#i know there's definitely a balance needed for academics and leisure time

[elephantlovemedleys]

.

[barricadebops]

And He Falls With a Smile

Summary: In 1823 Feuilly arrives in Paris. In 1824 a man in a daring red waistcoat invites him to a student organization where despite his orphan status, Feuilly gains a family in the throes of rebellion and revolution. Read on AO3 here.

1823

In many ways, Paris is quite unlike the south. The city bustles with more people than Feuilly had ever seen in Aigues-Mortes. He will likely have to take a while to become accustomed to the constant crowds in the streets, the way everyone seems a stranger to each other.

However, to his due consideration, Paris is also in many ways quite akin to the south.  

The language of French rolls easy off his tongue like the rhythms of Provençal and Polish, and casts no doubt on his employability when it comes to dealing with coworkers at the fan-making atelier. The streets are still lined with the poor who cry out for help, for just one sou while the haughty bourgeois stroll past leisurely, and there are still women thrown on the ground—prostitutes from destitution, children begging for alms instead of attending school, and there is so much misery that surrounds him when he steps foot in the city, and the orphan boy thinks that there has not been much significant change here, that he will work here until he dies never having known a true family.

Feuilly’s only family has been the concepts of France, Poland, Greece, Hungary, Romania, Italy—simply put, the rest of the world, the people of the rest of the world.

So, Feuilly resolves that he shall adopt the people of Paris too.

________________________________________________________________

1824

He meets a man by the name of Bahorel, down by the schools of law.

Three francs does not buy a man much. It hardly puts bread on the table. It certainly does not provide for better clothes than what Feuilly dons everyday. And only in his scarcely selfish dreams, do three francs provide him with a place at the universities of Paris, where every bit of knowledge is put within his reach with thought only of reading and reading and reading until his brain tires and he nods off to sleep, blissful in the knowledge that he will not have to rush awake the next morning to catch work.

But three francs does not lend him that reality. Three francs only lets him gaze wistfully outside the buildings and think of a life where he could read better, where he could write better, where he wouldn’t have to waste away toiling at the fan-making atelier—where others would not have to toil away—others who are younger, who are needy, who should be going to school. People from France, from Poland, from Greece and Hungary and Romania and Italy. People from around the world who deserve better than to have their inherent right to an opportunity, an education, a leap at life—taken away from them.

L'École de droit de Paris is teeming with young men, all affluently dressed, all hailing from wealthy families—men who care not for why lawyers are so prudent, why law needs to be so heavily examined. It is filled with men who walk without casting a glance at Lady Themis, their patron, who stands disappointed—though she may be blindfolded—knowing that her supposed guardians do nothing to bring about justice, to bring about her divine right. It is filled with bourgeois young men with haughty airs, fake smiles, and cold graces.

L'École de droit de Paris teems with such young men when classes are let out. For now, Feuilly can enjoy its tranquility, its academic aura without the glances thrown his way. Peasant worker.

So no one can really seek to blame him for the irritation that rises within him when he feels a man crash into his side, throwing him off balance and sending him sprawling onto the hard cobblestones of the campus.

"Are you quite alright?"

Feuilly has the strong urge to snap at the hooligan present above him now that he was not alright at all, not since he disturbed some of the only moments he is allowed to breathe free with his rough tumbling.

But he stops short. Something about the man's smile—though he must admit, it seems rather rude to smile in a situation like this—halts the words on his tongue.

The man, or well rather a boy since he looks like he cannot be much older than him—is smiling brashly, unabashed in his humour. Though he wears the red coat of a man bound to be wealthy, there is a certain quality in the way he holds out his hand to Feuilly, without disgust, without turning his nose up at him, without thinking that he is a great saint for doing so, that makes Feuilly think that he cannot possibly be of the bourgeois, and without thinking, Feuilly takes the proffered hand and rises his feet. As he regains his footing, the man nearly sends him back down by delivering a mighty clap on his back.

"My sincerest apologies, my good fellow. Here you were, wasting away your time like a respectable gentleman should be doing, when I so rudely crashed into you. But I do believe this is a fortunate coincidence! To meet another sensible individual—it is not everyday you have the great opportunity to meet another idler—they seem rather scarce in this dull profession. I do know of just one other, but unfortunately Bossuet is forced to remain in Blondeau's class—what amusement! Imagine Blondeau really considering that being kicked out of his class is a punishment! I fret for poor Bossuet who shall come out having truly come into possession of knowledge on property law. Just imagine!"

Much as Feuilly may have tried if he really did want to, he could not imagine, considering he was not actually a student of law, not to mention that he had absolutely no clue who this Bossuet was.

"But—" the man continues on, and Feuilly vaguely realizes that at this point he should make haste to mention that he is not actually a student of l' ècole and that he really should be heading back to the atelier, but the man barrels on, "say, I have not seen you in any class before. You certainly must be younger than I, for there can be no other way to explain it."

Feuilly flushes. How could this man seriously still go on believing that he was a student here when he saw the way he dressed and held himself?

Clearing his throat, he shook his head and clarified, "You're mistaken, Monsieur. I am not a student of the school."

The man's eyebrows furrow for a moment before his smile returns with massive force. "And I thought you could not possibly get better!" Feuilly's gaze darts up curiously. "How fortunate indeed!"

At this, Feuilly's mind staggers a little, and he bristles at the way the man's words rub on him. Did he think it was fortunate that a poor man like him could not afford an education, a right all deserve? Did he think it was fortunate that children lacked the opportunity to acquire knowledge because of the situations they were born into?

This man had to be of the haughty bourgeois, there was no doubt about it. His bold, rather daring waistcoat definitely spoke a testament to the statement.

There was work to be done at the atelier, there were fans to be made, money to be earned, another day to be lived. Feuilly needed to head back and throw this man out of the recesses of his mind, for he did not have any space freed up there either.

And yet—

And yet, Feuilly finds that this man is so incredibly wrong to have said what it is he said, and, well, someone must correct him one way or another—

"Forgive me, Monsieur," he says stiffly, "but I see absolutely no reason as to why this is a good thing. Do you really laugh at the thought of an orphan being unable to find the money to pursue an education?"

For the first time in their spontaneous conversation, the man's face is thrown off guard.

"Pardonnez-moi ?" His brows wrinkle before he bursts out with a hearty laugh. "Oh no! My dear fellow you have it all wrong!" The man grins and for a split moment Feuilly is sure he is the slightest bit mad. "I—of all people! I could never make fun of the peasants—my own parents are peasants, mon ami, it is why they have common sense."

There is something in this man's bold words that has even Feuilly amused enough to crack a smile. Perhaps he had simply misjudged him; though he would likely never understand Feuilly on the full on accounts of actually still having parents that evidently did love their son, the man hailed from a peasant background, so of all things, he was definitely not stuffy like the rest of his new-class, though the daring red coat did write him into Feuilly's books as just the slightest bit reckless—such was the effect of the colour red clothed on such a brash man.

He lets out a resigned sigh; at this point he absolutely has to get back to the factory if he wants to clock in on time. But the man is still grinning at him, and Feuilly cannot help but feel the urge to stay.

"Your words undoubtedly ring true, and it speaks a testament to the kind of life you have been made to lead." All at once, his face turned serious. "We need more men like you at our meetings—come join us, I beg of you."

Meetings? What sort of meetings could this man have been talking about?

Unless…

Feuilly was not illiterate. He had caught whisperings of secret Jacobin societies, groups that hid themselves away from the gaze of the King as they would secretly plot rebellion. A man of the people, the true common man, Feuilly too had been eager to join these groups—but where was the time? He hardly had any time to go back to the pathetic little apartment he had managed to scrounge up money for, how could he find himself time to attend Republican meetings?

At the atelier, the clock was surely ticking away, bringing Feuilly closer every minute to being late heading back to work. "I'm sorry," he turns away and makes to head off. "I find myself unable to join, unfortunately, at the moment."

There is an elbow at the crook of his arm easing him around. "I urge you to reconsider, Monsieur. There is always room for new recruits, and I assure you that your input will always be valued." He opened his mouth to argue when the man put up a hand to stop him. "Your time needn't be an issue—we are all but students, we will uphold your responsibilities if need be. But your word—your word will be no doubt incredibly valuable. Please think of it."

Feuilly hesitates; in the sky, the sun burned bright in indication of a rapidly approaching afternoon. "And what do you call yourselves?"

The man's eyes twinkled. "Les Amis de l 'ABC," he replies rather cheekily.

Les Amis de l'ABC? Somewhere, the name strikes at Feuilly's core. The Friends of the ABC. Surely an educational group—that was something he could support—and something he could personally understand, too.

"And what is it exactly that your group does, Monsieur?"

"Well, in name, we are dedicated to the education of children." (L'ABC). The man's smile turns a little sharp as he lowers his voice. "In reality, we… Well, I suppose you would have to come see yourself, would you not? Though I suppose if you ponder our name long enough, you should figure out anyways.”

ABC…

ABC…

Abaisse.

Les Amis de l’ABC — Les Amis de l'abaisse.

The Friends of the ABC—the Friends of the abased.

A rather clever name, if he had to be quite honest. So it was as Feuilly suspected.

“And who exactly makes up your group?” he asks, attempting to keep up his inquisitive tone even as he moves to clasp the man’s hand.

The man laughs. “Well, if—when we succeed, I imagine we shall become a group that will belong to some measure of history, though that’s not why do what we do.”

“Succeed?”

“Yes! I have no doubts that we shall do exactly that. The question is, Monsieur, will you be there with us when we do so?”

There is no reason to say yes; in fact, there is every reason to say no. The minutes are still ticking by and the factory foreman is not a forgiving man, especially not towards orphans who need the job more than he needs the orphan, and there was never any time to join such organizations, and so many of them are run by bourgeois boys who did not know what they spoke of, never truly knew what it was their goals should be, why would they accept Feuilly among their ranks—

And yet, there is just something about this man, something about the aura he exudes, something brash and reckless but accepting, even if his words do not always come off that way, that makes him hesitate from immediately flatly refusing and turning to get on with his day, something about the unspoken promise held in his words, something about the name—the Friends of the Abased.

He heaves a breath and looks up at the sky; it’s approach towards afternoon and the way campus seems to hold its breath, ready to release when the professors adjourn their classes signals his inevitable tardiness at work.

He glances at the sparkle glinting in the man’s eyes—there is an entire future, a lifetime held within the promise of the society that the man informs him of that Feuilly is yet unaware of.

“Well where is it that you meet?”

With a mighty thump on his back, the man slings an arm around his shoulders, using his arm to point his finger towards the horizon in the direction of the north-east. “Follow the streets until they take you towards the Café Musain at Place Saint-Michel, near six tonight. Ask a patron to lead you towards the backroom—a male, however, for we do not allow women to enter—with the exception of dear Louison, that is—surely you can understand the delicate nature of women, my own mistress would tremble at the talk of rebellion and she is one to laugh at about anything I should think to say—and surely you shall see me there. And if I should be late—for it is not unheard of that I should be out late talking to others of the same cause—tell them you were asked to join by Bahorel.”

Feuilly swallows. Seemed rather a large commitment he was signing onto before even truly attending one of these meetings.

“I shall ensure my best efforts to attend one of your meetings then, Monsieur Bahorel,” he says at last.

“And we shall ensure our best efforts to work towards that future in which orphans are allowed to pursue the education they seek.” The man—Bahorel—tips his hat. “Now you must pardon me, Monsieur—”

“Feuilly,” he interrupts. Bahorel inclines his head in sign of having listened.

“—Feuilly,” he says, “but the afternoon approaches and classes will soon be adjourned for the rest of the day, and I must deploy myself to the mighty task of finding Bossuet and listening to his new complaint no doubt against Blondeau, and then head off with him to find young Enjolras and de Courfeyrac too, for though the former may be able to sway a crowd with his words, especially with his second-in-command by his side, those two cannot hope to find their way through the university streets and—”

“Thank you, Monsieur Bahorel, I shall hope to see you then, tonight," he interrupts, only the slightest bit ashamed for having done so; he really does need to be on his way.

If Bahorel takes offense to his interruption, he makes no sign of it; rather, he clasps his hand, and says, “Thank you, Monsieur Feuilly. Your presence will be greatly appreciated. No doubt everyone will be pleased. I look forward to seeing you sit amongst us.

Feuilly tips the ragged hat he has on his head in response.

This is how it begins.

________________________________________________________________

1825

It is ten at night, a most indecent time for respectable men to still be outside, and yet Feuilly can see no sign of Enjolras tiring while he listens with bright eyes to what Feuilly has to say on the subject of the partitioning of Poland.

It was indeed a topic of great rage and indignation for Feuilly, that date of 1772. How was it that a monarchy, a tyranny, had the right to strip a people of their identity? Of their nationality? He exclaimed as much to Enjolras, who watched on with awe.

"But how can they have the right? To tell a people that they no longer have the ability to climb atop their tables and exclaim 'I am Polish! Here I stand free in my country of Poland! ?" Running a hand through his fiery hair, he fumed just as he thought about it. "The audacity!"

At the table, Enjolras scoots closer, looks up at him with wide eyes. “Indeed. Tell me more of it.”

He glances at him, and, briefly, he allows himself to ponder the person sitting in front of him. Feuilly hesitates to call him a boy, though, at nineteen years, that is exactly what he is.

It is simply that, despite his excessively youthful face, there was something in Enjolras' eyes that gave him the feeling that the boy had already lived for hundreds of years, made him feel as if he were seated in front a man who had already, in some previous existence, traversed the many revolutions of the past.

And yet—

And yet, despite that, not having gone unnoticed by any of those few members who attended the meetings, it is Feuilly who Enjolras evidently idolizes—reveres, even.

And it is a fact that Feuilly cannot fully comprehend; of all the people Enjolras is surrounded by, all the people he has to idolize—Combeferre or Joly or even Bahorel—he sees first and foremost Feuilly, a poor orphan who struggles to read when Enjolras himself could make his way through the thickest of volumes with ease.

Feuilly does not think less of himself for his background, but how often can a man go on surrounded by people who excelled in a variety of skills than he could only ever hope to gain without feeling the occasional pang of self doubt?

He allows himself a smile. “But I thought you had already read about this, Enjolras? Combeferre tells me the matter is one that incenses you quite the bit—rightfully, might I add.”

He thinks of how strange it is—at the atelier, no one gave second thought to anything Feuilly had to say, so he never really thought to say anything anymore to his coworkers or his foreman who he knew would either ignore him or dismiss him straight away.

But Enjolras listens. He listens to the words of a poor orphan boy, and despite his upbringing by his parents that likely taught him not to pay heed to the words of a man like Feuilly, he instead leans forward, always leans forward at every meeting whenever Feuilly raises his voice to contribute, and he listens breathlessly and nods and says But of course, and Yes you’re right, and But if you could please tell us more, we need more of what you have to say.

Enjolras nods vigorously. “Yes, of course, the stripping of the autonomy of any nation is an injustice—it is simply that hearing you speak of it is all the more informing.”

Feuilly quirks an eyebrow at him. “And why would that be?”

“Because you are all the more knowledgeable of this, of course.”

He huffs a laugh. “It was not as if I was there when they put down the first partition. I am hardly an eye-witness, nor would I say more knowledgeable than you.”

In front of him, Enjolras reaches a hand to grasp at Feuilly’s. “But you are! For as well as I understand it, I could never truly know what kind of an effect such a monstrous event could have on the common man. But you, Feuilly, you know so well, for you have endured far worse than I have, you are a much better man than I am, surely you must know you have my eternal respect—”

As he blushes, Feuilly briefly thinks of scolding Enjolras for proclaiming Feuilly better than himself only on the grounds that he was born in a different circumstance.

He squeezes Enjolras’ hand back. “Do not declare yourself a lesser man than me, Enjolras. Over this past year you have demonstrated the fact that those of the upper class can still have compassion and the skill to identify injustice, and you have made me feel all the more welcome amongst your ranks.”

Enjolras smiles. “Les Amis de l’ABC would not be what we are without your inclusion, my friend. It is for people like you that we fight, it would hardly be a cause if we did not have your voice present with us. The gratitude should be coming from me to you for trusting us, for joining us. You make us who we are Feuilly.”

And Feuilly is just the slightest bit blown away by Enjolras’ words, for while he knew Enjolras held a special sort of respect for him, he had never imagined that his reverence shaped up like this.

“Will you tell me more about Poland?”

He glances down at Enjolras, who stares up with hopeful eyes, and he smiles.

“But of course.”

________________________________________________________________

1826

It is not unheard of that Jehan Prouvaire should be sitting quietly in his corner after meetings, staring dreamily at his paper as if he could see entire meadows and forests scrawled on it rather than the lushious words he pens to create his poetry.

“The stars are not out and yet you gaze at your paper as if you can already see the constellations they form,” he says as he lowers himself into the chair next to Prouvaire, having been beckoned over.

Prouvaire blushes and smiles softly. “Every constellation has a story tied to it, and poetry seeks to do much the same. Poetry is how our ancestors spoke of their tales around the fire.”

“Is that what you will be writing about today? The stars?”

Prouvaire hums and shakes his head. “No. I think I should like to write in Polish today.”

Jerking slightly, Feuilly looks at him, confused. “Write in Polish?”

He nods. “Yes. I think of it often, you know, and I feel it’s an injustice, the way the Polish identity has been stolen from the people, almost as if their right to thought has been taken. I figured, would it not be prudent, then, of me to write a poem in Polish, and reaffirm their status?”

Nodding vigorously, Feuilly agrees, “Yes, of course. Your words hold the utmost merit, and I’m glad to see you acknowledge this through your words. I can think of no better way for you to express your thoughts about this than through your sacred form of writing.”

He props his chin on his hand and leans forward. “Yes, but I seem to encounter a problem in that I do not know how to speak Polish. My friend, I only have one favour to ask of you: will you help me construct this poem?”

Feuilly blinks. Of all the honours he could have been bestowed with… For Prouvaire, reading and writing poetry was one of the very fundamental things that kept people humble. To connect to nature, to hear of stories past—it is what both allows humans to soar amongst the beauty present in the world, yet keep them humbled and grounded to work on what needed to be improved. For Prouvaire, poetry is his form of worship, his devotion to the miracles of the world before him, present in front of him, and the one yet to come.

“You would choose to ask… me, to help you?” he asks, bewildered at the thought of him sharing something so close to his heart, to his spirit.

There is a sort of sparkle in Prouvaire’s eyes, a look he reserves for when he gazes at wildflowers and oats growing in meadows, or for when he hears the nightingale sing—a look so impossibly soft that he can use it only when he finds himself looking upon a being he believes deserves to be showered upon with love and written about with the utmost tenderness—and it is present in his eyes when he gently places his hand atop Feuilly’s and says with the utmost solemnity, “My friend, I could think of no one else who I would trust more for such a matter.”

Feuilly is rendered speechless. Both with the love he feels for his friend, and by the astonishment at the trust his friend shows in him.

Feuilly hopes the world will see Prouvaire's soft verses and name him with the likes of Keats, whom he idolizes.

