly intimate about the way his fingers work on your palm. Last week you are pretty sure you groaned out loud. There are certainly other areas of your body more intimate, but there is something so tender and so sweet about it, it makes you ache a little.

You force your hand not to curl up and hold his, as much as you want to. It wouldn’t be appropriate, and you would never want to make him feel uncomfortable.

Hoseok pauses and for a moment you can feel his breath on your palm. It is warm and stuttering and it surprises you. Is he truly that close and you’ve never noticed?

But then you fell a small subtle splash, like a tear you think. Not like a tear, but an actual tear.

This, even you can’t ignore. You open your eyes and Hoseok is leaning against the table, slumped and sad and so involved with his thoughts he doesn’t even notice you stirring.

"Hoseok," you whisper.

He sits up suddenly, as if just remembering you are there. You gather the sheet around you as he drops your right hand. You move to sit up. "Are you okay?"

He wipes his eyes and looks at you, so sad you want to give him a hug, but you are naked under the sheet and it wouldn’t be right.

"Can I help?"

He shakes his head, wiping his eyes. "I should have canceled." He looks down at you, taking in your sheet as it gathers around your legs and covers your body. "I’m sorry, I won’t charge you." With that he stands and leaves.

Oh god, surely you could have helped him. Surely any other person on the planet would be more helpful at this moment. But you’re the only one here, so you might as well do what you can.

You dress quickly. Hopping on one foot, trying to put on your shoes and pushing back the curtain, you think, what would a normal person do. What would a character in a television show do? They go out and drink beer and eat food, don’t they?

Well, why not take a chance, without even knowing where he is in the apartment you start talking.

"Listen, are you okay? Clearly you aren’t okay, but can I help? Do you want to get some food? I don’t know what you’re going through but I could buy you a drink. I mean I never see you out of this apartment. Let’s go to a bar and you can have a drink and you can tell me what's wrong."

The entire time you're trying to put on your boots, hopping around and he's just starting at you. His back to the kitchen counter as if you had cornered him there.

"You want to go?" you ask, the question lingering.

He glances at you and the fear in his eyes is palpable. He just stares at the door and back at you.

You look at him and look at the door and back again at him.

You are the biggest fucking idiot on the planet.

"Oh god, you don’t go out do you? That’s why I get the packages and your friends bring you food and I am such an idiot."

He waves his hand. "I didn’t want you to know, which is stupid because you had to find out sometime."

"Does it take most people two months?"

"No," he admits while trying and failing to hide a tired laugh.

"I’m so sorry. I didn’t realize, and your friend said—"

"What did he say?"

"Just that it was almost a year since."

"Yeah." He finally moves off the counter. He looks so tired. He looks like he is going to fall asleep right there in the kitchen.

"You should rest."

He moves in a daze. It is painful to see him this way. Not light on his feet, not smiling. You used to think his laugh was annoying and now you would give anything to have it back. He's always telling stories of funny things his friends have done and you used to hate it because you have no friends.

You realize maybe you don’t have friends because in addition to not knowing how to be a normal person, you’re kind of an asshole—so focused on your own pain, you willfully ignore anyone else’s.

He sits on the couch. You hesitate. Instead of sitting next to him you hand him the blanket and sit on the worn leather chair.

"The last time I went to restaurant there was an incident." He looks up at you, pleading with you to understand.

"Oh god, of course," you say. It was before you moved here, but it was in all the papers. You open your mouth to ask questions, but what is there to ask. You can’t help him, and you can’t know what he's going through. Even if you were better at any of this, you can’t fix people. If you have only learned one lesson in life, it's that you can’t fix other people.

"It started slowly. I didn’t want to be in crowds and then I didn’t want to be at work. I've always had clients here, and it just became easier not to leave. I had a panic attack in a movie theater a few months after. After that, I never really left the apartment. It wasn’t a choice really, not a conscious one anyway. It just became my life.

"It was easy to switch my practice to my apartment. It happened slowly. A switch got flipped and I can’t flip it back." He looks at you. "You’re the first friend I’ve made since it happened. I used to have a lot more friends."

"I’m pretty sure you have a lot of friends. I mean, I’m sure they're still your friends even if you haven’t seen them."

He laughs.

"Can I make you some tea?"

"I won’t even make you drink some."

"Thank you."

You’re glad to busy yourself. You move the table back to its place and do the dishes while the water heats. Having watched Hoseok so many times, you know what to do. By the time you bring the pot and the cup to the coffee table, he looks as if he's going to fall asleep.

"I don’t know how to help you."

"I’m your first agoraphobe."

"You’re my first friend in a long time."

He has never asked about what brought you to this city for a boring job where you know no one. His hands have never stuttered over the scars on your body. You wish you could thank him for that, but you don’t know how.

You bite your lip. "I don’t want to say the wrong thing. I mean, I’ve already said the wrong thing, so I guess it can’t get worse."

"You know that café on 3rd."

You know exactly the place he is thinking of. You always look for him there. "Yeah, I go there every Sunday. I pretend to do the crossword, but mostly I look a dumb stuff on my phone."

"I miss that place," he says, as he leans his head back on the couch and closes his eyes. "They still have the scones?"

"Yes, and they have these cinnamon rolls that make you think you can see god." Maybe there is something you can do. "Do you want me to bring you some?"

He winces. "I’m tired of friends bringing me things."

"Oh, look I’m there every Sunday morning. I won’t bring you anything, I promise, but if you ever want to join me there you can. I’m not great at human interaction though, so you're going to have to teach me how."

"I haven’t left this tiny apartment in almost a year."

"I know, but your social skills are obviously better than mine."

He laughs and puts his head on the arm of the sofa, stretching out.

"Do you want to call someone? Is there someone that can come over?"

He turns his head to look at you. "You know, you’re doing okay at this being a person thing."

You hand him his phone. He calls a friend while you do some more dishes and wipe down the counters.

Hoseok is asleep when Yoongi arrives. You’ve put on your coat. Your bag is packed at your feet. You feel like an interloper, a spy without a mission.

"You’re his Friday regular?" he asks.

"Yeah."

He looks at you accusingly as if the state of his friend is somehow your fault.

"I didn’t know."

"Jesus, how did you not know?" He shakes his head. You leave as he sits on the leather chair you just vacated, head in his hands, staring at his sleeping friend.

Winter hangs in the air. The steps up to the sidewalk seem particularly steep tonight, and you grip the railing like a mountain climber holding a fixed rope on a frozen slope.

When you get to your bus stop instead of standing under the shelter, you continue walking.

If only magic were real, you think. You’ve paid the price, certainly, to be owed some fearsome power. You’ve paid the price in scars and terrible boyfriends and missed meals and lost hours waiting for buses that never came.

But instead of something useful in exchange, the universe gave you suffocating armor that almost destroyed you before Hoseok began to dismantle it in his gentle way.

You’ve always kind of been an asshole. It helped you get out of that farm house you grew up in, and it helped you get away from a bad situation, but it would be better if you could make the world suffer for what it's done to him. It should. You would happily deal out punishments like a vengeance demon.

By the time you get home, your feet are bleeding and your body aches. You don’t know why you decided to punish yourself for the universe’s misdeed, but at least someone is paying. It just isn’t any of the people who fucking deserve to pay.