Jehan hopes that one day the world will read his poem—the one he writes now, that tells the story of a common fan-maker who spoke Polish and still strived to see the possibilities of the entire world despite the world never having strived to see the possibility in him—and understands the adoration that he and the rest of his friends had for a man who was made up of a thousand different nations and came from a thousand different stories and had with him a thousand different plans for the future.

________________________________________________________________

1827

The sky is dark and Feuilly’s perception of time has been skewed by the long, insufferable hours spent at the atelier crafting fans while harbouring a most dreadful headache.

He does not see that the clock has struck much past seven, much past eight, now half an hour after nine, and that his foreman kept him detained much longer than he realizes, taking advantage of the evident illness that has Feuilly dazed and unaware. With much effort, he pushes the door to the café open and stumbles towards the backroom where he expects his friends will be.

Upon reaching the backroom, he leans a hand against the frame and struggles to comprehend the image of an empty room, one where the meeting has clearly adjourned.

Well, mostly empty.

“Feuilly?” At his side, Combeferre reaches a hand to place on his shoulder, a steadying presence among the rushing winds that seem to have found their way into the café. “Are you quite alright?”

He coughs—once—twice—three times into his fist. “Well I do find myself in a bit of confusion,” he admits as Combeferre gently takes him by the crook of his elbow and seats him at a table. “Has the meeting for today been cancelled? I would not have imagined that everyone would be busy all at the same time.”

Combeferre tilts his head and looks at him peculiarly. “The meeting?” He frowns. “My friend, are you well? The meeting ended about an hour and a half ago.”

Furrowing his eyebrows, he coughs twice more as he shakes his head and says, “No, that cannot be. Surely it cannot be so late. I had only just seen the clock, look, there, it says…” he trails off as his eyes fall upon the small hand halfway towards its path to the painted ten, then glances back at Combeferre sheepishly. Clearing his throat, a rather painful task to do considering just how raw it feels, he manages to scrape out the words, “It appears I have missed the meeting. I apologize, I did not realize just how late it had become.”

Combeferre smiles sympathetically. “Evidently. Your presence was greatly missed at the meeting, Enjolras looked rather down about it, but nonetheless we understood, though we thought it was simply because you were working.

Burying his head in his hands, he croaks, “I was supposed to be working regular time. I don't know how I didn't realize the foreman had me working late without informing me of it.” At this, Combeferre’s eyes darken a shade.

“You cannot let this go unprotested, Feuilly,” he says, the slightest bit angry, though Feuilly knows it is not anger directed towards him. “Your foreman has no right to do so; we will go back tomorrow and demand he pay you what you deserve for working the extra hours you did.”

Raising his head, Feuilly looks up, a little surprised at Combeferre. “It will not work, Combeferre, for all that I would like it to. The foreman has plenty of people available to replace me should I start to fuss. Though it is wrong, you must know that he has the power to keep me longer without paying.”

Combeferre runs a frustrated hand through his hair. “However much power he holds, he cannot go against the principle of the matter and expect no retaliation. It is settled; we will go and speak to your foreman.” When Feuilly opens his mouth to speak, Combeferre holds his hand up and halts the words on his tongue. Silently, he reaches forward and gingerly places the back of his hand on Feuilly’s forehead, tutting at the heat that comes away. “Tell me how you feel,” he commands.

Feuilly frowns. “It is really not that much of a concern, my friend—”

“Feuilly,” Combeferre pinches the bridge of his nose before looking up at him again, “in about a years time I shall begin my internship at l’Hôpital Necker; as of right now, I have enough medical knowledge—well, really, anyone has enough medical knowledge—to diagnose you with the fact that you have caught a cold—no doubt from the rainy season we have all found ourselves trapped in—and while it is nothing serious, it can become something of a concern if you do not rest and allow me to take care of you.”

Feuilly looks away. “While I do not doubt your knowledge, Combeferre, you needn’t bother yourself with—”

“What is more so a bother, Feuilly,” Combeferre interrupts him once more, and does not even look the slightest bit embarrassed for doing so, “is when one of my friends fall ill, and instead of taking the time they need to get better, they only continue to work until it is worse and their recovery becomes all the more difficult.” He watches as Combeferre rises from his seat, holding out his hand when he says, “So, for my own convenience, if you believe—unjustly, may I add—that your own convenience is not worth it, please come back with me to my apartment so that we can have you back on your feet in mere matter of days rather than weeks.”

As Feuilly allows himself to be hauled up, his arm slung around Combeferre’s shoulders, for he does not believe he has the strength in him to stand a single second more on his own—he marvels at what it is he must have done that warrants fate to provide him with friends who care for him like a mother or father would their own child, though Feuilly is not well acquainted with the feeling.

________________________________________________________________

1828

Even before he feels Courfeyrac’s hand clap down on his shoulder, Feuilly can feel Courfeyrac approaching—because that is simply the kind of person he is; his aura is boisterous and bubbly, a loud that made you grin rather than cringe away.

“My friend!” Courfeyrac exclaims. “My friend, my friend, my very good friend!”

Feuilly smiles as he knows what is inevitably going to come up. “As much as you may ask, Courfeyrac, I simply do not have the time to stand out in the middle of the street only so you can ‘save’ me in front of that Genevieve girl you have recently taken a fancy to.”

Courfeyrac looks taken aback for a moment before he begins to laugh. “No, no, I was not speaking of that. Besides, I have most recently been made to come to sense that I do not need anyone to play the part of a man in distress who needs to be saved—as long as I somehow end her near Bossuet, I shall allow him to carry on with the way he already lives, and soon enough I shall have saved him from his own stupidity in front of her!”

At another table, Bossuet indignantly pipes up, “Hey!” In response, Joly waves his cane dismissively.

“Calm yourself, Aigle de Meaux, his facts are not incorrect.”

As Bossuet and Joly begin to bicker in that lighthearted way friends so often do, Courfeyrac turns his gaze towards him, and Feuilly finds himself blinking, trying to figure out what exactly it is Courfeyrac will be asking him as a favour, for he knows the beginning of their conversation is exactly what Courfeyrac will do every time he seeks to extract a favour from someone.

And whatever it is, Feuilly already knows he will be saying yes, for not only does he love his friend enough to do anything for him, he is sure that had it been Feuilly asking for the favour, Courfeyrac would have already been up from his seat heading off to help.

“Out with it, Courfeyrac,” he encourages with a smile. “What is it that you evidently need me to do?”

Courfeyrac grins. “You know me so well, my dear friend. Well, the matter is,” he lets out a long-suffering sigh, “my parents have been writing incessantly to me in hopes that I will, at their side, attend the ball of one of their long-time friends.” Courfeyrac grimaces. “I shall depart for Avignon in a week’s time.”

Feuilly blinks, confused. He could hardly grasp at what this entire affair had to do with him.

“But Courfeyrac, you have always struck me as a man who delighted in dressing in a nice coat and going dancing.”

Waving a dismissive hand, Courfeyrac huffs impatiently. “I like to go dancing with my friends. I would rather not have to suffer by my parents’ side at some ball surrounded by a crowd of people who cheer at the sight of the 1814 Charter.”

At his mention of the Charter, Feuilly allows himself a little laugh, his mind straying to a recent memory of Courfeyrac throwing a copy of the very same thing in the fire during a heated debate with Combeferre.

Calming himself, he manages enough breath to ask, “That is all good and fine, but what do I have to do with all this?”

With a beam, Courfeyrac shuffles closer to throw an arm around his shoulders. “So,” he begins, “all I ask from you is a small favour.” At Feuilly’s silence, he continues, “I want you to attend with me.”

At this, Feuilly nearly spits out the coffee he had taken in his mouth.

Once he finishes choking, he adopts a look of astonishment and asks, “Me?”

Courfeyrac’s grin is one of sincerity; try as he might, there is no sort of a joke written on his face.  “Yes.”

Clearing his throat, he asks, “But… Why would you ask me of all people?”

At this, Courfeyrac frowns. “But why ever not you? I cannot think of a single reason why I would not ask you.”

He feels a humiliating blush stain his cheeks as the many, many reasons why he should be amongst the last people Courfeyrac should ask crosses his mind. For God’s sake, even Grantaire is a more preferable option—he, at least, hailed from a wealthy family, and so has the knowledge of the sort of behaviour and etiquette to be employed in such situations.

With a sad sort of smile, he places his hand on his friend’s shoulder and says, “Find someone else to go with you, Courfeyrac. I’m sorry, I truly am, but I must deny you this one thing.”

Courfeyrac’s frown deepens. “But why?”

Must he really push this issue?

Well, Feuilly is not ashamed of who he was, but it really is a little rude making him say the words.

“Courfeyrac,” he sputters, “I haven’t the faintest clue how to behave at such a social gathering. Neither do I… neither do I have the money for the sort of lavish clothing no doubt one is expected to wear there.”

Courfeyrac’s mouth flattens, and it is a rare moment that Feuilly sees him so frank. “Your background has not rendered you a scoundrel, Feuilly—I have only ever seen you act as a man should—honest and down-to-earth. You’re exactly the kind of person a man should be like, and frankly I do not care much for the opinions of my parents’ friends, and I believe you needn’t do so either. As for clothing, if you will not allow me to purchase you new clothing, I shall simply ask Combeferre to borrow his, on your behalf.”

His little speech shocks him. “But,” his voice is a little weak, “why would you ask me?”

At last, Courfeyrac’s face brightens once more into the sort of face he was famous for amongst his friends. “My friend! You are such interesting conversation! I cannot think of another person I would rather have by my side as I am forced to endure another gathering of insufferable royalists.”

Feuilly struggles with his words. Courfeyrac would have him attend the ball by his side? Once more he finds himself searching Courfeyrac’s face for any hint of a cruel joke, but finds none.

At his silence, Courfeyrac rises from his seat, grinning widely, for silence tends to give the impression that the opposing side has fallen into agreement. “Excellent! So, Tuesday next week we shall depart. And I shall begin my valiant search through Combeferre’s wardrobe!”

Feuilly remains astonished in his seat.

________________________________________________________________

1829

If he has to be completely honest, Feuilly does not talk very often with Grantaire, and so, Feuilly finds he cannot really come to a conclusion about him. He sees that the man is doubtful of their efforts, loud and rambunctious, and is drunk, always seems to be drunk.

But there is also a sort of melancholy present on his face when he thinks no one can see, when he does not constantly keep up that smirk as he goes on his next drunken ramble, a bitter and sardonic expression when he hears the rest speak of revolution and he finds himself too tired to even inject himself into the conversation. He sees a yearning, impossibly broken look grace Grantaire's face when their leader starts to speak or makes to smile or cries when upset or rages when he is furious—he seems to look as if he is reaching for something he can never quite have no matter how he stretches his fingers whenever Enjolras does anything, really.

Feuilly does not know much of Grantaire. So, he thinks to speak to him.

"Grantaire," he sits down next to him and inclines his head in greeting when Grantaire looks up from where he had been staring hard at his bottle of absinthe.

"Ah! The fan-maker makes time for me at last!" Grantaire cries as he spreads his arms wide. "Yes, young Feuilly, what is it that you find yourself in need of a drunk for?"

He ignores the young comment, only meditating briefly on the fact that he is the same age as Grantaire, and instead, hoping to forge a connection to the man, asks, "Did you really study under the guidance of Gros?"

Grantaire bellows out a loud peal of laughter. "My good fellow," he slurs, and Feuilly worries for how much he has had to drink tonight, "you must not believe everything that comes out of this drunkard's mouth."

He furrows his eyebrows. So he was lying?

"So you lied?" he asks in clarification. "You never did go to art school?"

A smile twists up Grantaire's face. "I only just told you not to trust everything I say. And yet! And yet, what is the first thing you do after I give you advice?"

He was beginning to get a little lost here. "I’m not quite sure I follow. Did you attend art school or not?"

Grantaire leans back in his chair. "Yes and no!"

"Yes and no?"

He grins at Feuilly. "A tale worthy of the likes of pleasant idlers, I am afraid, and while you are pleasant enough, you are anything but an idler—you cannot possibly hope to enjoy it."

He leans forward. "And yet, I find myself curious enough to hear of it nonetheless."

"Well," he starts, and for a moment, Feuilly fears that Grantaire will start on another one of his rather infamous rants, and while it is not that he is exactly opposed to them, but more so, he needs to get home so he can get however many hours of sleep Joly ordered him to get. "I certainly did attend classes at first. But the pretentiousness of it all! No man can tell you better that artists are amongst the most pretentious people to grace this hellish landscape we call earth. And the nude models were hardly anything to look at! I could get myself a better whore for less than a sou! Or better yet, not pay at all when it is me that such women always want!"

For a split second, Grantaire's gaze drifts, and when Feuilly tracks the movement of his eyes, he ends up looking over to where Enjolras stands at the table near the front, regarding Grantaire with a strong look of disappointment as he holds Grantaire's stare before returning to whatever it was he was discussing with Combeferre.

Grantaire tips his bottle towards the ceiling.

"No, I made the decision that no more would I waste away somewhere I knew I would rot. So instead I spent my time pilfering apples."

He huffs a laugh. “Pilfering apples? The ones used to model fruit?”

Within Grantaire’s eyes, Feuilly sees a mischievous sort of glint. “The very same.”

“And now? Do you still attend?”

He shrugs. “From time to time, though, I must ask why you think to ask me. My good fellow,” he reaches forward and lays a heavy hand on Feuilly’s shoulder. “I should think to ask you, rather, on your own painting.”

Feuilly flushes a little. “I haven’t the slightest of time for painting, Capital R.”

“And yet what little you have painted deserves to be hung up next to the works of Géricault!” Grantaire cries once more, and despite himself, Feuilly grins a little.

“It is hardly anything compared to Géricault.”

Grantaire waves a dismissive hand. “Bah! All these names—Géricault, Prud’hon, Delacroix—all of them are insufferable men who catch one whiff of fame and lose themselves to their pretentiousness. Your one work, young fan-maker, would be worth more than any of those scoundrels’ paintings put together.”

And Feuilly cannot help but gape, for this man in front of him, the very set definition of a skeptic, who once told their group, on his own whims, that believing was for the foolish and that he had no wish to believe in anything that would earn him an early death—he now sits here telling Feuilly that he finds meaning in his work, more meaning than in the works of the greatest painters to exist.

It leaves him shocked beyond compared.

Attempting to gather his thoughts once more into a state of decent coherency, he proceeds to ask, "Do you paint anymore?"

For a moment, just one quick moment that Feuilly admits he would not have caught had he not been looking closely, Grantaire's eyes flicker over to where Enjolras appears to be moderating some sort of a debate between Combeferre and Courfeyrac, laughing at something Courfeyrac must have said, and he notices the way Grantaire's face twists bitterly.

"Yes."

Feuilly does not ever ask what—or who—his subject is.

________________________________________________________________

1830

The weather of Paris in the spring signals the approach of a storm the Friends, unknown yet to their knowledge, will find themselves fighting in when the people decide in the season of July that tyranny must not be allowed to continue, and will resurrect barricades all throughout the city in the name of a free France achieved through a revolution that sees the overthrowing of King Charles X.

But for now, it is spring and the rain beats down upon the poor the hardest, upon those who have less shelter, fewer clothes, scarce food, and only in abundance do they have misery.

Feuilly counts himself lucky that he has a roof over his head, even if it is one that freezes in the night’s cold, and in the summer, swelters in the day’s heat.

Joly, however, does not seem to think so.

“I simply cannot allow you to go back to your flat when the rain beats down on our heads like this!” he cries, ignoring Feuilly’s several protests to the idea of spending the night at Joly’s residence, after Joly had taken one step into Feuilly’s own apartment and declared it uninhabitable in their current temperatures. “There is more than enough room at my residence, and I will not have one of my own falling ill when I had more than enough resources to prevent the ailment.”

“I wish not to intrude,” Feuilly repeats for what must surely be the hundredth time. “You already find yourself housing Bossuet, too, and—”

“Feuilly,” Joly scrubs a hand across his face, “helping a friend is hardly any bother to me. In the six years we have known each other is this how you expect me to behave?”

And Feuilly stops short, because Feuilly, who has never had a family—who has never had a mother or father or brother or sister—could hardly ever have imagined in his life that would have a friend—that he would have several friends—who would care for him—who would love him—like this, enough to offer up the chance at a residence that must look like a palace compared to his own shabby room, even if for one night.

“I simply… I simply would not want to cause any burden,” he mumbles.

Joly’s face splits into a bright grin, the one everyone who knows him is familiar with, the one that gives reason to why they all call him Jolllly. “But my friend!” he exclaims. “The more people to house, the more amusing the occasion, no?” Armed in one hand with his cane and the other holding Feuilly by the elbow, he begins to lead him towards his apartment. “Come! We shall make merry by the fire and drink to our heart’s content today—and we will not have to worry about rationing our drinking, for Grantaire is not here, either!”

“Make merry by the fire? But I regret to inform you that the Yuletide season is well past us,” an amused voice says by their side. As they both turn to the left, a familiar, laughing bald head makes itself apparent to their eyes.

Feuilly snorts. “I have not known you to be one to turn down an opportunity to nest by Joly’s fire, Bossuet. I find that I would rather while away the time in the false pretense that Christmas is still upon us rather than spend the hours shivering in the rain—would you not?”

“Bossuet can handle a little rain, what with the two sous in his pockets, he may even be able to manage a meager coffee,” Joly teases, carefully bringing the tip of his cane to rub at his nose.

“Really?” He raises an eyebrow. “Do tell, how does one manage a coffee at just two sous?”

“With enough grovelling at my door once he realizes that his endeavour is an impossible one and he owes me for the medical supplies I would inevitably have to purchase to bring him back to health after shivering so long in the cold.”

Bossuet bellows a laugh as he makes way for himself in between Feuilly and Joly, draping an arm around each's shoulders. “The grovelling will not be necessary, Jolllly, I shall tag along anyways. I would never decline, having found myself in the company of our dear friend Feuilly.”

Feuilly shoots him a confused look. “And why might my company be so desirable?”

Bossuet and Joly both laugh as if he had just told them the most amusing joke, but Feuilly cannot quite catch what it is that is so funny about what he said.

“Friends do not ask each other why their company is desirable, Feuilly,” Bossuet simply says.

And Feuilly feels something warm in his heart turn to a roaring fire, despite the chill of the rain.

Later, when he finds himself tucked into one of Joly’s armchairs, a blanket around him, he feels Joly lay a gentle hand upon his shoulder, looking at him most earnestly.

“I beg you think not of this as charity, my friend, but rather as something a friend would do for another. Nay a friend—more a brother.”

And with that, Joly leaves to prevent Bossuet from setting himself on fire in the kitchen while Feuilly struggles to blink back a wetness that threatens to slide down his cheeks, though his feelings are far from any sort of sorrow he has felt before.

________________________________________________________________

1832

He is hungry and he is thirsty and he is tired and he knows he is going to die.

He also knows that not only will he die in triumph, but he can imagine no other group of wonderful, extraordinary, familiar people he would rather die with.