Hoseok doesn’t come to the café on Sunday. The tea you ordered gets cold, but that’s okay because tea can't really solve anything.

The next Friday he looks at you under his lashes. You don’t mention it.

Slowly the magic comes back. He’s himself again. Whatever it is that happens that makes you leave his apartment feeling like a ghost that is re-inhabiting its body, returns.

Every Sunday you order a pot of tea and a cup of coffee and he never comes, and you never mention it.

Beautiful Feeling

Spring is about to break but winter is holding on.

You drink tea on this Friday night, because there is a first time for everything. Hoseok tells you about the meal he’s cooking tonight for his friends. He moves around the kitchen, his movements graceful and fluid.

"Did you used to dance?"

"Yes." A shadow falls over his face.

You realize you’ve done it again. "You should teach me, because I can’t dance."

"Everyone can dance."

You shake your head.

He moves the small table to the side of the kitchen.

"Come here," he says. He has that note in his voice. The one that tells you when you are slouching, or when you are lying about how late you worked.

You move toward the kitchen and step up to him, feeling once again like a fool. He puts a hand on your waist and moves you toward him. He shifts your hips as your body is once again in robot mode, and you try not to blush. He has seen almost every inch of your body more or less, but standing in his kitchen like this is surprisingly intimate.

"You need to relax."

"Do you know who are talking to?"

"I know, I know." He mutters. "I thought you had made more progress."

Oh. Your eyes glaze over as you try to keep your composure. You’re not sure why such an offhand comment hurts so much.

He takes his finger and puts it under your chin, directing your gaze to him. "I’m sorry," he says, searching your face. "Don’t look down, look at me."

There’s no music, and you are in his tiny kitchen. Instead of counting off, he does this babababa thing, and you start to slowly move with him.

You realize that he wasn’t just a dancer, he used to teach. You don’t say anything, just enjoying the look of concentration on his face. This is must be what he looks like when he is working. When you start counting under your breath, he can’t hide his smile. You spend the entire time apologizing for stepping on his toes. At a certain point he can’t hold back his laughter when you move in the entirely wrong direction. He is supporting you with a hand on your back, directing your movements and whispering encouragement between smiles. But he seems happy, you think, and that's enough for you.

At one point, he spins you around and catches you in a dip. He stares down at you with a smile. You can feel his warm breath from the exertion. You have a momentary vision of him leaning down to kiss you. You can picture it so clearly, the feeling of his lips on yours, breathing in the same air, hands gently pulling you to him.

He jerks you up and immediately drops your hand, taking a step back.

"We should get started," he says, moving to the back of the apartment where he always goes while you change.

You shake off the mood quickly. He’s right. You’ve wasted too much time already, and you try not to think of his breath on your skin or the way he smelled of vanilla while he held you in his arms. It's just been so long since you’ve been with anyone, not since you moved here. You're making a big deal out of nothing. You strip off your clothes, leaving them in a pile. You forget to tie up your hair, but you just want it to be over. You want to be back to when things were normal.

You call to tell him when you are ready, and he comes in and everything is normal. Normal, normal, normal. Before you can stop them, the thoughts float in your head. What would it be like to wake up with him, lazy morning and loose limbs? What would it feel like if he held your hand, like he really wanted to? You try to rein in your thoughts.

Then he is touching you, the familiar routine starting, and you try to distract yourself. But this time every pressure, every movement seems filled with longing. You don’t know what to do with yourself.

Your body is betraying you once again. It wants. It has come out of whatever hard shell it had been living in since leaving your old life and deciding to craft a new one with just a few hundred dollars and your bare hands. Now it wants so much. It wants to feel this warm and happy all the time. It wants to have someone touch you in a way that feels like love, like this does.

Your body is confused. It’s confused these hours with real affection, with real tenderness. It doesn’t know any better. It’s just starved. It doesn’t know not to fall in love with this feeling. It doesn’t know that you don’t get to fall in love with him. It doesn’t know that he doesn’t love you back. Your heart hates you because it isn’t real. No one as kind as him would ever fall in love with you. Now your heart and your body hate you for it. They want to be at peace. For the first time in a long time, maybe in forever, that you've felt at peace, is here. And its' not real.

By the time the massage is almost over, when he is running his fingertips over your temple, you can't help the emotions rising to the surface and the tears that fall.

When it starts you can’t stop. Hoseok pauses, he hands stuttering, confused. You bring your hand up to your mouth as if that will stop the gulping sobs that are threatening to start at any moment.

You keep your eyes twisted shut wondering when he will leave you alone to your strange humiliating episode. But he doesn’t, of course. Instead he moves around to the side of the table, calling your name softly. He doesn’t say to stop or its going to be okay. He just keeps repeating over and over again that he’s here. I’m here he keeps saying and you want to push him away, but he has gathered you up in his arms. He has buried his face in your hair, and you can feel the gentle nuzzling of his cheek against your hair. It is so sweet you might die. He is sitting on the massage table, holding you in his arms. If only this could be real, you think. That’s the problem, you started wanting too much and now you can’t stop.

I’m sorry you keep saying and he keeps saying don’t be.

You open your eyes, suddenly aware of your nakedness under the sheet and the awkwardness of this position. You want to cling to him like this until he has peeled the sheet from your body and touched your skin again, but this time for real. You can’t stop the visions in your head of what it would be like to be with him.

You pull back. You need to get yourself together.

He's looking down at you, eyes intense. He bites his lip and his grip around your waist tightens. "Y/n" he breathes.

It comes out like a prayer. You're thinking that you may finally fucking get what you want, when the front door opens, and god knows how many of his friends walk in the apartment.

Hoseok screams and almost drops you, and you cling to the sheet. Oh god, nothing about this is funny or sexy. It is just incredibly humiliating. He over corrects and yelping, almost falls backwards on the floor. Thank god, the curtain is still pulled.

"What the fuck, Hoseok. You need to stop screaming." Someone calls.

"Uh, just finishing up."

"You have a client back there?".

"Uh, yeah." He lets go of you slowly as if worried that you will fall if left to your own. You nod, and he nods back. The two of you just continue to stare at each other like fools.

"I should get dressed."

"I need to make dinner."

"Cool. Good talk."

You move off the table still wrapping the sheet around you in a poor attempt at dignity and gesture for him to leave.

"Right, okay. We good?" He winces.

"Leave, Hoseok."

He moves into the other room, careful to shut the curtain behind him. You put on your clothes hopeful that nothing is backwards or out of place. What do you have to be embarrassed about, you think? You got a massage then cried like a total oddball and then he comforted you and looked like he wanted to kiss you. That’s all. Normal, normal, normal.

You push the curtain aside a little too forcefully. The hooks dangle ominously. Seven pairs of eyes stare at you and you want nothing more to get out of there.

"I’ll be going. Thank you."

Hoseok glances at you. Seokjin narrows his eyes and you don’t miss the This Is The One I Told You About glance he exchanges with the boys arrayed around the apartment. You don’t want to know if that is a good or bad thing. Hoseok wipes his hands on his apron and walks over to show you out. You’re sure your eyes are still red, and your hair is a wild, and this whole thing could not be more humiliating.

"You’ll be okay?"

"Yes."

"You’ll text me when you get home?"

"Yes."

"Okay then."

Please let me go your eyes must be pleading. He seems at war with himself wanting to ask what happened.

"Are you really okay?"

"It's nothing."

He shakes his head at you, disappointed in your answer. But he can't ask you to explain, not here, not like this.

He lets you go with a final nod of his head.

This Is Love

It's Sunday, two days later. You take the bus to Hoseok's neighborhood like you always do. The routine is comforting. It's cold, but spring is trying to find its way. The sun is making its presence felt. It's trying so hard to bring warmth and heat. It will be okay, you think. He's kind, and he won't think less of you because of your mini breakdown that was probably long overdue.

Your steps take you to Hoseok's apartment. You want to make sure it hasn't disappeared like in a fairy story. Sometimes you think the buildings on the other side will have swallowed it up, and it won't have been real. You imagined the whole thing just to get you through the last six months.

Your steps falter as you cross the street in front of his apartment.

He's there.

He's sitting on the stoop, eyes closed. You can see his chest heave. His hands grip the rail as he sits on the top step as if he’s just run a marathon. There's sweat on his brow, and his muscles are tense. The sun's rays make his skin glow, as if his inner kindness made manifest.

"Oh fuck," you say. "Holy shit."

He smiles.

"You did it."

He nods, his hands don't loosen their grip. He blinks his eyes open, dazed and a little lost he looks, as if waking from a pleasant dream, so handsome and sweet. You're so proud of him you could burse.

"Do you want to join me?"

"Sure, yeah, thanks." You squeeze in next to him. It's uncomfortable and cold on the uneven step, but you could stay there for hours if he wanted.

"Come here often?" he jokes.

Oh God. "I’m not stalking you or anything weird." Your face heats. You need to improvise. "I shop at the co-op."

He laughs. "You eat a lot of artisanal cheeses?"

"I go for the artisanal mayo."

"Does that place still smell like weed and old vegetables?"

"Yes, it's so gross."

He smiles.

You don’t know what to say or do. How can you talk to him when he’s out of his apartment? "So do you have any plans the rest of the day?"

He laughs so hard his eyes water. "I haven’t left my apartment in almost a year, so I’m not sure."

Goddamn, you are such a fucking moron.

"You really are terrible at this, aren’t you?"

You nod, afraid to talk for what might come out of your mouth.

"I thought it might be me. Because I haven’t made new friends in a while, but it is really you, isn’t it?"

"It really fucking is. I wasn’t lying when I said I don’t have any friends."

You can see the question on his face.

"It’s not very exciting."

"I was thinking maybe you were an assassin on the run from the government." He bites his lip. "What happened to you?"

"It's incredibly ordinary."

"Not a princess with amnesia?"

"No, but how would I know?'

He laughs. "Not in witness protection?"

You smile and shake your head. "How much have you thought about this?"

"I've thought about this a lot. You're pretty mysterious."

"I guess being angry and uncommunicative has its perks."

He removes a hand from the handrail, slowly carefully, his elegant fingers moving to clasp your hands, and it is so sweet and so intimate to be with him like this, squished on the step. It is the first time he's touched you in a deliberate way, a way like he wants to.

"Tell me."

You take a deep breath. You aren’t sure how to say it. You’ve never put it into words. "I was in a relationship. Everyone told me how lucky I was, everyone told me how I should be grateful. 'He wants to be with you even though you're not pretty, even though you say those odd things.' Everyone said it."

Hoseok shakes his head and grips your hand tighter.

"I was grateful. I was so grateful I didn't notice when it was easier to have him decide where we went and what we ate and what we should do. I was grateful and quiet. Then it stopped hurting when he told me I was dumb or when he laughed at me for wearing the wrong thing. I thought this was progress, you know, that it didn't hurt. But then it all stopped, all the feelings. I was suffocating."

Telling the story now, it feels like a story that happened to someone else. First the first time maybe ever, you think, I survived, not why didn't I leave sooner.

"One day after work I came home and with the last of my energy, I packed my suitcase. I got on a bus and I came here and I found a job and a place to live."

"You're very brave," he says, solemnly. It is a relief to hear him say it, and you are starting to believe it too.

"The thing is, I thought it was over. I thought I had won, but there were still ghosts to battle, you know."

He wipes the tears from your cheeks. "Do you think we could hang out sometime and not cry?"

"It’s because of you, you know."

"What?" he asks.

"I’ve never even said, thank you."

"You say thank you every week." He says, gently scolding.

"But not for the real reason, not for the way I’m slowly becoming a person again."

"I haven’t said it either."

You look up at him. "What could you have to thank me for?"

"Everyone has been really nice to me since everything happened." He shrugged. "But you… weren't. You’re the first person who didn't know, who didn't treat me like I'm dying of a nameless disease. It was obvious you had been through some kind of war and survived, and every week you were just yourself, and it was wonderful. I mean, you're the first person I got annoyed with since this whole thing happened. You really need to take better care of yourself."

"I'm socially inept and kind of an asshole, so we've got that going for us."

He laughs. "I think I should tell you, I have a crush on you."

"Oh, thank god." You cringe. "I mean, me too. I'm terrible at this."

He laughs, and it sounds like he doesn't mind.

"Though that isn't very professional," you mock scold.

"Those sounds you make on the table aren't very professional."

"I can't help it," you admit. "Honestly, I tried."

"I like it." He pauses. "The thing is… I still have bad days sometimes, not often, but I'm not even sure I can take you out on a date."

"I’m terrible at dates. You're not missing much."

He cups your cheek and even in the cold, his hand is warm. "Y/n, I’m getting better, but I might never be fixed."

He says it like it matters, as if you could ever find fault with him. He looks worried, searching your eyes. You do the only thing you can think of, you wipe the tears from under his eyes and kiss his cheek. He hums and leans his forehead against yours.

"Me neither," you say, gripping the strings of his hoodie as if he might float away. "But this is the best I’ve felt in a long time."

"Me too." He has a small, hopeful smile on his face when he pulls back, running his thumb over your cheek. "Can we sit for a while?"

You nod, and he puts an arm around you. His body is warm, protecting you from the cold and brittle wind. Tucked into his chest, you watch as he closes his eyes and raises his face to the sun.

a/n: thank you for reading. i really wanted the ending to be hopeful, and I’m praying that it is.  I wanted to write a story about how love can’t fix you, but give you strength to make your life better.

[pi-cat000]

MSA: Winged Arthur AU (part 6)

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, 

Part 7: here

.

Vivi POV 

Yesterday, if someone had walked up to Vivi and told her that, within the next twenty-four hours, she’d be getting attacked by crazy trees, saved by her ‘actually a giant tailed fox’ dog Mystery, and miraculously healed from life-threatening injuries by a best friend who’d suddenly sprouted wings, she’d have at least done a double take. Sure, she’s always had her suspicions about Mystery, those suspicions had stopped short at possible family guardian animal though, and she knew there was more to the world than initial impressions would suggest. God knows Arthur couldn’t go two steps without running into something strange. Then there were her own memory problems, as unexplainable as they were irritating, Arthur’s mysteriously missing arm, and a bunch of other red flags that were all rather obvious when one knew where to look. Oh no, it wasn’t the existence of supernatural monsters that had her thrown, it was just the complete SNAFU of a situation unfolding around her.