Enjolras has already delivered news of their abandonment. Now, they sit and listen as he speaks of the principles of their fight, of the principles of their deaths, and Feuilly can think of no better speech he has ever heard in his short life.

He realizes, with a jolt, that Enjolras has turned to him. “Listen to me, Feuilly, valiant worker, man of the people, man of the peoples. I revere you. Yes, you see the future clearly, yes, you are right. You had neither father nor mother, Feuilly. You adopted humanity as your mother and right as your father. You’re going to die here—in other words, to triumph.” He holds his gaze for a second longer before he continues.

And Feuilly nods. Because he believes in Enjolras. He trusts in his words.

He knows he will die. But what better cause could there be?

He wishes they had succeeded, he had hoped, had so ardently believed that the people would rise with them.

But if the people do not wish to answer the call of revolution, he knows it will not succeed. He has accepted this.

And he realizes it is okay. He has come to terms with it.

He dwells on Enjolras’ words.

You had neither father nor mother, Feuilly. You adopted humanity as your mother and right as your father.

And, he quietly thinks to himself, I have adopted my friends as my brothers. And there is no one I would rather die beside. There are no other people who I would rather see smile one more time, or hold one more time, or laugh with and cry with and sit with one more time.

When he had first arrived in Paris, back eight years ago, Feuilly had resolved that he would adopt the people of Paris just as he had adopted those of the rest of the world.

He never imagined he himself would be adopted in turn.

________________________________________________________________

Rather than the bullet, Feuilly feels a sort of warmth spread through him instead. He lifts a hand to place at his side, where his blood begins to seep through his shirt and waistcoat.

He thinks of Bossuet’s laugh when he comes up with only two sous in his pocket and still offers Feuilly a drink.

He remembers why Joly was named the way he was, remembers his jollity in just about every situation Feuilly had found himself and Joly trapped in.

He nearly laughs at the thought of Grantaire’s rambles, and he sympathizes with his pursuit to find a family after his own had thrown him out. He sincerely hopes he will find the family that Feuilly did, too.

He recalls the feeling of Courfeyrac’s warmth, recalls how he kept the group together, how he shared that warmth with everyone no matter who they were, even if they were orphans like Feuilly.

He remembers Combeferre’s care, the way he always seemed to keep one eye open to look after everyone in the group, the way he never stopped making sure Feuilly got enough sleep, or had enough food, or rested enough, and he thinks that the world has just lost one of its greatest doctors.

He smiles at the memory of Jehan’s empathy, how his eyes seemed to see right through anything, and the way he always knew when to sit with Feuilly and ask him if there was something he wanted to share, something weighing down on his chest that was suffocating him, something that seemed to be relieved only when Jehan would smile that soft smile of his and tell him that he always had him by his side.

He can still feel Enjolras’ passion light up the barricade, recalls how his passion showed when he preached of a free France, when he spoke of the plight of the poor, and remembers the way that passion would soften into reverence when he would sit with Feuilly and listen to what he had to say, despite the fact that all his life he was likely taught to disregard men like him.

He remembers Bahorel’s bravery, how could he ever forget? He remembers that reckless smile, the bold behaviour that led to him taking his hand after being toppled to the ground, remembers that single question Bahorel asked him that would change his life forever, and he wishes—he cries at the thought of never having had the chance to say thank you, to tell him he is the reason why Feuilly is content to die in the situation he has found himself in.

Feuilly thinks of being born into the world with no family, no one to call his own.

Then he thinks about leaving it having found the men he loves, he loves—oh Lord above he loves like he could never love a mother or a father, he loves these men so much that it tears his heart in two thinking of each and everyone dying—he catches a glimpse of Enjolras being backed up the stairs while the National Guardsmen continues to prowl their way towards him and he sees Combeferre glance towards the heavens as his chest is speared by three bayonets and he sees Courfeyrac fall to his side having been shot once, twice, three times, and he sees Joly and Bossuet look towards each other as they are both shot side by side and he remembers the strength in Jehan’s voice when he cried out one last time in the name of the world they had sought to build and he remembers Bahorel’s spirit being the first to leave and he remembers, remembers, remembers, and it hurts so much, it makes him ache with a pain that makes him want to scream and cry for he cannot imagine the thought of having finally found his family and then having them torn from him, one by one, he hurts so much and surely God cannot be so cruel that he snatches their dreams, snatches the only people he knows he will ever love away—

And then he finds peace. Because as he bleeds out, he hears a voice, clear as the dawn drawing above the new day, cry out Long live the republic! and it is Grantaire, and he can almost hear Enjolras smile when he hears what he knows is the final report resounding, and in Combeferre’s eyes there is a sort of divine trust as his eyes remain affixed to where he believes he will find salvation, and there is a sort of tranquility in Courfeyrac’s eyes, and he sees the way Joly and Bossuet are still looking to each other even in death, and he thinks of how Jehan went out exactly as he wished, with strong words on his tongue, and he thinks of Bahorel’s fighting spirit and how he died doing what he thought was right.

His hand grows damper and hotter as his blood seeps out quicker and quicker.

The world may not remember their names in history—but Feuilly knows they will have a permanent place in his.

Like Combeferre, he casts his eyes towards heaven, and he thinks he can see Bahorel hold out his hand like he did eight years ago.

He can’t wait to have his life change again.

And Feuilly falls with a smile.

[threeletterslife]

Insurrection (It’s About Time)

→ [4/7] of the Glossary Series

→ summary: If you told Park Jimin he was going to fall in love with a young cult leader, he would've laughed. But honestly, who's laughing now??

→ pairing/rating: jimin x reader | PG-15

→ genre: 90% angst, 9.9% fluff, 0.1% crack | high school!au

→ warnings: death, mentions of suicide, academic dishonesty, cult-like activities, profanity, school threats (bombs & shootings)

→ wordcount: 18.3k

→ a/n: this is a story that is near and dear to my heart. it actually kind of hurt to write because a lot of these scenes are similar to my experiences or the experiences of loved ones. i’ve had this idea for almost two years now and i finally decided to write it out. i hope you enjoy (:

Jimin is punctual. In fact, he is on another level of punctuality. At any given event, he arrives at least fifteen minutes early. For what reason? His answer would be 'just in case.' There are a plethora of events that can go wrong, a multitude of catastrophes that can erupt in his face last-minutely. Jimin's not going to take any chances jeopardizing his own future.

Especially his future in education.

Much accordingly, since he is exceedingly punctual, Jimin can not—for the love of god—stand people who dilly dally. The atrocity of them to dare to be late and waste others' time!

This is the exact reason why he absolutely despises his calculus teacher.

I sacrificed my goddamn lunchtime studying for this exam. And now he decides to be late.

Jimin's hands shake violently as he brings up his notes to his face, eyes boring into the paper filled with equations and example problems. Hands clammy and sticking to the paper, he balances himself on the balls of his feet and rocks in an attempt to try to settle his spiked nerves.

This is definitely not a good way to start off finals weeks.

Jimin has exactly an 88.3% in AP Calculus BC, and a morbid B+ will do no good in his future—at least that's what the school propaganda and his parents say. He'll have to score extremely well on this fall semester's final exam, especially because his teacher refuses to round up the grades.

Goddamn. He's really late. Late to his own final.

Jimin starts biting his nails again. At this point, there isn't much nail to bite left, but he manages to gnaw at the skin around it. It's a small habit that goes far; he does it when he's nervous, but nail-biting always does such little to do away with his gargantuan amount of stress.

In frustration, Jimin lets out a massive sigh, clutching at his chest where his lungs threatened to collapse on him. His stomach feels tight and queasy, which doesn't have much to do with the fact that he hadn't eaten. He is just anxious. Unlike the others around him.

Next to Jimin, Jeon Jungkook, his friend, casually leans against the brick wall, eyes focused on his phone screen as he mumbles nasty profanities under his breath. "That's motherfucking right, die, bitches," he mutters. Jungkook moves his body along with the avatar inside his game. He's so into it that his eyes gleam when he reigns victorious. "Ha!" he screeches, throwing up his hands. "Fuck you, you cowards! I win!"

Jungkook finally looks up from his game and meets eyes with Jimin. He grins. "Hey, bro, wanna log on too?"

Jimin's mouth hangs open with a mixture of complete surprise and utter disapproval. "We have a final this period, Jungkook. Aren't you the tiniest bit worried?"

He regrets asking that because he knows the answer he's going to get.

"No, not really," Jungkook snorts. He looks back at his phone screen and hoots. "Fuck, yeah! He's not here yet! I think I can squeeze in another game."

If Jimin's parents knew that his friend—aside from his straight A's and musical accomplishments—played video games, namely Fortnite, to pass time, they'd probably transfer Jimin to another school. A school that could be worse than this one. Which might as well be a prison.

Jimin shakes his head, harshly gripping his notes and looking away from Jungkook. Jimin doesn't want to admit it, but he's jealous. While he's stuck having a mini internal breakdown over the teacher's tardiness, Jungkook's taking the extra leisure time to play some shitty mobile game.

It's unfair. Jungkook gets his straight A's without moving so much of a goddamn muscle. While Jimin, on the other hand, has to stay up until four in the morning every other day, studying or doing homework from the moment he's awake to the time he goes to bed. He will never understand why, despite his grueling efforts, that he has a fair share of B's in his transcript.

It's a shitty, unfair system. But then again, it was set up to be unfair, anyways. Here at Welton High School, every student has taken a rigorous entrance exam, of which only the top 25% scoring students are accepted. Every student is well above average—they are students from all over the world and have probably never heard the word 'average' spoken to them in their entire lives. Until they faced Welton, of course. Now of the top 25%, only 1% can truly be special.

Jimin sometimes thinks that when he was accepted to Welton, he must've been barely at the cut off line. He speculates that he must've been in the top 24.99%, and was very lucky that he wasn't waitlisted.

He worked twice as hard from freshman year until now, junior year, to be on level with the young, walking Einsteins of Welton. But no matter how hard Jimin tries, he has never been able to outsmart the intellectuals who were born to change the world with their IQ's alone.

Competition is way too fierce.

No, Jimin thinks. Competition is deadly.

And it is. Student suicides, school shooting threats (from the students), student protests... Teenagers crack under pressure. But what can Jimin do about it? The system's shitty, yes, but he has no choice but to follow it, or else the promise of a stable future goes down the drain and into the sewer. For that exact reason, Jimin studies like there's no tomorrow every day.

Wake up. Go to school. Eat. Study. Sleep (if he's lucky). Wake up (sometimes). And do it all over again.

So fine. Jimin's jealous of Jeon Jungkook. Because he doesn't seem to put in the effort for his perfect grades. And it irks Jimin. But it shouldn't. Jungkook's his friend, so Jimin should be happy for him.

It's hard though when the person you're closest to is so far beyond your league that you begin to think yourself inferior to them.

"Sorry, class!" Jimin's calc teacher huffs as he nearly spills over his coffee while skidding to a stop in front of the classroom door. "We've lost time for the final! Get in your seats, take out a pencil, eraser and graphing calculator! Be ready in your seats so I can pass out the exams!" he orders in a frenzy.

How can you be so irresponsible? Jimin thinks, glaring daggers at the back of his teacher's head.

He's almost blinded by rage until he realizes what he's really here for: to take the test. Right. His stomach flips at the thought. Jimin shoves his notes into his backpack, wincing when he hears some of the papers ripping.

Shit, this is the moment. He's been dreading this exact time for weeks now. Each step into the familiar class makes him feel like he's walking the plank, inching closer and closer to his impending doom.

Shit. Shit. Shit. Jimin feels a migraine creeping in already. I don't know if I can do this.

Next to him, Jungkook is still playing Fortnite. Jimin doesn't know if he should spitefully tell his friend to stop or to let him continue. God, it's not fair.

Jimin's teacher is all over the place, holding his cup of coffee while also carrying dozens of test booklets in the other hand. For a split second, Jimin wishes his teacher would spill his coffee on the tests. Maybe that would delay the final. Maybe Jimin would get his first stroke of good luck in the nearly three years of high school he had already faced.

But luck is not on Jimin's side today. It never was.

The test booklets make it out in perfect condition, and Jimin's slightest bit of hope is crushed when his teacher finally sets down his coffee on his desk.

"Get your tests! Come on, pick them up!" his teacher shrills. Jimin breathes in deeply. At this point, he's just going to accept his fate. He might as well accept a B+ in this class. God, I feel faint.

"Don't write on the test," the teacher continues. "The scratch paper is up here if you need it and—"

The loud, blaring fire alarm interrupts him. It echoes deafeningly through the class, the raucous noise piercing through Jimin's ears to such an extent that he covers them with his hands. Jimin shakes in his seat, making eye contact with Jungkook.

For once in his life, Jungkook looks confused in a class setting. 'What the fuck??" he mouths aggressively to Jimin.

What the fuck, indeed.

Sometimes, the administration liked to schedule secret fire drills to get the students and staff better prepared in case of a real emergency. But really, during finals week? When students are already nerve-wracked from exam season? God, they had no shame for fuck's sake.

Jimin's teacher sighs, running his fingers through his head of unkempt hair. "All sorts of things happening today," he mutters to himself. "Must be a mistake," he declares with an affirmative nod of the head. "Class, as I was saying before—"

"Holy fuck, the other classes are evacuating!" Jungkook shrieks, pointing out the classroom window. Sure enough, teachers are already herding their students outside to the evacuation areas on the soccer fields. "I don't think this is a dr—"

Before Jungkook finishes his sentence and the teacher disciplines him for his explicit choice of language, the intercom buzzes, momentarily halting the horrendous fire alarm. Everyone freezes and it goes completely silent. So silent that Jimin can hear his own heartbeat.

A loud crackle and another buzz ring from the intercom, then the principal begins to speak in a hurried voice: "This is not a drill. Please proceed to evacuate out of the buildings. Thank you."

The moment he finishes, the intercom crackles again and the fire alarm carries on.

Jimin's anxiety flies to the roof. Not a drill? What could've possibly happened?

His teacher looks almost as—or even more—shaken as Jimin and he yells panicked directions to the students. "I'll be the last one out! Meet me at our safety corner on the field!"

Jimin quickly finds Jungkook and the two of them walk side by side out of the building. As soon as Jimin can see the sky, he looks up instinctively to check for smoke. But there is none. In fact, the sky looks clearer than normal today.

"Do you even think there's a fire?" Jimin asks his friend. He almost lets out a scoff of disbelief when he sees Jungkook playing his mobile game again.

"No idea," Jungkook replies nonchalantly, jabbing at his screen with his thumb. "Don't think it's anything serious. Probably just a small fire in chem class. Nothing to worry about."

Jimin's still uneasy. "You don't think anyone's hurt, do you?"

At that, Jungkook hums, his forehead creasing slightly as he finally shuts off his phone and pockets it. "There's no ambulance," he points out. Jungkook turns to Jimin fully, grinning at him to Jimin's shock. "Loosen up, Jimin. This is junior year. We might have a chance at canceled finals because of this real evacuation! Now isn't that nice?"

"I guess..." Jimin mumbles. But I need the final to raise my grade...

It's strange to see his peers smiling and laughing as they walk side by side with their friends. It's almost as if the fire alarm isn't threateningly blaring in the background. Do none of them care that this could be a serious matter??

"By the looks of it, we're definitely going to skip the calc final today!" Jungkook shouts victoriously, pumping his fist in the air. "No more fucking math!"

"True..." Jimin admits nervously. "But he might have to take the final after school..." He's almost too embarrassed to say that he needs this final to raise his grade.

Jungkook snorts. "Welton's not allowed to keep us after school with such short notice," he says. "If things go right, we might not have finals for the rest of the day."

When Jungkook puts it that way, the thought sounds heavenly.

"Yo! Bros!" a familiar voice calls, breaking Jimin from his reverie. "Y'all okay? We could've literally died!"

It's Taehyung, Jimin's other friend. The only guy in the whole school who's unafraid to use the word 'y'all' and be judged for it.

"Man, I heard the girl's locker room caught on fire!" Taehyung announces.

Jungkook cocks an eyebrow. "Unless you were in there, how would you know?" he teases.

Jimin laughs as Taehyung huffs disapprovingly. "Some girls told me. I would never sneak in there," he pouts, crossing his arms.

"Really?" Jimin says. "How would the fire have started in there, though?"

"Oh, you'd be surprised to see what goes down in the girl's locker room," Jungkook says, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively.

"What went down so hard to cause a fire??" Jimin asks.

"Nah, don't believe him, Minnie," Taehyung laughs. "Jungkook probably sneaks in there from time to time to be a little perv."

Jungkook shrugs, unfazed by the accusation. He even plays along with it. "Well, I need something interesting to do in my high school career."

At that, Jimin and Taehyung shoot each other a look. Them and a majority of the students at Welton don't have enough hours in the day to study, let alone to seek for 'something interesting to do' in their high school careers. It's so like Jeon Jungkook, the genius, to say shit like this.

"Whatever, y'all," Taehyung says. "I don't even care what happened. We're still alive, you know? I'm just glad I'm missing out on that stupid physics final."

"Lucky," Jimin says. "I'm supposed to take that shit tomorrow."

"Uh, yeah, if there even is a tomorrow," Jungkook says, scrolling through his phone. Jimin thinks he's playing some mobile game again, but he soon realizes he's reading something. "It's not a fire in the girl's locker room after all..."

The three boys immediately stop walking, Taehyung and Jimin looking over Jungkook's shoulder to read what was on his screen. It's an email sent from the principal to all attending students and their guardians:

Dear Welton Community,

Today at approximately 12:48 pm, an unidentified caller phoned in a bomb threat to Welton High School. The caller stated seven pipe bombs had been planted on campus and were going to detonate in 25 minutes. The Police Department was called and immediately responded. Along with them, the School Administration decided to evacuate all buildings and bomb-sniffing dogs were called to search the entire school. When they have completed their search, I will send out another message to our community with the all-clear.

Thank you.

Bombs. Bombs?!?! Jimin panics again. Actual bombs! Seven pipe bombs could do serious damage—maybe even decimate half of the population of Welton High. What if they go off? Will this really be the end?

"Well, that explains the excessive amount of helicopters flying above us," Jungkook says, shrugging.

Before Jimin can shoot his friend a look of utter incredulity, he hears the sharp voice of his calc teacher. "Jimin! Jungkook! What are you doing out of line? I'm taking roll!"

"The Grinch is calling," Jungkook snickers. "We'll see you later," he tells Taehyung who salutes the two of you.

"See you guys," Taehyung says before sauntering off to his physics class.

"Text us!" Jimin calls.

Taehyung doesn't turn around but gives two big thumbs up indicating that he had heard Jimin.

Quickly, Jimin and Jungkook get in line while their dratted teacher takes roll. Once they see that their teacher isn't eagle-eyeing them, they slip out their phones, opening their group chat with Taehyung. It looks like Taehyung had already sent them multiple texts. All cries of pity.