Vivi shakes Arthur, trying to push him upright. His head lolls to one side.

“Arthur,” She tries his name for the third time.

Predictably, there is no response. He’s dead to the world. Whatever that golden light did, aside from healing her up, it had knocked him out cold. In contrast, she is as energised as ever.  The haze of pain and thought consuming dizziness is gone, taking with it any fatigue. She’s pumped and ready for anything. Her shoulder is completely fine. There is no sign of her most recent stab wound anywhere.

That’s not normal.

Carefully, she shuffles around under Arthur’s deadweight. He’s heavier than she remembers. A side-effect of growing two additional limbs no doubt. The wings hang limb, a spread of uneven feathers, covering the ground on either side of them. She positions him so he is in her lap and not getting blood all over his face, checking for injuries as she goes. Geeze, if Arthur hadn’t just informed her that he was fine, she’d probably be panicking right about now. He’s a mess, with his clothes torn to shreds, hair mattered, covered in dried blood and dirt. The dark patterns and holes across his shirt hint that something sharp has gone straight into his chest. Vivi shivers, leaning in to double check, pushing aside clumps of feathers. Thankfully, he seems okay.

“Vivi.”

The voice is deep, familiar yet strange. Her attention snaps up. She doesn’t know what she expects- Lance maybe- but it’s definitely not that purple fire ghost from the spooky mansion. Vivi should really stop expecting things. After getting stabbed with a giant pair of garden shears, anything’s game.

“Hey?” She greets, unsure. Why it the mansion ghost here?

“You’re okay!” It says, relieved, “I was worried.”

“Thank you?”

Several small pink ghosts, they kind of look like blobs, creep towards her, floating near the ground. They’re super cute, and Vivi is insanely curious. She’d be all for making new ghost friends if not for the fact that Arthur is unconscious, she was just attacked by a living tree, and her last encounter with this ghost didn’t exactly end swimmingly. So, she raises herself into a crouch, and prepares to lunge forward or pull Arthur back should the need arise.

“Might want to slow down there buddy. Back up a step,” She instructs, addressing the smaller pink blobs as well. The ghost hesitates, confused, continuing with an unhelpfully baffled, “It’s me. I’m back,” like she should know who this was. Vivi gives the figure a thorough examination, sorting through her memories. It’s not hard. She doesn’t have a lot of memories anymore.

“Me who?” She asks. The response garners more confusion.

“Lewis. I’m Lewis.”

“Pardon?” She knows the name, but the recognition is hazy, linking it to one of her missing memories.

“You don’t…” The ghost starts then slaps a hand to its flaming forehead in realisation, “Oh. OH! Of course. Sorry. I…I look different like this.”

The ghost shifts, flames twisting, flickering away then settling into a more mundane purple vest, suit-pants, and hopeful smile. Aside from glowing purple eyes, this man appears entirely human. It’s pretty cool, Vivi has never seen a ghost shapeshift, but she still doesn’t know who this person is. He is familiar in the way that many things are familiar to Vivi, so she may have known him at one point. She kind of feels bad because the ghost-turned-human is looking on with such excited happiness, obviously expecting a positive reaction.

She clears her throat, “Ah. Neat trick…Is that a common ghost ability?”

She gets a pained frown. The human flickers and the fire returns, alighting in Lewis’s hair.

“You don’t recognise me?”

“No…Should I?” She has a feeling she should, but she can’t be sure. Lewis is still for a beat, bewildered and visibly distressed. Vivi is about to apologise, and maybe try and explain her memory problems, but Lewis suddenly glares at the unconscious Arthur, eyes narrowing dangerously.

Thoughts of apologies vanish, and Vivi is immediately on alert. The human vestige of Lewis flickers, flame growing. Quickly, she scoops up her aluminium bat from where it is resting on the concrete. Vivi hasn’t forgotten their first encounter with this ghost, which had involved being chased around a spooky mansion before narrowly escaping when said mansion collapsed into an inferno of fire.

“He’s done something. He made you forget,” The ghost growls, low and ominous. Fire inches towards them, creeping along the cracked concrete.

“Forget what?” She tries, only managing to throw fuel on the proverbial fire. Oh boy, this didn’t look good. Those little ghosts aren’t so cute when they are hissing hatefully at Arthur. Like ash, the fire spirit’s human façade flakes away completely. It’s mad and growing angrier by the second.

“ME!” Lewis moans, half pain and half rage, “You forgot me? Why?”

It glowers at Arthur, who is still resting in her arms, spitting, “What did he do!”

Vivi quickly lowers Arthur to the ground, springing up so she can position herself protectively over him. No way she is letting this creature hurt Arthur. Arthur may have no visible burns, but there are plenty of scorch marks on his clothes. With the ghost’s sudden mood swing, Vivi doesn’t need to be a genius to put two and two together. Deliberately, she steps forward, swinging her bat up and at the ready. This time she doesn’t have Mystery to suddenly transform into a giant tailed fox and fight her battles.

Anger, cold and hard, seals her will. Arthur’s always the one getting hurt. With nightmares, losing his arm, helping her through her memory problems when he had his own ones to deal with: the last few years have been a long series of kicks to the teeth. Vivi’s sick of it. Sick of every supernatural creature having it out for Arthur. Even when they aren’t looking for them, they come crawling out of the woodwork to make his life difficult.  Not this time.

The talisman affixed to her bat glows bright blue, responding to her resolve. Vivi knows that, if the bat connects with the ghost, it’s going to hurt. She’s counting on it. Her breath mists like it might on a cold winter morning. Simultaneously, the temperature around her drops. Funny, considering that ghost across from her is fire based, she’d expect the opposite.

“If you come any closer. I’m going to wack that skull right off your body,” Vivi threatens.

Her blatant aggression throws off whatever this ghost-Lewis is planning.

“Get away from him.” He snaps, “He’s not your friend.”

“No.” She retorts easily.

.

Note: Lewis making a great first impression. Next part will probably be another Vivi POV. 

Part 7: here

[outpostsofbabel]

Demigods and Semi-devils, Chapter III (X)

The three walked some distance until the voices of the Divine Farmers could no longer be heard. Zhong Ling kept whistling for her marten, but it did not appear. “Sister Mu, thank you and the other sister for saving me,” she said. “But I’m going to stay here.”

“What for?” the girl in black asked. “To wait for your marten?”

“No!” Zhong Ling replied. “I’ll wait here for Brother Duan. He has gone to ask my father for an antidote for those people.” Turning, she said to Duan Yu: “Sister, give me some of the antidote to the Bowel Breaking Powder.”

The other girl said: “That fellow named Duan is not coming.”

“No, he will!” Zhong Ling said. “He said he would come. Even if my father doesn’t agree to come, Brother Duan will come back!”

“Huh!” the girl in black said. “Men lie all the time. How can you believe what he said?”

Zhong Ling burst into tears. “Brother Duan wouldn’t... wouldn’t lie to me,” she said through sobs.

Duan Yu began to laugh and peeled back his hood. “Miss Zhong, your Brother Duan didn’t lie to you at all!”

Zhong Ling gazed at him for a few moments before she flung her arms around his neck, completely overjoyed. “You didn’t lie!” she cried.

The other girl suddenly grabbed her by the scruff of her neck and dragged her off Duan Yu, pulling her roughly to one side. “Don’t do that!” she snapped.

Her behaviour took Zhong Ling by surprise, but happy as she was, she didn’t care. “Sister Mu, how did you two meet?” she asked. The other girl sniffed loudly and said nothing.

“Let’s walk and talk,” Duan Yu suggested. He was afraid that Sikong Xuan would find out the truth about the antidote he had been given, and set off in pursuit of them. The girl in black leapt up on the horse, taking the lead. Duan Yu began filling Zhong Ling in on what had happened since they parted, although he left out the other girl’s cruel treatment of himself, saying only that she saved his life.

“Sister Mu, you saved Brother Duan!” Zhong Ling cried out. “I don’t know how to thank you!”

“I saved him of my own accord,” the girl snapped. “What does it have to do with you?” Zhong Ling looked at Duan Yu and pulled a face.

“Hey, Duan Yu,” the girl said again. “I’m not going to let this little devil Zhong Ling tell you my name. I’ll say it to you myself. My name is Mu Wanqing.”

“Ah, the refreshing beauty of wood (mu) and water, and clear (qing) grace (wan) flying high!” Duan Yu said. “A good name, and fitting surname!”

“Better than being a block (duan) of wood with an exceedingly bad reputation (yu),” the girl shot back. Duan Yu laughed uproariously.

Zhong Ling grasped Duan Yu’s hand and said gently: “Brother Duan, you are so good to me.”

“It’s a pity we can’t find your marten,” Duan Yu replied.

Zhong Ling whistled again a few times. “That’s alright,” she said. “After those bad people leave, I’ll go search for it. Will you help me?”

“Of course!” Duan Yu suddenly thought of the jade statue in the cave, and added: “I’ll probably come here quite often in the future.”

“You aren’t allowed to come here!” Mu Wanqing said angrily. “If she wants to look for the marten, she can do it on her own.” Duan Yu looked at Zhong Ling and made a face. Both of them giggled.

The three said nothing else for a while more, walking onward in silence. Then suddenly Mu Wanqing asked: “Zhong Ling, you were born on the fifth of February, weren’t you?” She was still on horseback, and didn’t turn around as she fired off her question.

“I was,” Zhong Ling said. “How did you know?”

Mu Wanqing was furious. “Duan Yu, how dare you still insist you aren’t a liar?” With a flick of the horse’s reins, she and Black Rose bolted forward. A low whistle sounded from the west, followed by four rapid claps from the east. A figure appeared and began sprinting towards them, stopping when it was about thirty metres away. A hoarse voice shouted: “You little bitch, where are you going to hide now?” It was the voice of Grandma Rui.

At the same time, they heard a snigger from behind them. Duan Yu turned around in alarm. In the faint moonlight he could make out the form of Grandma Ping, flanked by two other people and with a short knife gleaming in each hand. On her left was a white-bearded old fellow with a huge shovel in his hand. On her right was a young man with a long sword. Duan Yu vaguely remembered seeing both of them when Mu Wanqing had been under attack.

“You ghosts haven’t disappeared yet?” Mu Wanqing said with a cold laugh. “You managed to follow me all the way here. Not bad.”

“You could run to the ends of the earth, you little bitch, and we would chase you there,” Grandma Ping snarled.

There was a high-pitched whistle as Mu Wanqing fired a arrow. But the young man with the sword was very fast, and he deflected it. Launching herself off the saddle, Mu Wanqing attacked the old man. Despite his age, he proved able to move quickly, swinging his shovel around to attack the girl. But Mu Wanqing launched herself back off his shovel without touching the ground, angling to attack Grandma Ping instead.

Grandma Ping brandished her knives at Mu Wanqing, but the girl’s sword broke their blades easily. It was like a streak of white fire in the darkness. Grandma Rui swung her iron crutch towards Mu Wanqing, who lightly levered herself out of the way with the flat of her blade on Grandma Ping’s shoulder. If she had not been forced to dodge Grandma Rui’s blow, the sword’s edge would have come down instead of its flat. Grandma Ping would have been sheared in half.

The entire exchange between the agile combatants took just a few moments. Despite having been inches away from death, Grandma Ping showed no fear as she attacked again. She slashed three times at Mu Wanqing, who deftly dodged the blows. At the same time, Grandma Rui and the two men attacked. Mu Wanqing’s sword flashed in the night as she wove her way among her four assailants, avoiding their blows.

Zhong Ling, who had been standing some distance away, waved urgently at Duan Yu. “Brother Duan, come here!” she cried.

Hurrying over, Duan Yu asked: “What is it?”

“Let’s go!”

“Mu Wanqing is surrounded. How can we just leave like that?”

“Sister Mu is very skilled. She’ll be able to get out of this.”

But Duan Yu shook his head. “She came here to save you. If we just left her like that, how could we ever answer to ourselves?”

Zhong Ling stamped her foot impatiently. “You idiot! Can you help Sister Mu just by staying here? Agh, it’s a pity my lightning marten hasn’t returned.”

By this time, the battle had become very fierce. Both Grandma Rui’s crutch and the old man’s shovel were whistling through the air. Mu Wanqing, whose ears were pricked to take in all the noise around her, heard every word of Duan Yu and Zhong Ling’s conversation.

“Miss Zhong, you go on ahead!” she heard Duan Yu say. “I would not be much of a gentleman to wrong Miss Mu this way. If she is not victorious, perhaps I could try and talk us out of this situation.”

“You’ll just end up dying for nothing!” Zhong Ling replied. “Hurry up! Sister Mu wouldn’t blame you for leaving.”

“If Miss Mu hadn’t saved me, I would have died long ago,” Duan Yu said. “What’s dying half a day later than I would have anyway?”

“You idiot! I’m not going to argue with you any more.” Grabbing his arm, she began walking off.

“I’m not moving! I won’t go!” Duan Yu yelled. But he was not as strong as Zhong Ling, and was forced to stagger after her.

“Zhong Ling, get out of here!” Mu Wanqing suddenly called. “Don’t you dare drag him along!” Zhong Ling picked up speed. There was a high-pitched whistle and her bun of hair quivered. A short arrow was sticking out of it. “If you don’t let go of him, I’ll shoot your eyes out!” Mu Wanqing shouted.

Zhong Ling knew that she was completely capable of carrying out her threat. Although the two of them were good friends, they had not spent enough time together to develop a deep friendship, and Mu Wanqing would almost certainly shoot out her eyes. Zhong Ling let go of Duan Yu’s arm.

“Zhong Ling, get out of here and go back to your parents!” Mu Wanqing shouted again. “Hurry up! If you wait here for your Brother Duan, I’ll shoot you three times.” Even as she spoke, she was never still, moving nonstop to parry the blows of her attackers.

Zhong Ling did not dare defy Mu Wanqing. “Brother Duan, be careful!” she said. She covered her face and swiftly melted into the darkness.

[abigailtan]

Singapore Red Cross; Mission Trip, Batam (10th – 11th November 2018) Written by: Abigail Tan, Singapore Red Cross Volunteer

I AM SO EMBARRASSED! Because this trip happened almost a year ago and I thought I had posted it. On the bright side, I did send my write-up.