Group: dead men + kook

[half-dead cowboy]: y'alls

[half-dead cowboy]: literally save me

[half-dead cowboy]: idk anyone in this class

[half-dead cowboy]: keep me entertained

[half-dead cowboy]: don't leave me hanging

[half-dead cowboy]: guyds

[half-dead cowboy]: guys*

[nO yOu]: serves u right for deciding to take physics ii lmfaoo

[half-dead cowboy]: shut up kook

[half-dead cowboy]: where's my boi minnie when i need him

[lil dead man]: Shit Tae I keep forgetting to tell you not to call me that

[half-dead cowboy]: you know why?

[half-dead cowboy]: because you not-so-secretly lobr it

[half-dead cowboy]: ugh

[half-dead cowboy]: love*

[nO yOu]: how did u even get in welton tae lmfao u can't even spell

[half-dead cowboy]: no

[half-dead cowboy]: i can SPELL i can't TYPE

[half-dead cowboy]: there's a difference you jerky

[half-dead cowboy]: ARE YOU KIDDING ME

[half-dead cowboy]: jerk********

[lil dead man]: AHAHAHAHAHAHAH

[nO yOu]: i feel quite honored to b called a jerky

[half-dead cowboy]: stfu

[nO yOu]: no for real bro

[nO yOu]: thank you

[lil dead man]: Back at it again with the sarcasm Kook

[lil dead man]: Anyways what's the girl's locker room like ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)

[half-dead cowboy]: not the lenny face

[half-dead cowboy]: please no

[nO yOu]: nO yOu

[lil dead man]: How long have you been waiting to say that

[nO yOu]: months

[nO yOu]: thanks for noticing. u my man

[nO yOu]: also if tae won't say anything bout the girl's locker room i will

[lil dead man]: What the fuck bro I thought you were joking when you say you knew the shit that went down????

[nO yOu]: lmfao i'm still jokin chillax minnie

[half-dead cowboy]: i hate you guys :((((((

[nO yOu]: damn that frowny face has 6 chins holy mothatruckafucka

[half-dead cowboy]: :(

[lil dead man]: That's more like it!!

[half-dead cowboy]: hold up hold up

[half-dead cowboy]: oh shoot y'all hearing this?

[nO yOu]: no?? we're texting? wE hAvE nO vOicE

[half-dead cowboy]: no you illiterate f*cks they just cleared the school the bomb threat as phony

[lil dead man]: Whew

[lil dead man]: I'm happy I won't blow up into smithereens but also pissed off as fuck that we'll have to live to take finals??

[nO yOu]: agreed, minnie

[nO yOu]: k but more importantly

[nO yOu]: tae did you just censor out a fucking cuss word

[half-dead cowboy]: i'm trying not to cuss as much anymore if you haven't noticed. but y'all make it f*cking hard. f*ck

[lil dead man]: We'Re sOrRy wE'Re bAd iNflUenCe

[half-dead cowboy]: :(((((((((((((((

[nO yOu]: 15 chins lets git itttt

[half-dead cowboy]: F*CK Y'ALL

It feels strange. The shortened school day had been so eventful... but also uneventful? Sure, there was a bomb threat, but it had been fake. Jimin thought a full-on Hollywood action scene would've commenced after the bombs detonated, but the bombs were never there in the first place. There weren't any finals either. All of them had been rescheduled to take next week, which was good news for most students.

It wasn't just good news, too. It was great news. Superb news. The best news students have gotten since they began attending Welton High School. Now, students are thanking the bomb threat for its rather impeccable timing. Some are even pissed that it hadn't happened earlier (so more finals could have been missed).

"We need to celebrate this once in a lifetime opportunity!" Taehyung announces as soon as the three boys are reunited. "It's not every day that a bomb threat cancels your finals!"

"We deserve a break, anyways," Jimin says. "I'm down. Kook?"

"Mm..." Jungkook makes an unintelligible sound at the back of his throat as he pauses his video game with the tap of his finger. "Sorry guys. Can't. Have to go somewhere."

"You?" Taehyung gasps dramatically. "Have plans?"

"And without us?" Jimin says, feigning a hurt expression. "Are you ditching us?"

Jungkook rolls his eyes. "No. I'm just... busy."

"Ha! Busy," Taehyung snorts. "Yeah, busy with that little sophomore girl you've been—cough—seeing."

"What the fuck," Jungkook scoffs. "How do you know about that?"

Taehyung opts not to answer the question, instead, he giggles. "It's a date, isn't it?" he sings.

Jungkook puffs out his cheeks in annoyance. "Fine," he says, slipping his phone inside his back pocket. "It's a date."

"Oh, we are so following you," Taehyung says.

"Don't you dar—"

"No, we're following you," Jimin grins.

"No, I swear to fucking g—"

Jimin and Taehyung are following Jungkook. The boy's surprisingly agile as he zig-zags around stumpy trees, tall bushes and overflowing trash cans. Sometimes, he quickly looks behind him as if to see if someone was trailing his back. Every time, Jimin's heart sinks with the fear of being caught, but Taehyung seems to love the thrill of the adrenaline rush.

At this rate, Jimin feels like an outlaw. But he's only just chasing his rather suspicious-looking friend. Or maybe he really wanted his relationship with the sophomore girl as a secret?

Or maybe there was no sophomore girl in the picture at all. Jimin's not too sure.

"It's as if he doesn't want anyone to know he's dating a teeny weeny 10th grader," Taehyung whispers, a mischievous grin stuck on his lips.

Yeah. If the girl exists. But Jimin doesn't say that. "I wonder who she is," he whispers back. "I mean, who on earth is worthy of dating our Kook?"

"My expectations for this girl are high," Taehyung snorts. "She better be the most intelligent girl I've ever—wait, what the fucK??"

The latter is more of a reaction. Taehyung grabs Jimin's arm, pulling him to take refuge behind a particularly bushy bush. He points at a rather unsettling scene unfolding before them.

Through the leaves of the shrub, Jimin can make out Jungkook, all right. There's also a girl—who might be a sophomore, standing confidently on a tree stump. Jimin doesn't even know if you go to Welton. But what makes the whole situation peculiar is that there are others—including Jungkook—gathered in this little half-forest clearing. And they're gathered around the tree stump in which the girl is standing on.

Jimin tries to make a rough estimate of the number of people—seemingly students because they're all wearing backpacks— in his head. Twelve? Maybe fifteen students? He's confused, furrowing his brows as he squints at them through the bush. "What's this shit for?" he whispers to Taehyung who looks equally confused.

"No idea," Taehyung mutters. "Looks like a cult," he snorts. "But it could be a stupid Fortnite club for all I know."

"I doubt that a club would meet at such a sketchy place," Jimin murmurs to himself.

There is something definitely fishy going on here...

Jungkook blends in way too easily in the crowd of supposed students. The only person that stands out is the girl. The one on the tree stump. She stands casually, favoring her left leg. She's petite, but her posture and stance emit an aura of valiance and authority. Her eyes seem to sparkle with determination and her lips are curled up in a happy smile. A... victorious smile.

"That's her!" Taehyung whispers aggressively. "The girl I've seen our Kook with! The little sophomore!"

Ah... She's a sophomore... Jimin nods, cocking his head as his eyes scan the group of students to see if he recognized anyone other than Jungkook. He sees a few seniors (that he can't quite remember the name of) and finds it weird that they're huddled below the sophomore girl as if waiting for her command.

Whoever she is, she's the leader. The president, maybe? Of whatever club this was? If it even was a club, that is.

Jimin's thoughts are proven when the girl clasps her hands together, taking a deep breath before bellowing out a "Thank you for coming!" She offers a friendly wave to everyone looking up to her (literally) in awe.

Jimin has never seen the genius himself, Jeon Jungkook, respecting an underclassman before. Even the seniors in the crowd look at the girl approvingly. As if she were a queen and not just the president of a small club.

The girl speaks again in her light, lilted voice, turning to a lanky boy with unkempt blonde hair covering his eyes. "Yoongs! Attendance, please?"

"Perfect attendance, Y/N!" the boy deemed as Yoongs reports back to the girl. He winks. And she—Y/N—blushes.

Jimin frowns. What was going on???

You giggle, looking fondly at Yoongs before returning your attention to the rest of the crowd. "So, our experiment worked as expected," you say, shrugging rather casually. "I did feel bad for wasting people's time..." you trail off, unsure.

Experiment? Jimin feels chills run down his spine when he realizes you probably mean the bomb threat.

"It was worth it, babe!" Yoongs calls from the group.

You smile. "It's always worth it," you reply. "I'll make today's meeting short for those of you working on college apps and the others of you participating in competitions."

You're so casual in the way you speak—as if the people you were looking over were your friends. But you're also entrancing. As if everyone else has to be silent to hear what great words you have to say. And apparently, you have a lot on your mind to share.

"As I always say," you start, "never waste your time on your grades. They don't define you. Nor will they shed a light on the person you are inside. Nevertheless, everyone here should have straight A's..." you smile, looking over at Yoongs. "A round of applause for Yoongi's excellent coding skills for which we would've never been able to pull this off without them!"

The crowd erupts in enthusiastic applause, leaving Yoongi beaming from his proud accomplishments.

You wait for the crowd to simmer down before speaking again. "We tricked and cheated the system," you admit. "You might have doubts about that. Morality and integrity may play into your thoughts. But," you take a dramatic pause, "how moral are grades, really? They're tools for adults, which is as far as it goes. Teachers corrupt the system, watch silently as all hell breaks loose from the intense student competition... They make it a game. They know you'll do anything to get the letter grade you want," you take a painful breath. "We're only fighting against something that is as equally as or more morally ambiguous. The world cares about you as a human. They won't care about a robot that spits out impeccable grades but has no soul, no passion, no life. They want you at your best—what you can do that will benefit others. We don't need to take part in something as trivial as our high school grades, do we?" you smile as the students around you cheer.

"Of course... college is a different story. Depending on the college you go, that is..." you trail off. "When you start to learn about things that you have a genuine interest in, that's when grades might matter. But for now, struggling this hard on obscure subjects that you'll never touch again after graduating from Welton? I say it's a good thing we're cheating the system. How great was the system anyway to have contributed to three student suicides in the last two years?"

There's a collective murmur as students nod their heads.

"A moment of silence for Heegyung, Bonsoo and Chaewoon, please," you say, voice barely above a whisper but everyone hears what you say and they all bow their heads down to obey. You, yourself, close your eyes. Your face is etched with pain and actual remorse, which makes Jimin feel a little guilty he wasn't truly mourning the students' deaths.

After a few minutes pass, you clear your throat, blinking your eyes open and waiting for the other students to look up at you again. "Ah, yes," you say. "Thank you for the short mourning period we were able to squeeze into this meeting... But now to get to the purpose of this gathering," you pause for a split second before continuing again. "The finals you will have to take next week shouldn't be as stressful as other school days. Apply our methods and you'll be fine. If you need extra help, text me as soon as possible." You pause again, but this time, it wasn't to gather your thoughts, it was to shift the mood of your speech. A bright grin settles on your face.

"Now, for the moment we've all been waiting for!" you exclaim. "Let's give a special round of applause for Jeon Jungkook and Min Yoongi for their collaboration on this excellent evacuation plan!"

The crowd does more than applaud. Students whoop, yell and chant their names. But Jimin's not in a celebratory mood.

Jungkook did what?? Jimin shoots Taehyung a panicked look. It was one thing to realize that this group of students probably somehow organized the bomb threat, but it was another thing to realize that Jungkook was a large part of it.

"It was extremely difficult to create an automated call that couldn't be traced—" you begin.

"Eh, it wasn't that bad," Yoongi shrugs nonchalantly. "Child's play."

You laugh, eyes twinkling as your turn to Yoongi. "Well, thank you," you say. "Ah, and as for Jungkook, thank you for volunteering to use your voice to record the bomb threat. It must've been so nerve-wracking."

Jungkook snorts, shaking his head. "All I really did was speak into a mic. And we totally distorted my voice. Severely fucked up the frequencies and all that."

Jimin's blood runs cold. He looks over at Taehyung with his eyes wide. His friend isn't faring any better with his jaw clenched and fists tightened.

"It took an immense amount of courage to sacrifice your voice for an experiment like this," you say, smiling down at the older boy. "Oh, yeah! How's your album going, by the way?"

Jungkook beams. "It's going great!" he says happily. "I've been having so much fuckin' time to work on it that the whole process has just been insanely smooth."

"Love that!" you say. "Productivity at its finest, right?"

Everyone nods eagerly.

"Well!" you sigh, placing both of your hands on your hips. "The meeting's officially over, now! Please text me your work progresses, guys. They're due before midnight. Thank you so much for coming!"

"Thank you for hosting it, babe!" Yoongi says, rushing over to help you off of the tree stump by offering his hand. You take it gladly, stepping back on the dirt ground.

You start waving at the students who begin to file out of the meeting place. When Jimin sees them start to move towards him and Taehyung, he grabs his friend's arm. "Shit, Tae, we've got to—"

"Hey, Jungkook?" you call. The boy turns around, looking at you expectantly. "Can you please tell your two friends that hiding behind a bush is quite ineffective?" You giggle when Jimin falls to the ground in shock. "Park Jimin and Kim Taehyung, was it?"

Jimin's in shell-shock, unable to move or dust off his pants. How the fuck did you—

"You can come out of hiding, you know," you reassure them with such a honey-like quality to your voice that it's almost impossible to resist. "We don't really bite," you giggle. "But... I mean, Yoongi might," you tease, earning a flirtatious shove from the boy.

At your invitation to quit hiding, Taehyung jumps out from behind the bush, dragging Jimin along with him. "Who the fuck are you and how do you know our names?!" Taehyung roars.

Guess he already gave up his no-cussing streak, Jimin sighs. But he's also glad that he's not the one who has to stand up for both of them.

"Don't be so rude, you ass," Jungkook scoffs. "Motherfucking stalkers. I told you not to follow me."

Stalkers?? We were just looking out for you! Jimin thinks. "We're sorry, Kook," he manages to say. "But you lied to us! And more importantly, you obviously haven't been telling us things."

Jimin's frankly hurt by his friend's lack of honesty, but it seems so that Taehyung is more vocal about it.

"Yeah, Jeon Jungkook, what the fuck?" Taehyung yells. "You're a cheater!" he accuses Jungkook, stepping closer and poking at his chest harshly with his pointer finger. "You're a fake! You're a bomb threatener!!"

"Wait a minute!" you cut in. "Let's not get into accusations like that so early. Jimin, Taehyung, I—"

"How do you know our fucking names?!" Taehyung screams. "We don't even know who you are, you cheater!!"

"Watch it," Yoongi says dangerously. He tries to take a step forward, but you stop him, placing a hand on his arm.

"I'm Y/N," you say. "We're all students of Welton, so there's no reason for the animosity. Besides, I memorized the yearbook." You shrug, but you gesture apologetically to Jimin and Taehyung. "I'm very sorry, but I didn't invite you two to join our little group for a major reason. Of course..." you trail off. "Now you have to join... For safety reasons."

"Little group?" Taehyung snorts. "Where did the specificity go?"

"Hmm," you hum. "What do you think about a school revolt?"

Jimin does not like the idea of a school revolt at all. It sounds stupid. Students would never be able to pull it off. Even Taehyung, who's usually more open-minded than Jimin, seems skeptical.

You ask Jimin and Taehyung to meet up in Panera, later that day with Jungkook, to discuss the specifics. By the time Jimin and Taehyung get there, you and Jungkook have already saved a corner spot in the cafe.

Jungkook's eating pieces of sourdough bread while you sip your frozen lemonade. It looks to Jimin and you and Jungkook are getting along as both of you gesture wildly as you speak. You even let out a large laugh after Jungkook says something funny.

Jimin feels weird interrupting the already happy conversation, but Taehyung seems to have no problem. Taehyung slides into the seat next to Jungkook, leaving Jimin to sit with you.  Jimin suddenly feels very self-conscious about himself.

"Glad you two could make it!" you chirp, setting down your frozen lemonade. "Want anything to eat or drink? They have hibiscus lemonade here and it's literally amazing!"

"I'd rather you cut to the chase," Taehyung says, frowning as he folds his arms.

Jimin agrees with a short nod.

"Oh," you say, "sure!"

"You said something about a school revolt," Taehyung says. "Explain."

"God, would it kill you to say please?" Jungkook rolls his eyes. "She's doing you guys a fucking favor. Man, if Yoongi was here, he'd whoop your asses."

"It's fine, Jungkook," you say. "I get how confusing this can be... Our little group has one goal," you start. "I want to help struggling students. You know what Welton is... Ruthless competition. Kids cramming without actually understanding the material. Rote memorization... Wasting time by doing four pages worth of math homework every night... Way too specific reading quizzes that have nothing to do with the storyline of the novels..."

The more you talk, the more Jimin begins to relate.

"It's horrible," you sigh. "That they're making us become a servant to the school. They use the students to boost the credibility of the teachers. They thrive off of our hard work, you know."

"They're bitches," Jungkook snorts. "Never really care for us. Remember Chaewoon? He told his counselor about his suicidal thoughts and she didn't do shit. He might still be alive with us if the counselor cared."

You nod. "Yes, our mental support system at this school amongst the grown-ups is preposterous," you say. "There are too many problems with Welton. And I reach out to deserving students to offer them a solution."

"A solution?" Jimin mutters.

You turn to him, nodding politely. "Yes! A solution. Students have dreams, Jimin. Taehyung, don't you ever wish you could be putting in your time somewhere else instead of studying for a subject you don't care about?"

Taehyung nods. "Who doesn't wish that around here?"

"Exactly," you say. "I'm offering you, Tae, and Jimin a great chance to follow your dreams. High school is when you feel the spark growing inside you. The spark is an extracurricular or a hobby of some sort that you've always loved with your whole heart. You probably had to sacrifice a lot to join Welton's elite debate team, right Taehyung?"

"Never even liked debate that much," he answers. "I had to quit theater for that shit."

"And you couldn't do both because...?" you say.

"Because the debate coach told me theater would interfere with the debate practice schedules," Taehyung says. "And he said that debate is much more intellectual than theater. He said that I won't be able to balance my studies with both debate and theater."

"Exactly," you say. "It's utter bs, don't you think? Why do we have to sacrifice our hobbies, our passionate dreams to do what some adult tells us to do? You do realize that they put down the arts because they want their smartest students participating in their intellectual or STEM-related activities? The more intelligent students that are in these activities, the higher the school rating skyrockets. It's purely selfish reasons."

"That is utter bullshit," Taehyung scoffs. "You're right. That is pretty fucking selfish."

"Right," you say. "I want to teach you, Tae," you say, looking the boy dead in his eyes. "I'll take care of your grades. I'll teach you the best ways to get away with outsmarting the teacher. I'll plan class distractions—like today—and if things still don't go well, my boyfriend—you met Yoongi today, right?—can make a last-ditch effort to hack into the grades system and work his magic. You'll have extra time to do theater—at school and at other professional intern sites. How does that sound?"

"Fuck," Taehyung curses. "That sounds fucking great when you put it that way."

Jimin's not so sure. "What if someone snitches?"

You laugh. "Oh, they wouldn't," you say. "I have eyes and ears everywhere."