Day 1; (GMT +8) Singapore

5.30am (GMT +8) I was dragged out of the comfort of my bed, with my messy hair and a rancid breath, I made my way to the bathroom and got ready. Short of bring bright-eyed and bushy-tailed I was dressed decently enough; my motivational quote t-shirt and a pair of worn-out jeans, I left home before the break of dawn…

The official meeting time was 7am at Harborfront Centre and a handful of volunteers were already there by the time I arrived.

The man were requested to wait by the drop-off to help carry some boxes. (15 boxes)

15 boxes worth of first aid supplies for Red Cross Indonesia, which will come to be known to us over the weekend as Palang Merah Indonesia (PMI).

Cataloguing each box and appointing people to account for a couple of boxes. 

Majestic Dream; rather suggestive but was not quite the case, I hardly slept on the hour-long ride to Batam as I was battling motion sickness. Urgh. But it was bearable.

Instead, I made my first new friend; Jessica! An operating theatre nurse and so we hit off rather well, top it off with our volunteering experiences and that was a good 45 minutes worth of talk!

Some took the opportunity to get a group picture and others slept.

But the hour-long ride was quick and almost painless… The sheer number of people going into Batam on a weekend was insane. It is rather on par with the number of people going into Johor Bahru. So, we grit our teeth and power through.

Prior to leaving Singapore, we were told that when we reached immigration on the other side, we had to keep our voices down. Unfortunately, none of us took a picture of the sign, so here’s one off an article from Straits Times.

(image credit: Signs showing prohibited behaviour at the immigration checkpoint of the Batam Centre International Ferry Terminal are plastered all over the pillars. -- ST PHOTO: DANSON CHEONG ) – caption off straits times article; Shhh! Be silent at Batam immigration queue or be sent back home (published: 17th August 2014)

https://www.straitstimes.com/singapore/shhh-be-silent-at-batam-immigration-queue-or-be-sent-back-home

I wouldn’t say that there was pin-dropping silence but no rowdy noise, so good enough.

We cleared immigration in under an hour and each of us took charge of collecting the boxes from baggage claim. With almost no hiccups the mission trip officially began.

(GMT +7) Indonesia, Batam

Remember how when we were kids and there was always headcount during field trips to make sure all the kids are accounted for. Or some of our teachers made us buddy up so that we could look out for each other. Well, that happened automatically for us and it wasn’t just counting heads we had to make sure all the boxes brought over was accounted for too!

A bus came to pick us up and off we went to PMI!    

The ride went without accident; the thing that struck similarity was the amount of greenery. Huge trees that formed a canopy created shade in this equatorial region.

A small road leads us to where PMI Batam sat, lalang grass lined the sides of the road until we hit a dirt road that branched out and that lead us to the property where this 3-story building sat. It showed age together with improvements and refurbishments; an extension of the former building was obviously new and rather posh for what Batam has to offer.  

The bus came to a halt and all 20 of us on the bus took a minute to soak in; PMI staff lined the entrance of the building in anticipation of welcoming us. Ladies first and then the guys were right behind us and Uncle Tony was the very last as discussed, no one is supposed to be behind him.

The storage unit by the side of the bus opened and revealed 15 cartons that were together with some personal belonging and without hesitation, all of us formed a line and moved the cartons from the bus to the inside of the building. Our Malay speaking friends instinctively became unofficial translators.

15 cartons moved in seamlessly and as we settled into our new environment an elderly lady walked out, she is the lady that will come to be known to us as ibu (Malay greeting for mother). She warmly welcomed all of us and lead us to the 2nd story where a room was prepared for us to rest and fill up on food and drinks. There was a spread of kuahs (starchy and sweet delicacy) and what seemed to be a pastry with potato in it.

We walked in and dropped our bags, and our hands went straight to our necks for a good stretch. PMI staff came into the room and started visual documentation of our movements; in other words, took our photographs.

We soon settled in comfortably and got refreshments.

Ibu came in shortly and there was an exchange of kind words between PMI and ourselves.

We then went on a tour of the place.

3 floors worth of square-space for utilisation. The first floor where the entrance opens to a foyer has a high ceiling and huge windows that allowed plenty of sunlight to brighten the place. A shelf by the entrance held several potted plants and across it a decent reception area.

Right by the foyer sits a plaque on the wall that states the opening date of the building by the President.

A set of glass doors sits on the far right and that leads to the blood donation area where 2 resident doctors are. And they briefly explained the process, a donor would walk in and fill in a form indicating personal particulars and their last date of donation, medications taken or any illness within the last few days. Next, they’ll be led to a doctor who would screen through the form and a couple of drops of blood from a prick of the finger to test for blood count. Then a basic health screening. Blood pressure and what not. If all is well, a set of recliners awaits past another door where the donor will lie there for about 30 minutes while a pint of blood is drawn out.

I tried to donate, but I was on allergy meds a couple of days prior so that disqualified me.

It’s interesting; the way they collect blood. The strikingly obvious difference from Singapore would be the governing body that deals with blood collection.

2nd floor was where the offices are and where the meeting room that held all of us were. At the end of the long corridor was a hall that could easily accommodate 300 people comfortably standing with sufficient personal space and maybe 500 to 600 people but packed like sardines.

By the other end of the corridor stood a room; the call centre.

Where equipment like these would be found on the Titanic. Although out-dated, but I admire that they’re still out there fighting the good fight with what they have. And that’s admirable. 

It was incredible; I apologise if I sound like I’m dishing out on them. I’m not. I feel that they’re worth saluting because even if equipment like that and they’re still out there helping people.

PMI I salute you.

Truly an eye-opener for all of us; or at least I can speak for myself.

Prior to lunch we got down on our hands and knees and worked up an appetite. Not exercising per se but the output alone was enough to get our stomachs growling.

This is where the 15 boxes come into play. Almost like clock-work, we settled into a factory line up; passing down each kit and each pair or trio would place the items needed. Face masks, micropore tape, shear scissors, gauze, crepe bandage, triangular bandage and tweezers. Came up into a rather decent first aid kit. 15 boxes worth of supplies was made into 200 proper first aid kits.

LUNCH! I am not even going to deny, yes, we were all looking forward to food after the incredibly productive afternoon.

Okay, I am going to need someone to level with me… Because whilst eating I had a realisation that it’s probably not chicken that I was eating… …

So… I dived in thinking it was some form of ayam penyet and when I picked up the supposed chicken with my hands I realised that the wings are smaller than usual and the ribs are surprisingly small too. Which lead me to the conclusion that it wasn’t a chicken to begin with.

I eat quail eggs, but to think that I chomp on a bird… … I am going to need more time to rest this unsettling feeling.

That aside, lunch was good.

Lunch was followed by nearly an hours worth of some more chatter among ourselves. A couple of us represented Singapore Red Cross and discussed the following days’ events with PMI.

So by this point, we knew that there was going to be an event the next day with some of the PMI youths; think of is as Secondary School’s Red Cross Cadets. An event was to be held with some 2200 students and we are to assist with some of their programs. 20 of us were split into 2; basic first aid training and outdoor games! We discussed among ourselves and delegated jobs. Among us were first aiders of all ages and varied experiences to offer; some were already first aid trainers, some of us are in the medical field. Naturally, the trainers formed a group and they needed more people, I eagerly raised my hand; there’s something about teaching that I enjoy, something about passing on knowledge and seeing their eyes light up when learning becomes fun. 10 of us formed the teaching team and the rest helped at the games booth.

As our discussion came to an end, something was brewing down the corridor within the walls of the hall.

PMI staff and some; if I had to venture a guess; 60 PMI youths were seated on the floor facing us as we walked in. You know how when it’s your birthday and you have to stand with the cake facing the party as they sing happy birthday to you and you have completely no idea where to place your hands. That was me. It was a massive wave of mixed emotions; overwhelming and essentially trying to grasp their enthusiasm about our arrival. I was in complete awe. The kids, they greeted each and every one of us. I mean it in every sense of the word. EACH AND EVERY ONE OF US. It was the LONGEST greeting, but also the most heartfelt.

We spent the next 40 minutes with our youth volunteers thinking of ways to engage tomorrow’s students. They were eager to help us, more than I can speak for ourselves. Joint discussions came to an end and we had to say goodbye to everyone at PMI. It was time to check into the hotel.

Time to freshen up for a pow wow session and DINNER! Some shopping at the mega supermarket then back to the hotel for another SouthWest Discussion. Settled some stuff, delegated work and just like that the day ended; but not before a hot water bath… urghhhhhhhh…

Day 2; (GMT+7) Batam, Indonesia

Our day started at the break of dawn; 6am. Freshened up; changed, packed and down we went for breakfast and an early checkout. We literally stayed the night. Time was of the essence and by 7.15am we were already on the bus towards school grounds!

It was probably almost 8am by the time we arrived at the school. Personal and important belongings were brought along with us. 2 cartons of first aid kits were brought down together with teaching aid.

Not so bright-eyed and bushy-tailed this morning; after yesterday’s culture shock and taking the time to let everything around us settle in, today is a lot better. (Or so I thought) We stood around rather aimlessly until we saw familiar PMI faces! And then we were led to the field and sat by the bleachers.

So some 500 students were already standing on the field when we got there; being PMI they had first aiders on stand-by and also an ambulance.

There weren’t any translators so what happened next is essentially what I saw coupled with what I felt. So all of us were seated there, the parade commander comes out and shouts out commands; attention and at ease. On our far right of the field were 7 students standing side by side, we were to their left. And they each shouted what seemed to be the 7 fundamental principles of Red Cross. The parade commander walked back, faced the students, shouted a command and soon all of them were saluting us. SALUTING. US. US! Singapore Red Cross. [I am still very much in awe as I am typing this.] It’s a level of gratitude and respect that I’ve never experienced, and I speak for myself.

Then it was the presentation of a first aid kit and a Singapore Red Cross Bear from SRC to PMI and PMI presented us with a plaque.  

LET THE EVENTS BEGIN!

The teaching team gathered and grabbed our teaching aid which included 2 miniature little Anne, 2 chocking demo sets, and triangular bandages. We were then led to the upstairs classrooms where tables and chairs were pushed aside to make more floor space.

The team split into 2 so that we can accommodate 2 groups of 30 students. Despite having a discussion yesterday about ‘lesson plans’ we had to make do with what we have. What were we teaching first? Which team was going to take which teaching aids? You’d think that since there’s 2 of each; at least for miniature little Anne and the chocking demo sets we could split. But my team took both Annes and allowed the kids to have their hand on the CPR dummy and try it for themselves. While the other team started with chocking.

We had the kids sit by 3 sides of the classroom and we took ‘centre stage’. If I hadn’t said it already, I will; I enjoy teaching. We had to break the ice somehow, there’s no manual on “how to start a lesson” especially since there was no concrete plan on how we were going to go about doing this. I did the first thing at the top of my mind and that was to jump right into the centre and wave my hands whilst saying “hello!!!”. And an equally enthusiastic response was returned.

I am incredibly grateful for the PMI staff we had with us and the youth volunteer who helped us with translation. Despite English being taught in school, but because it isn’t practised very much at home there is still some form of language barrier. The kids were very patient with me and the translators, which made teaching went on without any major hiccups. Each step was taught with great patience ensuring that the kids understood everything and that no one got left behind. We taught what was essential; under what circumstances would CPR be required, how it was done, the positioning of the hands, knees placed apart for stability, locating the landmark and the placing of the heel of the palm, how the elbows had to remain straight and teaching them that we weight needed to allow compression to happen was coming from your own body instead of exerting strength from your arms.

At first, I thought it would be fun to have the kids raise their hands to try out the dummy, first to raise their hands would come up. Then I quickly realised that it was not feasible. So after a few quick hands, I decided to go good-old-one-by-one in sequence, that also allowed me to keep track of who has tried CPR on the dummy.

I had a few interesting questions that I can recall off the top of my head;

1.      Miss, why must the elbow be straight?

a.      Less force is exerted if the elbow is bent

2.      Miss, if the unconscious person has a pulse do I still do CPR?

a.      Pulse = heartbeat, which means the person is alive and so CPR is not necessary

We taught them how to secure various fractures; cervical fracture and a wrist/forearm fracture. Simple fracture. Nothing complicated.

Teaching them was an amazing experience; answering their queries and quenching their thirst for knowledge was amazing beyond words can tell.

The time soon came for us to say goodbye, but not before handing out little presents to them. One by one they came to us and greeted us in the most respected way possible; in Indonesia or rather the Muslim community, young ones greet their elders by holding their hands and placing it to their faces and then their own hands to their chest. This form of greeting is known as ‘salam’.

Just before we stepped out Ibu invited us to lunch. We left school and the bus took us to a seafood restaurant. It wasn’t posh, it wasn’t anywhere ‘upscale’, a dirt road led us in-between 2 rows of shops. You’d think that somewhere like this was an ordinary seafood place, but when we walked in, it was almost like a political rally, the Mayor of Batam was finishing his lunch, people were surrounding him and pictures were taken. There was an exchange of formalities between the Mayor and Ibu and we each went on our way. A private room with 4 tables was prepared for us.

Cereal prawn, fried fish, vegetables, chili crab, rice were served to us. Not forgetting fresh coconut and its refreshing water and flesh. It was an amazing lunch. We thanked Ibu for the invite and salam as we made our way out. It was only right after the way we were treated throughout our stay.

Last minute shopping before we made our way back to Singapore where I believe most of us knocked out during the hour-long boat ride.

I’ve been volunteering with Red Cross for over a year now and I have met several beneficiaries; I’m a born and raised Singaporean, we may not be rich, but we get by, I may have seen our low-income families but I’ll never understand their difficulties as I am lucky enough to have not walked in their shoes. I was fortunate enough to have lived abroad for almost a year and I’ve come to appreciate what Singapore has to offer; clean water, convenient public transport, good healthcare coverage, good public education system and a generally safe place to call home. I’m grateful for a job that pays me enough to travel from time to time and travelling solo has opened my eyes to other parts of the world. I’m not here to gloat or brag about my life; after the mission trip I’ve come to really understand the term “the ones with the least to give have the most to offer”. This trip opened my eyes to below poverty line and despite that, help is bountiful. This trip has given me more than I could ask for; kindness, respect and a lifetime of learning ahead of me.