"She does," Jungkook says. "There's no one she doesn't know. C'mon she's the first sophomore Editor-in-Chief of the school newspaper. You'll be safe if you join."

"You're juniors as well," you say. "There's a lot of pressure to do perfectly in school now. And you'll be in college before you know it. I reckon that you want to know your ride-or-die interest before you attend university."

Jimin looks down at his hands. This is wrong, he tells himself. But it'll do so much good. Not moral good, of course. But still.

Taehyung already seems sold on the idea, a fast grin spreading across his face as he nods his head enthusiastically.

You notice Jimin's skeptical look. "Hey, I'm gonna run to the bathroom," you say. Jimin gets out of the seat to let you through, and as soon as you're out of sight, he collapses on the seat and groans.

"Great, she's fucking gone," Jimin says. "Tae, you can't possibly think this is a good idea."

"What do you mean? It's a fucking fantastic idea!" Taehyung says. "Dude, don't you understand? I'll get to do what I love without sacrificing my grades! Once in a lifetime opportunity, bro."

Jungkook snorts. "Yeah, well, I have my music and you have your acting shit, Taehyung, but Jimin doesn't know anything other than the pages of a stupid fucking textbook."

It hurts because it's brutally true. Jimin bites his lip and shakes his head.

"Fifteen people is awfully small for a cult," Jimin grumbles.

"It is not a cult," Jungkook argues, crossing his arms over his chest. "And no one knows how many students are actually involved except for Y/N. She figured it'll be safer that way."

"Bro, I'm in," Taehyung says. "I was in like seven minutes ago."

"Good choice, man," Jungkook says, slapping Taehyung's back approvingly. "And honestly? Jimin? You don't exactly have a choice. You have to join."

Jimin scoffs. "Why?"

"Because you know this group exists and it's likely you'd snitch on us if you don't get anything out of it," Jungkook says, raising an eyebrow at his friend. "Y/N's being really generous with you right now. You're basically going to freeload."

"Freeload?" Jimin says, glaring at the man with intense ferocity. "I didn't ask for any of this!"

"Hey, it's okay!" Taehyung says. "You can just find some hobby or something. So you're still following protocol."

"Um, easier said than done," Jimin mutters.

It's silent after that as Jimin sulks in his seat and Jungkook and Taehyung awkwardly watch him do so. You come back from the "bathroom" (you were gone for much longer, so Jimin suspects you were just giving them time to discuss) only to see the three boys sitting in complete silence.

You cock your head. "Everything all right?"

"Yeah, yeah!" Taehyung says. "It's final. Jimin and I are joining!"

"Great!" you say, smiling as you clasp your hands together. "Oh, you'll have to get started on your theater process right away," you tell Taehyung. "And Jimin, it's fine that you don't know what you like now. You can hang tight until you find something, all right?"

Jimin lets out a grumbling, "Yeah, sure."

"It's set, then!" you say, sipping your not-so-frozen lemonade drink. "Thank you, Jungkook. I owe you."

"No, it's fine, really," Jungkook laughs, shaking his head. "Just doing my job."

You smile at him fondly before turning to Jimin and Taehyung. "I'll text you the details pertaining to each of you, okay?" You glance down at your watch and gasp. "Oh, shoot, I'm late for my date! Um, I'll see you three at our next meeting? Or at school. Bye, guys!!" With that, you grab your drink and practically fly out of Panera, never looking back once.

Jimin and Taehyung are a bit dumbfounded.

"I gotta go work on producing my album," Jungkook says. "See you guys, too?"

"Yeah, duh," Taehyung grins as Jungkook slides out of the seat. "You basically saved our lives."

Jungkook snorts. "Sorry I didn't say anything about it earlier, by the way," he says. "We're not allowed to talk about it to anyone. Mostly because we don't really know who's involved."

"Nah, it's fine, man," Taehyung says, shaking his head. "At least we know now, right?"

Jimin stays quiet.

"Well, see you," Jungkook sighs as he glances at Jimin but doesn't say anything further. He leaves quickly.

"God, Jimin, he's your friend," Taehyung says as soon as Jungkook turns a corner and is no longer in view. "You shouldn't be that cold."

"Oh, really?" Jimin says. "He was living lavishly all this time and didn't bother saying anything!"

"He just said he didn't have a choice, Jimin!"

"God!" Jimin says, running his hand through his hair. "Now how are we any different from the motherfucking cheaters out there?"

Taehyung frowns. "I don't mind cheating. Y/N didn't even call it cheating. She called it 'outsmarting the teachers.' And besides, we have a reason for it too."

Jimin shrugs. "Yeah, whatever..."

"You'll come around," Taehyung smiles, shaking his head. "But what the heck do you think Jungkook meant by saying no one knows who's in the group??"

"No idea."

But it soon becomes quite obvious when Jungkook escorts Jimin and Taehyung to their first official meeting. Jimin and Taehyung gape as they realize no one they saw last time was here. You must hold several of the same meetings. All with different people.

Now it's for sure that nobody knows how many people are in the goddamn cult except for you. It dawns on Jimin that he's getting himself into something much, much larger than he had previously believed.

You've created quite an advanced system. So advanced that it took Jimin a while to get used to. It was a cheating plot so elaborate and well-planned that it almost didn't feel like cheating. Instead, it was like embarking on an evil heist in the adult world.

You had a master plan behind every single class in Welton. Jungkook said you harbored hundreds of paper documents (not digital, or they could be hacked) that had information about every teacher, every subject in the school. From there, you would investigate each subject and find the students who were genuinely interested in pursuing it in the future—the experts. Those students would then be in charge of making and organizing all of the class lecture notes; it would be their responsibility to fully learn the material and redistribute it to the other students who, more or less, didn't give two fucks about the class.

Homework was rotated amongst the "expert" students, and they'd send the other students the answers. (But, of course, there were always different versions of the homework so teachers would never suspect.)

Tests weren't a problem either. Somehow, you'd get a copy of every test or quiz before the exam date and distribute it to the experts. In a day's time, the rest of the students would obtain the answers (and work, if it was a math-based test). But to ensure that not everyone got the same exact score, you'd implemented quite a simple but complex system.

Test grades were higher for experts (especially experts who were able to make large progress on their personal projects). From there, the non-expert students were given scores solely based on how well they have updated their progress to you, and how much they have advanced in their extracurriculars.

The hardest questions on every exam were hand-picked by the experts themselves. And only the experts were allowed to answer the question correctly.

Essays were different. Not everyone read the given book, but the experts would always be ready for all kinds of topics—the holy grail was definitely the database of all past Welton essays that you handled yourself.

In that way, you had every single class in the whole school covered for the students in your group. (Which was ultimately a huge bummer for the students who had no idea of the behind-the-scenes 'outsmarting' that was going on.)

Jimin thinks the system is good. Could be better, but it works.

He's just pissed that he never has any progress to report back to you, so he always ends up scoring a high B on exams. It happens to be a pretty good deal, though, factoring in the fact that he didn't study for them. Scoring B+'s on exams was enough to keep his grades at an A.

But sometimes, it just feels wrong. Especially on his physics tests (where the class average is 60%, but he ends up with a raw score of 88% without having to put in the minimal effort). No matter how many times you call the action 'outsmarting the teachers,' Jimin thinks he's just plain cheating.

He's been wanting to report it for a while... Just because the little angel sitting by his shoulder is telling him that this is unfair to all the other students who were truly trying but weren't even getting close to the scores that Jimin was getting just by copying others' answers. Jimin remembers when he had been in that unfortunate position. When he'd watched students do suspiciously well on certain subjects while having time to do other activities, while he, himself, had to study for eight hours straight to get a C on the test.

But Jimin's not part of that unfortunate group of students. He's now pretty damn fortunate.

And he can't stay fortunate if he reports the cheating. Jimin's desperate. He's desperate to obtain decent grades without spilling countless tears and studying from early morning to the next morning after. It's the only reason that he hasn't reported your little group yet.

Besides, Taehyung is seemingly adapting better to this non-student-like lifestyle. He's already joined two theater productions and is applying to work as extras in films and such. And Jungkook's been continuing to work on his album too.

Jimin's friends seem to love being a part of the group.

Maybe Jimin's just salty because he hasn't found his passion yet. Though he doesn't know everyone in your little school cult, it seems like everyone involved in it has a passion, a dream they want to reach for, except for him.

A part of him wants to find a hobby just to say he has one when someone asks. But another, larger, part of him wants a hobby because of greed. Finding a passion and pursuing it meant Jimin would get a higher chance of getting better test grades for texting you about his progress. But Jimin can't just latch on to any existing hobby... He needs some advice.

Well, you'd told him that he should come to you if he needed advice... It's weird to think that he, a junior, has to ask advice from a sophomore. But maybe he's that desperate.

You're usually in your own little private newspaper office (as the Editor-in-Chief). So Jimin decides to give you a visit. But when he walks into the room after school, he sees you comforting a crying girl. Whether she's part of the cult is unclear, but Jimin immediately discerns her as one of those band girls—with frizzy hair, leggings and a boxy t-shirt. The girl's crying so hysterically that Jimin feels uncomfortable intruding. He leaves without another look.

Crying girls are not a good sign; he'll just come back tomorrow.

When tomorrow comes and Jimin walks into your private newspaper room, there is no crying girl to his relief. You're on your computer, probably reading or editing some student-written articles. Jimin feels awkward disrupting you being so focused on your work, but the longer time he spends just waiting for you to finish, the more time he wastes.

So: "Um, hi... Uh, Y/N?" Jimin says. He grabs a chair and pulls it up next to you.

"Oh! Jimin!" you greet him, turning from your computer to face the boy in front of you.

"I came yesterday," Jimin says, shrugging, "but you were busy with someone else... I came back today."

"Ah, you mean Chunseo," you say, nodding. "She was having a hard time yesterday."

Jimin's silent, waiting for you to elaborate, but you don't. It becomes quite clear to him that you don't like to talk about others behind their backs.

"So, what are you here for today?" you chirp. "Advice? Questions? I know everything must be new to you, so I just hope you feel comfortable with the whole system."

"Oh, uh..." Jimin would like to tell you that you're doing a great job and that everything's going fucking great, but that's unfortunately not what comes out of his mouth. "I still don't know what to pursue. I mean, I have so much extra time on my hands now, but I'm just spending it on my phone. My friends have been advancing in their passions, but I have nothing... I was just wondering if you could um, help me? Help me find a passion, maybe? I don't know."

"Hm," you say, looking thoughtfully at Jimin. "I can definitely help you with that..." you trail off, looking Jimin up and down and cocking your head. Jimin thinks you're analyzing him—not just his physical qualities but his personality as well. He feels almost vulnerable under your gaze.

"Have you ever had any hobbies, Jimin?" you ask him.

"That's the thing," he sighs. "No, I haven't."

He looks so miserable that you have to place a comforting hand on his arm. "Hey, it'll be fine, Jimin," you say. "I'm sure it'll come to you one day. A hobby isn't something you should necessarily force out of yourself. When you feel a connection with an activity—when you aren't exactly looking for one—then that meets you've found your hobby. And if you really love this hobby, then it can grow to be your passion. You just need to be patient. Don't worry," you smile, "you'll find something."

Jimin glances at your hand on his arm and then glances up at your face. God, you have a way with words. He feels much better, even though you didn't exactly offer him a cut-out solution.

"Thanks," he says. "I needed that."

"No problem, Jimin," you beam. "I know not having a personal project to work on leaves you with the lower grades, but you're probably only at the A- ranges, right? That's not too bad," you say. "Hm, how about this?"

Oh? It looks like you're going to offer him a plan. So Jimin scoots closer to you on his chair and listens intently for your next words.

"You're a junior, and before you know it, you'll have to write your college apps. Maybe instead of spending time on your phone, you can start with your college essays now? Is that all right to suggest?" you say, cautiously. "It never hurts to get a head start, you know."

You're right. Jimin should probably be productive, just like everyone else in the group. "Yeah," he says. "That's a good idea, actually."

"Great!" you say, clasping your hands together. "And I really appreciate you coming here to tell me the truth. You'd be surprised that a lot of others don't do the same as you."

"Oh..."

"Yeah," you giggle. "Hey, what about this? We'll compromise. I'll ask my boyfriend to change something for you as a thanks from me to you for being open and honest."

"Really??" Jimin says, his eyes growing wide and a small smile appearing on his face. "Thank you!"

You shake your head. "No problem, Jimin. Good luck on your college apps!" you call to him as he leaves the room.

"Thanks!"

Wow.

Jimin's heard a lot of great things about you from his friends, but now he realizes they really weren't kidding. You're a leader, all right. But a balanced one too.

Not only did you offer him emotional support with your words of affirmation but also you showed him a solution—at least a temporary solution to his problem. And you're also incredibly generous as well.

Hm. Now Jimin can't possibly think to report your little cult. Of course, it's still half wrong, what you're doing... But after talking to you, after receiving your feedback and help, there's no way Jimin would be able to double-cross you. As weird as it sounds, you kind of have a nice smile, and he doesn't want to cause you stress or grievances that you're actively trying to avoid with your group. In other words, he doesn't want to be the cause of your frowning.

Jimin's never seen you frown before, but he doesn't exactly want to see it in the future.

"Damn, I was such a bad procrastinator before joining the student group! The study group? The group? I don't even know what to call it," Taehyung laughs. He takes a large gulp of his boba drink and continues, "I feel like being a part of this community is improving my lifestyle. Like seriously, though. I haven't had a normal or healthy lifestyle since eighth grade!"

Jungkook nods vigorously. "Dude, I know! I've never been this productive before I met Y/N! Doesn't it feel so nice to be able to dedicate time to your strongest fucking passions?"

"Duh!" Taehyung says. "Man, what if this makes me peak in happiness in high school?"

Jungkook throws his head back to laugh, but Jimin doesn't find it so amusing.

Instead, he feels a bit left out. While his friends were diving deep into their passions, Jimin had yet to find a hobby. "Why doesn't the group have a name, anyway?" he asks. "Seems kind of inconvenient."

Jungkook wiggles his eyebrows at Jimin teasingly. "Because..." he trails off spookily. "A name can always be traced back to the source. Haven't you thought of that?"

"Apparently Y/N did," Taehyung snorts. "Sometimes I wonder how she's so big-brained. God has favorites, I'm telling you."

"She's a fucking legend," Jungkook says. "I would worship her if I wasn't so stubborn about holding onto my dignity."

Jimin laughs, nearly choking on a tapioca pearl doing so. "Too bad she has a boyfriend, huh?" he jokes. "Jungkook sounds like he'd totally hit her up."

"I do not!"

"Sure, bro," Taehyung snickers. "When you talk to her, your pupils dilate."

"They fucking don't!" Jungkook says. "I have my interests elsewhere. Thank you very much!"

"Another girl?" Jimin gasps, placing a hand to his chest in shock. "Who?"

"Not a fucking girl, you bimbo," Jungkook says exasperatedly. "My music! I have interests in music. You guys fucking suck."

Jimin and Taehyung spiral into a fit of laughter. And the teasing and back-and-forth passive-aggressive remarks continued until the boba cups were empty and the three friends realized they talked up enough of a storm.

It used to be rare to meet up like this—because Jimin and Taehyung would always be overwhelmed in schoolwork—but now that their academic life was taken care of by you, they've been able to give themselves healthy breaks.

Jimin feels refreshed albeit a bit tired after parting with his two friends. He decides to walk home because his mother would kill him if she had to pick him up from the boba place when he should be studying at home.

The outside air feels nice against his cheeks, and Jimin finds himself becoming much more attentive to his surroundings. Back when he was a full-time serious Welton student, he couldn't ever spare to look at the intricacies of the vicinity—he always had to jump straight to the point, skipping the little moments to shove his face into his textbooks. It's a nice change.

Jimin notices a whole bunch of stores and studios on his walk home and he takes the time to admire each logo and memorize each name.

Damn. I never even knew some of these places existed...

There's even a dance studio called Hart's Dance Studio that Jimin swears he's never seen. The logo is an eye-catching red with a silhouette of a ballerina jumping over the 'Dance.' Jimin finds himself staring at it. Then, his eyes gravitate to the glass walls where he can see the dancers just... dancing.

And a lot of them are good. Like dancing is as easy as walking to them. But an unmoving figure amongst the active dancers catches Jimin's eyes. When he squints to get a better look, he realizes the stationary figure is you.

You're furiously typing on a laptop, occasionally looking up to watch the dancers once in a while.

What are you doing there? From your skinny jeans and lace top, it doesn't quite look like you're there to dance. Maybe you have a sibling in dance class?

But then again, Jimin remembers that Jungkook had once told him in a hushed whisper that you are definitely an only child... only after you lost your older sister to suicide, that is.

So really, what are you doing there?

Jimin cocks his head at you but realizes how weird it is to stand in front of the studio and stare. So finally, he just walks away.

But you're quite the mysterious figure. You're the exact type of person who makes others want to get to know you. You have an open quality where everyone feels welcome to talk to you, but you're also enigmatic, refusing to tell people a lot about yourself. Jimin sometimes even wonders if he's ever seen you at school with the same friend group. It looks like you're always jumping around.

Maybe you don't like to get to know people in a deep way. It's possible that you're a fan of shallow relationships, which there is nothing wrong with, of course. But then again, you have a boyfriend, whom you seem to really like. You're very hard to crack.

And even when winter break comes, Jimin's still been wondering what you've been doing at the dance studio, typing on your laptop. He's run all kinds of scenarios in his head. Maybe your mom works there? Or your friend dances there? But something inside him tells him whatever reasons he came up with are incorrect.

Meanwhile, Jimin's still waiting to find a hobby. He's already been to Taehyung's play and listened to the rough draft of Jungkook's album. But nothing seems to give him the inspiration that he needs.

Jimin just decides to go on a walk. The cold winter air nips at his skin, so he tightens his coat around himself, breathing steadily as he looks around at his surroundings. It's then when he finds himself stopped in front of Hart's Dance Studio.

He walks a bit closer to get a better look into the glass windows. And he smiles when he sees you. There is no one else around you, but you don't seem to mind. This time, however, you're not vigorously typing on your keyboard. You're... dancing.

Jimin doesn't know what prompted him to enter the dance studio, but the next thing he knows, he's inside.

You don't see him because your eyes are closed. Jimin takes the time to notice that you're wearing a simple black outfit consisting of a tank top and leggings. Your feet are left completely bare.

But the strangest part—you're not dancing with music. It explains your rather awkward movements. As if you can see yourself dance freely in your head, but you can't quite execute it in reality. Still, no matter how awkward you look, you radiate a majestic aura. So much so that from far away, you could look like a professional dancer.

Jimin doesn't realize he's staring until you startle him.

"Hey! Jimin!" you say. Your eyes are bright and wide open now and you wave at Jimin, motioning him over to you. "Hi!"

"Hi," Jimin agrees as he walks closer to you. "I didn't know you danced. Is that your passion?"

"Oh, god no," you giggle, shaking your head. "God forbid, no. It's for this book I'm writing!"

It finally makes sense. She's part of the school newspaper, and I'd seen her typing on her laptop.

"What kind of book?" Jimin asks curiously as he sits down on one of the metal benches in the dance room.

You take a sip of water from your water bottle before smiling. "It's this fictional book about a broken dancer. I'm an aspiring author! I've really been trying to get into my character and experience dancing so I can write her more realistically!"

"Oh, wow," Jimin laughs. "That's dedication."

"It's what I do to try to get good content," you say. "How's your winter break been going, by the way?"

"Pretty uneventful," Jimin says, leaning back on the bench. "I wrote and rewrote five drafts of my college essays. I don't think writing's my thing."

You laugh. "Well, we can rule that out in the list of possible hobbies you can partake in."

"Yeah," Jimin agrees. "I'm still trying to find—but not actively look for—a hobby."

"It's hard," you shrug. "You shouldn't stress too much about it, Jimin. I'm telling you, it's gonna come. I can see you be so dedicated. You just have to wait until the time's right."

"Sometimes I feel like my time will never come," Jimin admits. "Taehyung's already been writing, directing and filming his own short film these days and Jungkook's adding four more tracks to his album. I don't know whether I should feel inspired or pressured."

You shake your head. "You need to get out of your competitive mindset, Jimin," you say. "Realize that you should be doing things on your own time. Everyone has different paces, you know. Maybe you should take your mind off of everything you've been thinking of these days. Wanna dance with me?"

Your question catches Jimin off guard. "Sorry, what?"

"Would you like to dance with me?" you repeat, giggling. "Sorry, it was kinda abrupt but my character needs to experience partner dancing and so do I to write that scene. I've already asked Yoongi, but he won't budge! That boy hates dancing! So maybe you can dance with me?"

"Uh," Jimin awkwardly fidgets his fingers. "I've never exactly danced before."

You snort. "Well, honestly me too. I suck. But whatever, you know? We're going to try."

"What kind of dance?" Jimin says. "I think the only dance steps I've ever learned were the square dancing steps from fourth grade."

"We could try waltzing," you say. "It's pretty simple, I think. C'mon!"

You drag Jimin to the dance floor, guiding his right hand to lay on your back and taking his left hand in yours. Jimin feels awkwardly close to you, but when you laugh and joke about how preposterous the two of you must look, he feels a little more comfortable.

"This might end up with me stepping on your feet constantly," you say apologetically, "but I'm trying to capture the feeling of dancing with a partner. So essentially, it's the emotions that count, not the physical steps."

Jimin laughs. "I'll try not to step on your feet."

"No way," you say. "How are you better at this than I am right now? I thought you said you didn't know how to dance!"

"I don't!" Jimin protests.

But something feels right. Something kind of clicks. And the moment Jimin parts from you and rushes home, he watches dance videos online. He finds out that there are many genres, and the ones he finds the most moving are contemporary and lyrical. There has never been something that has enamored him more.

Jimin irrevocably and quite willingly falls into the rabbit hole of dance.

It's been two weeks since Jimin danced a simple waltz with you at Hart's Dance Studio, but the time seems to have flown by too quickly. The next time Jimin passes by the studio, you're still trying to dance. And when he walks in to greet you, he's met by music. You're dancing to music this time!

"Hi, Y/N," Jimin speaks over the music, breaking you from your reverie.

"Oh, gosh! Jimin! Hi!" you say, immediately turning to pause the song. "Long time no see! How's school?"

"Great," he answers. "Um, just thought I would visit the studio. Do you still need a dancing partner?"

You grin. "Well, kind of," you say. "I need to see an amateur dancer do a little improv routine. Do you mind? I tried doing it myself and recording it, but it's just not fun seeing myself be a fool on camera."

Jimin laughs. "I don't mind at all."

You gesture to the dance floor. "It's all yours."

"Thank you."

Jimin stares curiously at the dance floor, the bright lights flooding the whole room. He feels like he's on stage, but he likes that feeling. He closes his eyes and sees the hundreds of dance videos he binge-watched every day for hours. And then he dances.

Somewhere along the way, you turned the music back on, which makes it even easier for Jimin to dance. He moves instinctively, fluidly like he's water. And he stops only when he finds himself out of breath.

Your jaw is dropped open when Jimin opens his eyes.

"Jimin!" you exclaim, hands thrown in the air. "You're a natural! How did you do that? What the heck??"

Jimin shrugs bashfully, shrugging. He doesn't mention the hours and hours of stretching and practicing he had done before coming here. There would've been no way he would have agreed to improv dance for you if he hadn't felt so confident. And it's funny. Dancing is the only thing Jimin's found in his life that makes him feel self-confident so far. He would've never expected it.

"You should enroll in this studio!" you say. "With some training... You could do great things, Jimin, I mean it!"

Jimin's not too sure about that. Yes, he likes to dance, and maybe it was a hobby. But enrolling in the studio meant full-time commitment. He isn't so sure if he is ready for that. He isn't sure his parents are ready for that.

"Okay," Jimin says. "I'll um, think about it." But not really.

It's like you can see right through his lie, though. "Oh, okay," you say. "Then maybe you can practice dancing in this studio by yourself. I'm friends with the owner so she lets me swing by whenever I want. Wanna meet here every Friday? I could use a beginning dancer like you to really write a story about a dancer's progression."

Jimin's face lights up. Getting to dance one day a week in an actual dance studio?? "Yeah, sure!" Jimin says. "I'd really love to." Now I have an excuse to go to the studio and dance.

This could be the start of something great.

The start of something great it was. Fridays quickly become Jimin's favorite day of the week. After school, he rushes to the studio to meet you and work on learning the basics of dance by watching tutorial videos on the internet. Usually, he works in silence—except for the clicking sounds of your laptop, but today, when he strides onto the dance floor, you're waiting for him in the middle.

"Do you have music requests?" you ask him, scrolling through your phone as if you are deep in thought. "I always feel like it's easier to express yourself with the music you actually like."

"Music?" Jimin frowns. "I, um, don't listen to music that much."

Your jaw drops. "What??"

"I don't even have earphones," he laughs awkwardly.

"You don't have what??"

And that was all it took for you to teach Jimin music for the whole day. You went through the hundreds of songs in your playlists, putting Jimin on the dance floor and making him dance to the songs he likes best. By the end of the session, Jimin still feels like he's soaring. His heart in his chest beats to the rhythm of the music. When he steps out of the dance studio and parts ways with you, he can't help but wish it were next Friday.

But at least he has a whole week to go music hunting. Jimin's never been much of a music man, but he's found that certain songs make him want to dance. He'll search them out and practice with them in the following days.

At school, Jimin feels like a mindless machine. He's still on the fence about cheating the system that's supposed to help him; the ethical part of Jimin wants him to stop—of course it's nothing against you. Jimin just thinks that if the system to help the students exists, every student should be involved. Even he was invited into the group much later (and technically, at first, he was forced to join for catching a meeting in progress).

Yet at the same time, Jimin owes it to you and your group that he's able to do what makes him happy. And he can't bear the thought of betraying you.

At home, Jimin lies on his bed, listening to all of the songs you showed him on repeat. His family doesn't have any music streaming services so he secretly started a three month free trial on iTunes. But he knew his parents wouldn't approve of his music taste (they usually don't approve of anything too teenager-y, so Jimin borrows his father's pair of earbuds.

Jimin didn't know, but earbuds bring a whole new dimension to music. He lies face up, closing his eyes as he pictures himself jumping, dancing, moving to the sweet rhythms of the songs. It's like he's been introduced to a whole new world.

Friday rolls around way too slowly for Jimin's taste, but when he's finally there, talking to you and dancing upon your request, it feels like he's on cloud nine. Today, you ask Jimin to describe what it feels to dance.

Jimin's not exactly very good with his words but he tries his best.

"I don't know," he says at first, blushing as he looks down at the brightly lit dance floor. "It makes me feel like... how do I say it? Like I'm just in a vast room with no one but myself? The moment I hear a good song, I just get this heavy gut feeling to move, I guess. And then I see the colors and the movements... And I dance."

"A vast room?" you say in awe as you unceasingly type across the expanse of your keyboard. "Elaborate, please."

"I guess it feels like I'm on my own stage. And it's a good thing because it feels like no one's watching me," Jimin says. "Uh, kinda like I'm dancing for myself. I'm dancing to express how I feel. And if there's someone watching, I don't really feel it because I'm so uh... I'm so..."

"Enraptured by your own world?" you finish for him.

"Exactly!"

You smile. "Thank you, Jimin! You meeting me here every Friday is so helpful. I really don't know how to thank you properly."

"Oh," Jimin shakes his head. "You've helped me so much already. There's nothing you could possibly do to help me better."

After exchanging a few more words with Jimin, you deem that you have to go home early to celebrate your mother's birthday. Jimin bids you farewell, but he remains in the studio. It feels empty without you, but it doesn't really matter. He's always by himself when he dances, anyway.

Jimin turns on his music, which echoes across the dance room, ringing against the walls and thumping in his chest. He can't stop himself from moving. His body twists graciously and he leaps across the dance floor as the synths in the song sing their melodious tones. He's so into the dance that he doesn't notice a tall woman watching him in the background.

Jimin finishes off his improv dance by striking a majestic pose he had come up with himself a few days ago. He didn't expect anyone to clap when he had finished, but there was this sharp-looking woman who was applauding and smiling at him approvingly.

"O-Oh," Jimin stutters. "I'm so sorry. Uh, Y/N left a bit earlier so I just thought it was okay to stay..."

"You're Jimin!" the lady says. "I'm Miss Hart. I run this dance studio. Y/N's told me how talented you are."

Jimin blushes. "I don't know about talented."

Miss Hart shakes her head, walking closer to Jimin in graceful strides akin to that of a ballerina. "I want to offer you a spot in my dance studio. This is a personal offer."

"I-I, uh," Jimin stutters. He's caught off guard by this sudden invitation and he looks left to right in a very panicked manner. "I-I don't think my parents will allow it... Um, sorry... I have to, um, go..."

He flees before Miss Hart can get another word out of him.

It's the sad truth. Jimin's parents would likely never approve of his current hobby—even listening to music while he studied was a stretch for them. But the more Jimin thinks about Miss Hart's offer, the more he realizes how great of an opportunity that is for him to progress in the path to find his true passion.

As nerve-wracking as is it, during dinner, Jimin asks his parents if it would be okay if he started taking dance lessons. Their reactions aren't as severe as he had expected, but his parents still seem pretty surprised.

"Isn't it too late to start something new?" his mother says. "You're a junior now, Jimin. You should already know what you're good at."

"I agree with your mother," his father says. "Why the sudden interest?"

"I don't know," Jimin answers truthfully. "It just happened. I really, really like it though..."

Jimin's father raises his eyebrows. "Really?" he sighs. "I don't think so, Jimin. Think about it. I know your grades are good right now, but now you should be busy with getting ready for college, shouldn't you?"

Jimin had expected this. "Oh..."

"And have you been taking my earbuds?" his father says.

"Oh, yeah... sorry," Jimin winces. "I'll give them back right now." He trudges up the stairs, feeling dejected and miserable at the same time. He decides to give the earbuds one last listen, plugging them into his phone and placing the buds in his ears. The familiar light-hearted, serene music floods into his head. Jimin can't help it. His eyes close, his mouth parts and he begins to move. His feet take him across his room, leaping over textbooks and dirty socks as his arms move fluidly to support his upper body.

Time has a mind of its own when Jimin enters the dancing world.

He doesn't notice an audience member at the entrance of his room. Jimin's father stares at his son, taken aback by the pure emotion and passion put into such a performance. He cannot hear Jimin's music, but he is able to feel it through Jimin's movements. Jimin's father watches the dance a bit longer, then leaves. When Jimin tries to return the earbuds to his father, he rejects them. "Keep the earbuds," he tells his son. "I don't need them anymore."

On Saturday morning, Jimin's surprised when his father calls him downstairs to talk. Truth be told, Jimin's a little nervous to have a serious one-on-one talk with his father. But his anxiousness melts away when his father asks:

"Have you been learning dance by yourself?"

Jimin perks up. "Uh, yeah! Um, well, kind of. I just saw YouTube videos... And I go to a dance studio every Friday with a friend to um, practice..."

"What studio?"

Jimin freezes. "H-Hart's dance studio?"

Jimin's father nods. "All right. Here's the deal. The moment your grades slip, you're going to have to quit, okay? Let's go enroll you right now."

Jimin almost faints from the sheer amount of happiness.

It is official. Jimin is to have private dance lessons (to make up for being such a late starter) once a week. This was a bit like a trial run; Jimin might get more lessons per week if he really decided to pursue dance.

And now that Jimin's actually a student at the studio, he can come in to practice anytime he wants! Which was every day after school for three hours.

When Jimin tells you the good news on Friday, you insist that you ditch today's dance-writing sessions and get some celebratory boba.

It's the first time Jimin's with you, alone, outside of school, without being in the confines of the dance studio. If he didn't know any better, this felt like more than two friends meeting up on a Friday afternoon. It felt like a date.

You're rather chatty with Jimin, making him feel comfortable and trying to get to know him better. But it comes to the point that Jimin wants to get to know you. So he finally asks the question he had been dying to know the answer to since he'd first met you in the dance studio.

"Do you mind if I ask what your book is about?"

"Oh, I don't mind at all!" you say, aggressively sipping your boba as you think. "Hm, okay, well, I kind of changed the plot halfway through... So now instead of a broken dancer, the story's about this newborn dancer who realizes her talents rather late in her life, but she throws all of her doubts—and others' doubts—away because she realizes if she's passionate about something, it doesn't really matter how long she's been pursuing it. What matters is that she is pursuing it in the present."

"Wow," Jimin breathes.

"Yeah," you giggle, tucking back a strand of your hair behind your ear. "It's a coming of age story. I want it to be heartbreaking, bittersweet and heart-wrenching." You sip your boba. "But I might have to rewrite a lot of scenes because I'm thinking about changing the gender of the main character from female to male. I think it feels more right."

"Oh, that's gonna be a lot of work," Jimin says.

"But it's going to be worth it."

Jimin nods. Of course it will be. You put your best effort into everything. "Do you know what your title is going to be yet?"

"Eh," you laugh, shrugging goofily. "I'll think of it one day."

The light-hearted conversation takes a twist as the outside of the boba place gets darker and the afternoon morphs into the night. Jimin finds himself talking about his personal struggles as an "average" Welton student. He reflects vocally upon the times in which he had to beg to receive an A in his classes. The times in which he despised himself and didn't understand the exact point of life. The times when he was existing and not living.

It's then when you reveal your own darkest moments. And what lies beneath the smiling curtains was a murky past.

Your freshman year at Welton hit you like a bomb—it was the same year that Jimin had been suffering in the depths of sophomore year's turmoil. You became miserable, competing for first place in your classes in subject matters that you had no interest in. The tests contained little material about understanding and more about the nitty-gritty details (that were barely significant). You used to write your stories the moment you came home from school until you had to go to bed. But now, you would be lucky if you could even get a few paragraphs down before being pressured into studying something tediously and frankly, useless. It drove you nuts.

To the point that you were tempted to be pulled under into the dark world of self-hatred and suicidal thoughts. Your older sister had jumped off a building when you were only eight; you watched her stuck in a coma in the hospital with twelve broken bones until she died in her sleep. So you figured if your sister did it, so could you.

But slowly, gradually, rationality took charge of your head, driving out the demons. You garnered your anger and self-hatred towards Welton and not yourself. And during the last few weeks of school in your freshman year, you decided that you were going to make a system to help every student in need—for those with big dreams but little time.

Jimin watches and listens in awe as you continue to tell your story.

"I met Yoongi in freshman year when I was interviewing him for winning first place in a tech comp so I could write about him in the school newspaper," you explain. "He was the first person I told my idea to. And then from the summer between freshman and sophomore year, I planned the whole system. Yoongi assisted me a bit, too, but I didn't want him to be burdened."

Or, Jimin thinks, you don't trust other people.

"Yeah, and then we really kicked off," you say.

"Wait, you and Yoongi? Or the whole system you created?"

"Both," you grin. "Yoongi and I started dating during the summer. And as you can tell, our whole group flourished too. Now you're here!"

"The group's relatively new then," Jimin says. "So um, I don't know if I can ask but, how many people are really involved?"

You smile, shaking your head and denying Jimin an answer. "The trick that I use to run this system is to never trust anyone."

"Oh... wow. Not even your boyfriend?"

"Oh, it's the people you're closest to that end up failing you. Just ask my sister," you shrug. "And you never know. You aren't still thinking of reporting me, are you? I know you were contemplating that for a while..."

"O-Oh!" Jimin stutters. "Oh, shit. No, uh, definitely no. Not anymore. God, I didn't know you knew. I'm sorry."

"It's really no matter," you tell him, giving him a reassuring smile. "I think it was really nice talking to you. When we usually meet up, you're dancing and I'm taking notes or writing so this is a really nice change."

"Yeah," Jimin agrees. "I had a lot of fun, getting to know you." He glances at his watch for a split second and his eyes turn huge. "Shit, Y/N, it's almost 10 p.m.!"

That's when Jimin's able to notice that there is no one else in the boba place except you and him. The store must be closing soon. And the outside is nearly pitch black.

"Oh, wow, we've been talking for a long time," you laugh. "I guess that means we'll have to leave, huh?"

Jimin wants to be in your company for longer, but he nods, agreeing with you. "Yeah, I guess," he says. "I'll see you on Monday?"

You nod, tucking your hair behind your ear. "Goodnight, then, Jimin."

"Goodnight, Y/N."

Jimin's now been getting dance lessons three times a week now, and according to Miss Hart, he's improving at an alarming rate. Miss Hart proudly tells Jimin and his parents that he would be able to compete in local dance comps in three months and easily place.

"The boy's born to dance," Jimin overhears his teacher tell his father. He repeats those words over and over again to himself until he falls asleep that night.

His parents took his success in dance a whole different way. Immediately, Jimin was to train his muscles and stretch every day to accommodate three days' worth of hardcore lessons. And he was also ordered to join the school dance team—even though Jimin tried to tell his parents that tryouts had already been held ages ago.

But when Jimin expresses his problems to you, you bring a solution the very next day. Apparently, you had some inside sources in the dance team; you just had to pull a few strings, and the next thing he knew, Jimin was in Welton's elite dance team.

For the first time in the cult, no, group meetings, Jimin has something to show. He's able to track his progress by videos and live performances that you watch on Fridays. With all the advancement in his newfound passion, you reward Jimin with the second-highest scores on every exam (because the highest scores were reserved for the "experts").

Jimin's now sitting at the peak of a figurative mountain. His grades are soaring. His passion is soaring. He feels like his whole life has become a never-ending, high-velocity dance.

And he loves it.

There are no more meetings left after this one, you explain to all of the students. It's the last meeting for it's the week before finals. The school year will end soon, which is a huge relief to every Welton student.

You claim that outsmarting the teachers with the finals would be easy, especially with your advanced system, so there was really no need to worry. The meeting is short, concise and sweet. You douse everyone with your love and passion and thoroughly thank each and every individual for allowing another wonderful school year.