[aelowan]

News About Book Three and a Sale

Greetings from all of us at Team Lowan. We have been on an extended hiatus dealing with a health problem but are on the mend and nearly back to full speed. We are hard at work on the third book in our Books of Binding series, Beneath a Stone Sky. At this point we are expecting book three to release in early 2020.

We are very excited about this book. Many of you have been asking when you’ll see more of Etienne and Cian – you don’t have much longer to wait. We are thrilled to delve deeper into Etienne’s story and Faerie itself in book three.

To whet your appetite, we wanted to give you a sneak peek into Beneath a Stone Sky, but before we do that, we promised a sale.

99 Cent Faerie Rising E-Book Sale

Today is one of our team member’s birthday and to celebrate we are putting the e-book for Faerie Rising: The First Book of Binding on sale at Amazon.com for 99 cents from now (Sept 18) until Sept 24, 2019.

A Sneak Peak at Beneath a Stone Sky

This is the current opening to Beneath a Stone Sky. Since we still have some time for tinkering before release, small changes may occur between now and the final version.

“And I say I don’t trust him. He’s Unseelie.” Etienne Knight brought his new car to a stop in the circle drive in front of Mulcahy House and cut the engine. He didn’t get to drive it too often because Cian, the sidhe prince closest to him, could not abide being surrounded by the steel chassis, but his current companion could.

The half-fae wizard Winter Mulcahy gave him a sidelong look, the January sun setting off the iridescence in her lovely, snow-white hair, all twisted up off her long neck in a loose bun. “And I don’t care. King Ceallach has been quite hospitable and his wife is in dire need of my help.” She rattled the rack of tiny empty potion bottles on her lap for emphasis. It could hold thirty, enough for a little more than a moon’s worth of treatments for the queen’s madness. “Not to mention he came to our aid in battle. If you want to stop coming with me every month, that’s fine. I don’t understand but I’ll honor your choice. I’ll ask Brian to escort me, instead.”

Etienne frowned. Brian was a young Hero and might be perfectly capable of escorting Winter through the realms of Faerie, but Etienne looked forward to spending these times alone with her. “I never said that. Just that I don’t trust Ceallach.”

Winter opened her car door, balancing the rack of potion bottles on her skinny knees. “Well, at least you were polite to him this time. I appreciate that.” She looked away in the direction of the rose trellises for a moment, and then looked back. “I don’t like keeping secrets from him.”

Etienne palmed his keys. “What, about his son, What’s-his-name?” Ironic, that. Winter had kept secrets from her apprentice for years.

“Aodhán, and yes. He needs to know his son is alive, but…” She trailed off, indecision clear on her face.

Etienne shrugged. “It’s none of our business. This Aodhán wants to keep his secret. It’s his business when he wants to reveal himself, if at all.” Unseelie business. Just the sort he did not want Winter involved in. “We don’t even know why. Could be bad.” Was probably bad, knowing the Unseelie courts.

Winter sighed. “I know. I just hate to see Ceallach and his poor queen hurting.”

Etienne moved his keys to his other hand and gave her thin shoulder a squeeze, compassion in his eyes. “The boy will come around eventually. Surely he has his reasons.”

She nodded. “I hope so.” And she swung her feet out of the car.

Etienne got out of the car and moved to the other side where Winter was struggling with the awkward rack. She had exchanged it for one full of potions at Ceallach’s twisting Brittle Keep. “Here, let me.” His voice came out gruff, gruffer than he really intended, but he took the rack with careful hands and stepped back for Winter to let herself out of the car.

She rewarded him with one of her bright smiles and his heart sped up. “Thank you, Etienne.” She hitched her bag up on one shoulder and gave him a light, lingering kiss on the cheek before moving past him to the sandy path leading to the ornately carved front door.

Etienne’s cool cheek burned from the heat of her kiss and he followed in silence.

Winter pushed open the door, smiled at Etienne over her shoulder, and then stepped into chaos.

Mulcahy House was filled with raucous laughter from dozens of throats and words that Etienne had not heard in what seemed a lifetime.

Dwarven.

“You need a towel!” A naked, dripping dwarf, stocky and powerfully built, was making his way down the left staircase, Cian, the other sidhe lord who lived with Winter, chasing after him with baby Noel in one arm and a thick blue bath sheet in the other hand. He met Etienne’s gaze and returned Etienne’s confusion with both panic and exasperation.

Etienne watched the dwarf wander by and down the hall, towel now in hand. “What’s going on?” he asked Cian.

Cian shrugged. “They showed up a few hours ago. Most of them are in the kitchen.”

Etienne put the bottle rack on the floor by the door and set off down the hall, curious and angry about the invasion in turns. He’d thought he’d left this crap behind him years ago.

Winter followed close behind him.

“You head back upstairs with Cian. I can handle this.”

Winter shook her head, those stubborn lines pulling at the corners of her mouth. “My house, too, Etienne. I—” Her attention was taken by two dwarven women arm wrestling in full armor at the mahogany dining room table. She sighed. “That will scratch.”

Etienne paused in the doorway. “You two, knock that off.”

The women laughed but stopped their game.

Winter raised a pale brow. “That wasn’t Faerie Gaelic.”

“No, it was Dwarven.”

She nodded, her voice soft. “I remember you once said that you spent some time with the dwarves. How long was it?”

Etienne was quiet for a moment, missing his named weapon, the six-shooter Agmundr, destroyed by a great faerie prince in October. It had been dwarven made and had kept him relatively safe for years. “Too long.” Or maybe not long enough. It depended on the memory.

They burst into the kitchen through a wall of sound. The deaf English wizard Fitz Martin sat at the table surrounded by dwarves, weaving in place as he went drink for drink with a pretty, redheaded dwarven maid in finely crafted green and gold armor, her hair sheared helmet-short and curling about her ears. The rest were feasting on what looked like every leftover in the house and taking bets on the drinking contest, mostly against Fitz. Over in the corner, the other English wizards, Alerich Ashimar and Thomas Griffin, were speaking in serious tones to a dwarf of above average height with his wide back to Etienne.

Alerich’s acerbic twin, Elspeth, was nowhere in sight. Not exactly a big loss.

One of the drunker dwarves noticed Winter and made to pinch her narrow backside. Etienne grabbed his wrist, twisting it, and had to remind himself not to break it, heavy dwarven bones or not. Instead, he bellowed over the noise, “What the sweet fuck is going on, here?”

The dwarf with Alerich turned, and Etienne felt his heart stutter. Ráthulfr, son of Ragnarr, prince of dwarves and master smith. The one who had forged Agmundr.

Etienne’s former master.

Ráthulfr’s expression was grave and he pointed to an empty chair nearby with his massive, forge-scarred hand. “Sit down, boy. We need to talk.”

***

We hope you enjoyed this sneak peek at Beneath a Stone Sky. There will be many more details and of course Books of Binding Flash Fiction coming in the next few months. If you are craving a bit of Seahaven between now and release day, make sure you check out the Reading Order Page at aelowan.com to find the free shorts listed in series chronological order, as well as many new Seahaven goodies that will be appearing over the next few months.

We hope that you have a wonderful fall. We are so happy to be back to work and can’t wait to bring you Beneath a Stone Sky and all things Seahaven!