The meeting ends on a great note. You tell everyone that you have great plans for next year. Something that'll top the bomb threat. Something that'll effectively help the students and put the teachers and administrative staff to shame.

Everybody is excited.

The first time Jimin meets you during the summer is in the dance studio. He'd dressed in his workout clothes but still had enough self-dignity to spritz some cologne and put on some deodorant before seeing you.

But when he walks into the studio, he finds that you're not alone—you're with your boyfriend. Laughing. Joking. Touching. Yoongi has his arm around you and you have a casual hand placed on his thigh, leaning into him as you talk animatedly to your boyfriend.

Yikes. Jimin thinks it's going to be awkward before he actually feels awkward.

You and Yoongi really seem to like the time you're spending together and Jimin doesn't exactly want to interrupt. And there's something about the way that Yoongi tugs you closer and looks at you with sparkling mirth in his eyes that sets Jimin off.

He quickly recognizes the feeling as jealousy. It confuses Jimin even more.

Oh, fuck it.

"Hi, Y/N!" he says, waving at you. "Hey, Yoongi."

You stand up immediately rushing to greet Jimin as Yoongi stays in his spot, nodding his salutations to Jimin. "Yoongi just wanted to know what I was doing every Friday after I said no to a fifth Friday night date," you giggle. "Is it okay if he joins us today?"

"Of course," Jimin says. "I don't mind."

I kind of do.

Meeting at the dance studio was an activity exclusive to you and Jimin only... It's weird to see Yoongi butt in.

"Okay, great. Thanks!" you say. "Just do your thing, and I'll be taking notes as usual!"

Jimin nods, bracing himself to dance after he turns on the song he'd been listening endlessly these days. But today, he feels stiff. Rigid. Something's not quite right.

Today, he doesn't feel like he's on a stage alone. He feels someone watching him from the audience with scrutiny. Suddenly, Jimin can't move. He feels trapped in his own world. When he turns to look at you, he finds that you and Yoongi are immersed in a deep conversation. You're usually watching his every move.

Jimin tries to focus again, closing his eyes to immerse himself into the music. But he can't do it. Not when you and Yoongi are talking like that. Shit. Why is that so distracting?

Jimin figures one day of giving up practice wouldn't kill him. He turns off the music and walks over to you and Yoongi and plops down on the bench.

You smile but Jimin watches as Yoongi flinches just slightly, and a disgruntled look flashes across his face just briefly. Jimin ignores him.

"Yoongi and I were just talking about legacy," you explain to Jimin. "You know, what we'll leave at Welton High School."

"Oh, wow. You'll be leaving a whole elaborate system," Jimin says. "But what's going to happen to it when you've graduated?"

You shrug. "We'll have to wait and see," you say teasingly.

"I'll already be gone by that time," Jimin huffs.

"We'll keep in contact," you say. "I promise."

It's a small promise but Jimin's heart skips a beat. He wonders if you'd still be dating Yoongi then.

Why am I like this? This definitely isn't the right time.

Maybe Yoongi senses Jimin's thoughts because he tugs you closer to him. "Come on, babe, do we have to stay here forever? I want to take you out on a date..."

"Aw, Yoongs," you coo. "I don't know... Maybe the three of us can go get boba or something?"

"Babe..." Yoongi whines softly, intertwining your hand with his.

Jimin watches the movement and another pang of jealousy hits his chest, this time larger than the last. He couldn't possibly have feelings for you. Jimin concludes that he's not jealous because Yoongi is your boyfriend, he is jealous because he's stealing you away when he and you should be hanging out.

But he doesn't exactly want to get in the way of Yoongi, who already seems to dislike Jimin for hanging around his girlfriend.

So Jimin shrugs. "I don't want to intrude on a date. It's fine, Y/N, enjoy your date night."

Yoongi shoots Jimin a grateful look and even lets out a beaming smile. "Really, Jimin? Thanks!" you say.

Jimin has to admit, seeing you skip away with Yoongi arm in arm makes him happier. Fuck, no. He's starting to mirror your emotions.

This isn't a very good sign.

Jimin's right. It isn't a very good sign. He's starting to feel weird around you—emotions that he can't quite explain or justify with words.

The more he hangs out with you, the more he notices little things about you—your little habits, your speech patterns, your dimples when you smile...

It comes to the point, you confess to him one day, "You know, Jimin, I've been hanging out with you more than my boyfriend."

Jimin feels honored by that, "Well, I've been hanging out with you more than my own to friends."

And it's true. Taehyung's been busy with his theater things and has picked up a girl along the way—the girl who was notorious for spilling tears arbitrarily. Jungkook's got his eye on some shy girl Jimin doesn't really know. So the friend group's already pretty split up. But Jimin doesn't really mind as much as he should. He and his friends are happy and have split to pursue their interests. There are no regrets.

Sometimes, when Jimin notices the blush on your cheeks after he teases you, he wonders how you truly feel about him. If all the time you spent around him was doing any good.

"I guess we've become quite the team?" you smile, nudging Jimin's shoulder. "I would've never been able to come up with a revamped idea for my book without you."

"I don't think I would've come this far in dance without you."

"No, it's your pure talent," you say. "I didn't do anything." You giggle, admiring the ruffles on Jimin's dance costume. "Break a leg out there, Jimin. I know you'll kill it in the solo division."

"Thanks, Y/N. I swear, I'm not even that nervous."

That's a lie. Jimin's so nervous he's been feeling like he needed to use the bathroom for two hours now. What if I forget a step? What if I'm offbeat for a split second? What if I trip on my costume? What if the wrong song plays?

There's absolutely no pressure that you've offered to come to watch Jimin dance to write about a dance competition in your book. Jimin has to get his routine down perfectly unless he wants to wind up embarrassing himself and disappointing his eager parents. He needs to be perfect. Maybe to impress you.

But this will be the first time that Jimin will be on stage with a true audience. Even though he will dance like he's the only one in the world, he will have hundreds of watchers and a panel of judges who will scrutinize his every move.

Jimin tugs at the ruffles of his white blouse and looks to the stage nervously.

"Hey, you've got this," you whisper to him, patting his shoulder. "What matters is dancing. It doesn't matter what place you get."

You're right. Jimin's here to dance. He is not here to flaunt his talents to others; he is here to make his own progress for himself, for his passion. What matters is that he has fun on stage.

Jimin keeps that in mind when he walks on the platform. The lights shine down on him, and his ears ring incessantly. But as soon as the cello begins to let out its low, elegant sound, he dances. The music envelops his body, and he sees nothing but colors. There is no need to think of which step is next when it comes to him naturally. He twists and turns accordingly to the rueful tones of the oboe, leaps at the entrance of the violins and finishes the dance with a grand pose in the middle of the stage.

He doesn't hear the clapping when he shakily gets off the platform.

Jimin's numb. He can't remember the performance, nor can he remember if he had gotten all of his steps right. But when you lunge at him with open arms and a bouquet of flowers (that you hadn't had before) in your hands, none of his performance matters anymore.

"JIMIN!" you screech at him, almost knocking him over with the force of your hug. "YOU WERE AMAZING!"

He's so taken aback, he can't answer, just holding you to his chest as you laugh happily in his arms.

"I hope you don't mind that I recorded the performance," you tell him. "It was just... wow. I can't even think of words to describe it because... wow."

Jimin pulls away from you, grinning wildly and his heart thumping in his chest—from post-dancing or from hugging you, he doesn't really know.

"Was it that good?"

"Yes!" you say. "Come on, we just have to wait to see how you placed. Not that it matters."

And it really didn't. Even though Jimin took home silver, otherwise known as second place, everyone—his parents, Miss Hart, you—was proud of him. No one could argue that his dancing was the most emotional—the most beautiful. The dance competition was only the beginning of Jimin's journey.

Now it's even more normal for you and him to hang out. Even outside the dance studio to just talk and keep each other's company. Anyone can find you typing on your laptop and Jimin dancing and think it's a normal occurrence. Especially with the two of you on summer break, it became insanely frequent to spend a whole day out together.

Sometimes it seems as though you're flirting with him, but Jimin just tells himself that it's his imagination. You have Yoongi, for fuck's sake. You would never go after Jimin because you've said it yourself—you and he are best friends.

Yet it's socially unacceptable, apparently, to only be friends with the opposite gender (especially a younger opposite gender in Jimin's case) and expect the relationship to be purely platonic. Jimin's been noticing you stealing a couple of extra glances at him when he stretches before he dances. And he's been guilty of staring at you when you write because he likes how focused you can get in your typing sprees.

A couple of times, Jimin swears he could've leaned in to kiss you. But being rejected scares him away to ever take the chance. Besides, he doesn't want to come between you and Yoongi. That would be unfair and immature of him.

God, Jimin's mind is mixed up and his feelings are confused. He's not ready to admit it to himself yet, though. So he stays confused until a new school year comes around.

Being a senior opens up Jimin's eyes, and he realizes he had been just plain stupid—and blind. He likes you.

Fuck.

It's not a question of when these feelings had developed, but a question of why. You have a boyfriend. Jimin's already a senior, which means he'll be gone next year. You're the leader of a group—that's practically a cult, according to Google—and you keep secrets from everyone no matter how much you love them. It's just not going to happen.

And if it did happen, then what about Yoongi? He's an essential member of your group. If you break up with him to be with Jimin, assuming that you even feel the same way, then what might Yoongi do? Would he ditch your group and let it fall to the ground? Would he report you and your system to administration? Would he get revenge on Jimin?

No way is Jimin going to get involved.

He should've seen it coming. He should've prevented himself from completely falling for you the moment you started caring for him, hanging out with him, helping him... But he didn't and now he doesn't know what to do.

Well, actually, he does.

Jimin's just going to simply get rid of his feelings for you for his own sake and yours. He just won't see you for a couple of months, and by then, his feelings for you would be gone, vanished into thin air. At least, that's what he hopes.

So, Jimin creates an elaborate plan of his own to avoid you for several months, max. He secretly changes his dance lesson times and tells Miss Hart to keep his schedule from you. And when his teacher inquires why, Jimin makes up a bullshitted lie that he wants to surprise you with his next performance. Then, he skips all of his individual practices and dances at home instead so you won't be able to find him. He even misses scheduled group meetings, texting you that he was sick (when he was only lovesick).

She's just using me to write her story, Jimin tells himself. I'm nothing but a character for her.

Deep down inside, Jimin knows that's false, but he makes himself believe it. Maybe it'll help him dislike you—which isn't exactly possible—but it could at least help him stop liking you.

But it turns out that maybe you never liked Jimin the way he liked you. All too soon, Jimin finds out from Miss Hart that you haven't been coming to the dance studio, so he switches his lessons back to his normal time. You've stopped texting him about coming to group meetings too. Which was strange because Jimin was still given homework copies and test answers when he needed them.

Maybe you took the hint that Jimin didn't want anything to do with you? Jimin doesn't know.

He does know that still, every time he thinks of you, he thinks of a generous, beautiful, mature, thoughtful person who chases after her own dreams and encourages others to do the same. It's hard to stop liking you, in other words.

Already, finals week is around the corner. Jimin has a few suspicions that you're going to hatch a complex plan again to put an end to student stress altogether, but he wouldn't know because he hasn't been attending the meetings. But whatever you were planning, it would be better than the last bomb threat for sure. Because you were always looking to improve, to better yourself to help others.

God, fucking shit. Jimin can't seem to think of one bad thing about you.

His days are spent dancing mostly as he'd submitted his college apps early (thanks to your suggestion), but he also can't get you out of his mind. Your absence makes him grieve for your presence. But he can't give up now. He doesn't want to show up in front of you one day and have to explain why he avoided you for months.

So he continues with his plan.

It's the Friday before finals week.

Jimin sits around in the corner of his school's dance room as the rest of his teammates go over the routine for the winter dance competition. He'd told the captain that he was getting a bad migraine, so he was allowed to sit out for the rest of the practice.

In reality, Jimin can't stop thinking about you. He knows you're here, after school, in your newspaper room, finishing up your last edits before publishing the paper on Saturday. He wonders if you'll welcome him if he meets you. He wonders if he should apologize for avoiding you. Maybe he can get rid of his feelings by hanging out with you more. Or he'll just act like the two of you are best friends and pretend he doesn't want anything more than a platonic relationship.

Jimin doesn't know what courses through his veins to make him stand up.

"I'm going to the bathroom," he murmurs, trudging out of the dance room and outside. He'll have to cross the quad to reach the newspaper room. Jimin nervously checks his watch. 4:42 p.m., it reads. You usually leave by 4:45 p.m., so Jimin doesn't have much time.

Or maybe he shouldn't go to you at all? He hesitates, lurching forward but taking a step back.

He sees another girl, not that far away from him, walking across the quad. There's a boy behind her, yelling "Wait up!" as he tries to catch up with her while holding a stack of heavy textbooks. The girl looks back around and laughs, taking half of the boy's stack and nudging his shoulder. They continue to walk across the quad, side by side. They must be dating.

Jimin quickly recognizes the tall boy to be Namjoon, his acquaintance, and as soon as he's about to wave, there's a loud bang!

Jimin flinches. Was that a...? He can't quite believe it. But there's a lot he didn't believe but still has come true at Welton High School. Or maybe this was another one of your plans. Fake a school shooting to cancel finals. He wouldn't know. He didn't attend the meetings.

But the blood rushes out of his face and it dawns on him that this is reality as he watches Namjoon's girlfriend fall to the ground in slow motion. His own breath quickens and his eyes are alert but he's almost frozen. No. This has to be fake. This has to be a trick. There's another bang! and this time, Namjoon lurches forward, hitting the ground with a resonating thump.

Jimin's frantic, trying to find the source of the loud bangs. Maybe Namjoon and his girlfriend are part of the group. Maybe it's all a plan. Time flies too quickly and slowly at the same time. Jimin sees blood leaking from the girl as she lay face down on the cement. Namjoon is knocked unconscious. That has to be fake. You can buy fake blood, right?

But deep down inside, Jimin knows the truth. He panics. It's hard to breathe.

Then there's another bang. Jimin feels searing heat engulf his chest. He feels himself fall backward, and he clutches his wet chest—not in pain but in shock.

He tilts upwards, and his last view is of the soft gray clouds in the darkened sky.

Then everything becomes black.

Two students, two seniors are reported to be dead. One shot in the head, another in the heart. One has miraculously survived a gunshot wound and is being treated in the hospital.

"Do you know them?" you say in a shaky breath.

Your boyfriend hugs you. "You know one of them..."

"Oh, god," you whimper. You can hear the police and see the bright flashing red and blue lights from afar. "The shooter was targeting students involved in after school activities. How cowardly. When there would be fewer adults around. They were looking to attack the students."

"I know, babe," Yoongi says. "The girl... she was part of the volleyball team. Her boyfriend is the one who survived, apparently. And the other boy... He... He was on the dance team."

Your eyes turn wide as you pull away from your boyfriend. "H-He..."

"Jimin, Y/N. It was Jimin."

You feel like you're falling down a pitch-black abyss with no one to catch you or help you. "A-Are you sure it was him?" you manage to whisper. "What was he doing outside the dance room?" you sob, throwing yourself into Yoongi's chest as your boyfriend tries to comfort you.

"Park Jimin, yeah... It was him," Yoongi says, petting your back. "I heard from the dance captain that he was having a bad day. Something about migraines..."

You can't speak. Nor can you even think straight.

"Jimin's body was found significantly away from the other two," Yoongi says. "He could've run away."

A heavy weight tugs at your heart and you let out another sob of despair. "Yoongi, he could've thought it was fake."

"What do you mean?"

"Don't you get it?? He thought it was like the bomb threat!—fake! Planned! God!" you shriek, pushing Yoongi away and standing up, starting to walk around in frantic circles. "I killed him, Yoongi! I fucking killed him!"

You collapse on the ground with your hands on your head. "I killed him..."

"You didn't kill him, Y/N," Yoongi says. He crouches down with you. "Hey, it wasn't your fault. He's the one who wasn't coming to your meetings. If he did, he would've known we weren't going to pull off a stunt like that until next year's finals."

You shake your head, hitting your forehead repeatedly with your palm. "It doesn't matter, Yoongi! I should've never faked such a serious ordeal!"

"Y/N..."

"I deserved to be out there in the quad."

"You're the students' hero, babe... Don't think otherwise."

"Oh? Really?" you scream. "If I really were a hero, then why the hell was the school shooter a student from our school, huh? I obviously wasn’t keeping everyone happy!"

Yoongi falls silent.

"I don't care what you say, Yoongi," you say, your voice shaking from anger and devastation. "I failed. I tried making a system, but it didn't work... And now, people are dead... And I never got to say goodbye..." And he was avoiding me for months. I never got to know why...

"Hey, hey. Your system is perfect, baby," Yoongi answers. "It just doesn't work on psycho murderers."

That makes sense, too.

"I'm sorry, Yoongi," you say. "I'm sorry I'm such a mess. Thank you. For comforting me. God, I'm sorry..."

"It's okay," he says. "Things will be fine." He pauses. "You know, on the bright side, they might cancel finals."

[2 years later]

The moment you graduated out of the hellhole of a school, you discontinued your idea of a school revolt, and your system collapsed without you nurturing it.

Welton High School went under investigation after hundreds of parents and students protested. Counselors were fired and replaced. Administration was put on probation. It didn't take until two students' murders to fix things.

Funny.

Three student suicides weren't enough for them to realize something was wrong with the school.

You're bitter, but you try not to let it get in your way. Jimin will never get full justice because he will never get the life he deserved back. He was supposed to win hundreds of dance competitions. He was supposed to get to the end of the path of his dreams. But his life cut him short.

You dedicate your debut novel to him.

Now, when you walk around a supermarket, a library, a bookstore, you see your book on the stands or stacked up on tables. The white cover contrasts from the title inked in a black font: To Jimin (It's About Time I Told You I Love You).

The book tells the tale of Jimin. A newborn dancer who becomes tangled in the depths of a rigorous high school. There's one twist, though.

The story is told from a girl's perspective. A girl who loves Jimin, but never admits her feelings until it's too late. She watches him grow, blossom and become a star. But she isn't there for him when he dies.

She is you.

And you think it's about time you admit to yourself that you loved Jimin. Except he probably never loved you.

—masterpost

—masterlist

[ncityislove]

The Jury is Out Ch. 3

➳Pairing: Renjun x Reader x Jeno (ft a few other Dreamies)

➳Genre: Angsty fluff but mostly angst lol basically enemies to lovers

➳Word Count:4.6k

Hiiii guys! It’s been over a year since I started this series and this has taught me so many things. Mainly, how much I can not be trusted to start and finish a series lol. The last two chapters will be out soon. I really mean it this time.

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There's an awful pounding in your head from the looming headache you didn't see going away anytime soon. Your over-bearing thoughts being added into the mix is plain unbearable as you wait for your first class to start and your sour mood only worsens when you recall the unfolding of yesterday's events. The strong sense of shame was overwhelming like a dark cloud hanging over your head. How did you get here? Your biggest mistake was letting your guard down to the likes of Renjun. That's where it all went wrong. You try telling yourself you don't need him as a friend. You have Jeno. But you can't silence the desire in your heart to have something more than a partnership. You'd gotten a taste of what's it like to be under the warm rays of his kindness after being on the receiving end of the endless blizzard of the cold reign he had over you and the entire school. That wasn't something you could just forget.

When Renjun arrives, he takes his place right next to you, unpacking his items as if it were the most normal thing in the world. You don't know why he isn't sitting in his usual seat when you didn't have a lab today. You frown but silently remove your bag from the chair next you, nonetheless.

He sits down eagerly, glancing at you a moment longer than socially acceptable. "I like your hair."

Your hands immediately grip the strands.  After the party, you decided to forgoes the ponytail and headband combo that you'd been sporting for so long. "Oh, um, thanks."

Was that a compliment just now?

"Where were you yesterday, by the way?"

"I was sick, so I missed first period," he states, not even missing a beat.

Unbelievable. He's lying straight to your face. You frown distastefully.

"That's not what Chenle had to say."

"Hm? Chenle? He's always pulling pranks—I wouldn't buy anything that comes out of his mouth," he laughs.

You glare at him for a moment. "You didn't get my texts messages?"

He smiles sheepishly. "Oh...sorry about that. I was...um...busy?"

You turn the other way to discretely roll  your eyes. "Are you okay at least?"

"Yeah, never better!"

You shake your head, not wanting to seem like you actually cared despite the fact that deep down you knew you did. It's crazy that all it took was one little afternoon alone together and suddenly Renjun matters to you. All those years of being at each other's throats out the window. Just like that. It was different now. You were more mindful of each other's feelings and it's even gotten to the point where you're receiving compliments. It was a change that you still hadn't adjusted to but maybe it wasn't as lousy as you made it seem. The horrible excuses and lies weren't something you were fond of but it's not like you were friends so you kept that to yourself. You just wished he'd tell you the truth or even hearing that he didn't want to talk about it would've been fine. You didn't see why he had to lie...

You had to remind yourself that you shouldn't be so concerned with Renjun. It was weirding you out that you were thinking about him so much lately. As much as you hated to admit it, you might've maybe felt something for him in that teeny split second after you made up on the field. You never really noticed how funny he was bc you were always the butt of the joke but it turns out he was pretty hilarious. And his voice was so sweet and calming you could probably listen to it forever. But whatever it was—that moment your heart skipped a beat— was gone. It was crazy to even think—there was no way you'd ever say that out loud. Clearly, Renjun would never reciprocate.

If only Haven could see you now.

Renjun turns his body toward you, giving you his full attention. "Are we meeting at the track after school?"

"I have volleyball practice but we can meet after, if you want."

"Yeah, cool," he says, looking pleased.

"Are you sure you're okay though?"

The question had been on your mind since yesterday. Maybe something happened with his dad and he didn't want to say anything. According to Jeno, he didn't talk about that stuff much but you still wanted to make sure he was okay.

"Huh?" he looks at you strange. "Yeah, I'm good."

"Are you sure? I mean, you can tell me if you're not." You regret the words as soon as they leave your mouth.

He snickers, his face glowing with a big smile. "Are you worried about me?"

You scowl to hide your panic. What was happening  to you? "As if," you scoff.

"Aww, you care about me! Who knew the coldest person in the world had a heart?" he pinches your cheek.

You violently slap his hand away and he jerks back.

"Don't!" you point a finger in his face. "touch me. Never again. Got it?"

"Alright," Renjun chuckles lightly. "My bad. Whatever you say."

When class starts, the teacher pulls up her usual PowerPoint and you begin messily jotting down the first slide. She seems to be in a rush as she breezes over every slide, making it difficult to write down everything in time.

Renjun nudges your arm. You look to see him offering you a piece of gum. You reject it, mouthing a  'no thanks' with a polite smile and scramble to write down the rest of the slide. He purses his lips, taking a piece for himself, leisurely writing his notes.

A few minutes later, he nudges your arm again. "You got any led?"

Your nostrils flare as you let out a sigh, pulling out your pencil pouch for him to find the kind of led he needs. You pick your pencil back up to continue your notes.

"Thanks," he whispers. "Hey, did you get that last slide?"

"Oh my god, no, Renjun!" you whisper-shout at him. "How could I have gotten the last slide when you keep distracting me??"

He starts to giggle and it you get even more heated that he found pleasure in this. You're just to about to curse him out in every language known to man when Mrs. Brookes stops her lesson.

"What's going on back there?" she peers down her bi-focals to stare you down. "__, would you like to tell me what the main parts of the brain are?"

"Umm," you hesitate, your eyes scanning over the board. It must I've been on the last slide--which you didn't get the chance to copy thanks to Renjun.

Mrs. Brooks looks at you impatiently and the class turns to look at you as well when you take too long to answer.

"Cerebellum, frontal lobe, parietal lobe, cerebrum, and the thalamus," Renjun answers, ultimately saving your ass.

"Very good! Thank you, Renjun. Now, as I was saying..." Mrs. Brookes turns back to the whiteboard and continues rambling on about the brain.

"I thought you didn't get the last slide?" you whisper.

"Just because I didn't write it down doesn't mean I wasn't paying attention."

You stare at the side of his face in disbelief and you can tell by the way his cheeks were lifted he was smiling.

Renjun sits with you again in third period. You scoot your stuff over, once again saying nothing. This was getting a little too odd. If you weren't friends why did he keep sitting next to you? You weren't friends, were you? You decide not to ask. Sadie seemed like the right person to confide this type of stuff into.     Your desks were too close together which made Renjun's knee touch yours. You wouldn't have noticed any other time but this time in particular it was hard to not to.

"You should sit with me at lunch from now on."

Definitely getting mixed signals here.

"Why?"

"We're partners. It only makes sense, you know?"

"But we've been partners for years," you interject.

He opens his mouth then closes it. "Well, yeah that's true...but you still should. I won't force you to but I'll be really upset if you don't."

"Upset?" you repeat with a tilt of your head. In what universe would he get upset over anything you did that didn't have to do with you scoring higher than him on an assignment? You didn't understand why he was acting so weird today.

"Yeah and if I get upset, I won't be able to focus on the booth." his tone is sad and it tugs at your heart for some reason.

"Well...if that's the case, I'll do it. For the sake of the booth."

He smiles triumphantly. "Right. For the booth."

The kid who usually sits next to you walks over and stands there awkwardly before he finds an empty seat somewhere else. You try not to laugh at how uncomfortable Renjun looks.     Class goes by smoothly this time, Renjun only bugging you every once in a while to compare answers on your worksheet. When the bell rings, you and Renjun walk to lunch together. He's talking to you about the Pythagorean theorem but you keep getting distracted by the odd looks people keep giving you in the hall.     You weren't used to getting this much attention. You're existence was pretty much irrelevant unless something happened with your rivalry and it was usually only gossip worthy if he had done something incredibly embarrassing to you. Renjun, being the top of the class and being friends with almost all the members in the the school sports teams on the other hand, was very popular. You couldn't begin to imagine the confusion you two were causing just by walking to into the cafeteria together. He was always the center of attention and much like Sadie, he was born likeable. It was easy for him to make friends and juggle the delicate balance of having a social life and performing well academically. You were a nobody compared to him and up until now you were fine with that. It was easier to focus on your studies without the distractions from others and what drama friendships with others would bring but you had to admit having someone to walk to lunch with was strangely nice.     Jisung is the first person to see you coming, a look of recognition crossing his face. Chenle was next; he smiles sending you a friendly wave. You say hello, sitting your tray down next to Jeno and Renjun sits on the other side of you.

"Hey, beautiful, what're you doing here?" Jeno asks.

You flush at the pet name. "I think as Renjun's partner, we should take advantage of the free time we have to work together."

"Oh god, you two are so much alike," Haechan groans.

"I think it's cute," Chenle beams.

Jaemin fake gags and everyone bursts into laughter except for you who didn't find it all that funny.

The laughter dies down.

"Will you be spending all of your free time with Renjun?" Jeno asks.

"Of course not," you wrinkle your nose at the silly question.

"In that case, would you like to go out on a date? How's tonight?"

You drop your carton of milk on the table that thankfully you hadn't opened it yet. You must've misheard him. You know the words he said to you and yet, you couldn't believe they were meant for you. Your stammer for words. Any words. But they don't come and the whole table is staring at you in anticipation.

"I...can't. I have practice after school and then I have to work on the booth. I'm sorry."

The boys "ooh" in unison like a bunch of fifth graders.

"It's not like that!" you scramble to fix your words. "We can go another day?"

Jeno's eyes disappear as he gives you the most heartwarming smile. You can't help but smile back at him.

Chenle clears his throat. "What do you think about that, Renjun?"

Renjun's picking at the edge of his foam tray when he shrugs. "I couldn't care less."

Chenle gives him a glare as if he's trying to convey some message to him but Renjun doesn't meet his eyes so he elbows the crap out of him.

"Argh!" he rubs his arm. "Fine. I admit I don't approve."

The table gets quiet. You and Jeno share the same expression of surprise.

Jeno juts out his chin. "Why not? And don't say she's too good for me."

"Renjun clenches his fists. "It'll distract __ from school and I don't think that's what she wants."

Jeno snorts. "It's just one date. I think she'll be fine. And when we do become a couple—which we will, I'll make sure of that—I won't distract from her school work."

"Yeah, but I don't think—"

"Plus, you used to have a girlfriend—what's the difference?"

The atmosphere tenses at the mention of Haven and Jeno looks sorrowful as the boys send him ferocious looks.

"Shit...I'm sorry. I didn't mean to--"

"When does practice end?" Renjun changes the subject.

You're still confused as to what's going on. "Who? Me?"

"Yes, you, dummy," he grins.

You ignore the fact that he just called you a dummy. "It ends at four but I can leave early."

"Mind if I come and watch?" Jeno asks.

"Sure!" you get excited at the thought of Jeno watching you play.

"No fair! I wanna come too!" Jisung exclaims.

Jaemin reaches out to pat him on the shoulder. "Absolutely not. You're not going anywhere near those girls, you pervert."

You crack up at the two, unaware of the concerned look Chenle's giving Renjun as he silently scribbles dark circles in his notebook.

-

You arrive to the school gym, hauling the equipment the coach had you fetch. The girls are all huddled in a circle, gossiping most likely. You set up the net and clear the court of the smelly matts that were left behind from a previous class. You could ask for help but you were sure no one wanted to.

You break up their little party after you get another text of instructions from the coach.

"Ladies, coach says she's not coming until the end of practice so we're starting without her. Let's start stretching, okay?"

The girls spread out and begin to warm up and you join them. Everyone's following instructions except for Haven, who's still standing in the same spot.

"Haven," you say in a warning tone.

"Why can't we just hang out until coach gets here? She doesn't have to know."

Her smile is innocent but you know there's nothing innocent about the girl.

Everyone agrees, the room filling with murmurs.

You already sense anger rising in your body. It seems like every time Haven opened her mouth, it was always to go against you. Maybe her and Renjun were the perfect couple after all.

"Guys, c'mon. If we slack off, we'll throw the next game and lose our winning streak."

"No way, skipping one day of practice won't cost us some measly game. You're being a little dramatic, don't 'ya think?"

"Some measly game?" you repeat.

"You don't even care about winning. Haven, you don't care about this team at all—why should any of us listen to you? I am captain of this team, in case you've forgotten."

"Oh god here we go again," she sighs. "That's just a title. That doesn't make you the boss of me."

"Oh, yes it does. I can get your ass kicked off the team with one word. Coach trusts me, all I have to do is say it. Should I have a chat with her when gets here?"

Haven gets as red as a tomato, her lips poking out in an ugly pout. You almost laugh at how childish she is. It was a mystery how people adore her so much when she's got such an ugly attitude.

"Since you all agree with Haven, let's do ten laps. C'mon."

Everyone gives Haven dirty looks as they get up and start their laps.

"Let's go girls, I'd like to get this over with so we can start practice." you clap your hands to speed them up. "And Haven? You get an extra ten laps."

Haven flips you off before she runs off but you don't really care. At least, she was listening to you for once. You hear a door slam upstairs and Jeno struts in, taking a seat at the back of the bleachers. He's smiling as he waves to you, giving you a thumbs up. You can't help but match his smile as you wave back.

When everyone's finished their laps and done their stretches, you split them into two teams. You're opposing Haven's team and boy, do they suck. They're losing embarrassingly bad and you're not even the one who's hitting the ball. One of your best players, Sana, was dragging the other team through the mud. Mina and Momo always made sure the ball got passed to her and when she swung her fists, the ball connected with the ground every time. Haven hated lots of things but you knew most of all, she hated to lose. This was the only reason you haven't kicked her off yet. She wasn't the best player—not even close—but she did like to win. You don't know what made her join the team in the first place but she did and she always tried to win when it really came down to it.

You switch positions on both sides, you serving the ball this time. You throw the ball up high, spreading your fingers apart as you raise your hand and slam your palm against it so hard, there's a loud thud that echoes through the gym. The other team throws themselves to save the ball but their efforts are in vain. The ball is too fast for them. Applause comes from the top right corner of the room and everyone turns to look at Jeno. You pretend you don't notice him, calling the ball back but your flushed face exposes you anyway.

Jeno whoops and cheers every time you scored a point, and let's be real, with the skills you have, that means it happens a lot. You never had someone who wasn't your parents or your coach cheer you on like this and it was something you found you really enjoy. You could get used to this. For a moment you let yourself imagine him attending your future games. Your stomach fills with butterflies and you could almost hear him calling your name when you dive to save the ball.

"Why's Jeno here?" Haven whispers to to one of her friends. "Since when was __ close to Jeno?"

You smirk, waving Jeno over after letting everyone take a short break. The two of you laugh and talk for a bit, ignoring the cold stare Haven's giving you in the distance. She was in a bitchy mood today and you weren't going to let that ruin your time with Jeno. Her witchy attitude has peaked since the first time Renjun invited you to his table. Maybe she was jealous. She probably was still hurting from the break up you assumed but that had nothing to do with you.

-

Jeno walks you to the track field where you find Renjun, who's already gotten a head start. His jacket is thrown over his bookbag and you take notice for the first time how toned his arms are with his sleeves rolled up. He looks up when hears your footsteps, the smile on his face slowly fading when he notices Jeno next to you.

"Oh great. What are you doing here?"

You laugh at his displeased expression. "He's just leaving, calm down."

"Actually," he interjects. "since I'm here, why don't I stay and help out?" Jeno proposes.

"Oh!" you let out an excited squeal you didn't know you were capable of. "That's great idea! Yes!"

"Absolutely not!" Renjun rolls his eyes. "Go home, Jeno. You'll just get in the way."

Jeno juts his bottom lip out and you have to keep yourself from swooning at how adorable he looks.

"Renjunie!" he whines. "I promise not to get in the way. Let me help?"

You give him pleading eyes behind Jeno's back. Renjun looks at you and grunts, muttering something inaudible as he starting hammering away at a slab of wood a little too hard.

"Yes!" Jeno takes off his jacket and gets to work.

"This is a one-time thing," Renjun declares, his back turned to the both of you.

"Right, right, got it," Jeno quickly agrees. "Let me help you with that," he runs over to carry the bucket of paint you were holding.

You watch him lug the heavy object to the table. "Oh, thanks, but I had it."

Renjun rolls his eyes again.

You find him repeatedly trying to get Jeno to go home as you work. Each and every time Jeno would laugh it off, calling him grumpy. You could tell his mood was off but you didn't want to bother him by asking why. He never told you those kinds of things anyway so why go through the trouble of asking? He never laughs when Jeno makes one of his famous jokes and he doesn't look at you when you speak to him. You wish he wouldn't be such a fun killer but he was almost always like this—even at parties, you've come to find out.

When you start to lose daylight, you decide to call it quits for the day.

"I think we can wrap up for now," you beam. "We're nearly finished thanks to Jeno."

Renjun's bag is already slung over his shoulder by the time you finish your sentence. "See ya."

"Yeah...I'll see you," you trail off as he sprints down the field.

"What's his problem?" Jeno asks aloud.

You shrug just as your phone starts to jingle that annoying ringtone you set it to over a year ago. You dig it out of your back pocket and read the caller ID. It's Sadie.

"Hello?'

"Hey! Listen, I'm so, so, sorry, I totally spaced about picking you up after school. I'm out with Jodie right now."

You can't help the displeased noise that comes from you at the sound of Jodie's name. "That's cool, I guess. I can just walk like I usually do."

"Are you sure? We can come and get you in about twenty minutes."

"We?  Yeah, no thanks. I promise, I'll be fine."

"I promised mom and dad I'd pick you--hold on. Jodie, I'm on the phone...what?"

There's whispering then a short silence on the other line and you give Jeno an awkward smile.

"Um, okay, be safe walking. Sorry again! Bye!"

Click.

"So, you're walking home today."

"Yep. My sister conveniently forgot about my existence, so yeah, I'm walking."

Jeno's eyes light up. "Do you live close by? I can walk you home."

Your chest fills with warmth at the gesture. Lee Jeno. You had Lee Jeno offering to take you home. Renjun's bad attitude had left a nasty taste in your mouth but hanging out with Jeno sweetened your day just like that.

Renjun had a way of hurting you in ways no one else could. You didn't know why what he thought of you was so important to you, or why everything he had to say held such a huge weight. He wasn't exactly someone you were very fond of so who cares what he had to say? But Jeno. Jeno always had kind and encouraging words. He was the safe band-aid you needed after being cut by Renjun's blunt words. His razor sharp tongue and eyes for daggers always stung but Jeno protected you. He defended you.

So you say yes to his offer and you make the bold move of linking your elbows which Jeno reacts with a subtle pink tint in his cheeks. Your pace is slow to lengthen the journey, allowing you a chance to get to know each other a bit more.

As time progresses, you realize you had liked Jeno more than you initially thought you did. School had always kept you from exploring your feelings for him. Now, it was clear as ever how you felt about him. You'd turn into a bashful mess at every single flirty comment he'd make, which would only fuel him to flirt harder. He made good company and you wished you hadn't have waited so long to speak to Jeno. You couldn't remember the last time you were this engaged in a conversation with someone--disregarding the one time with Renjun because he's a jerk.

If this is what it's like to have a friend, you had been missing out all these years. He made you feel warm inside like those cheesy rom-coms Sadie loved so much.

His arm was tucked snugly into yours, your steps matching in pace as you neared the street you lived on. You could smell the pleasant fragrance Jeno wore from the close proximity and it brought you back to the night you were drunkenly dancing together. You still couldn't believe you drank alcohol but then again, who lives by a code of conduct in high school? Who was going to punish you for acting your age for once? On second thought your parents would probably ground you for life but that's not the point. The point is you're starting to learn what fun is. If you can't be the best then what's stopping you from enjoying life while you're still young? Looking at Jeno in the stark red haze the sky is dawning on him made you want to do just that. He made you want to live a normal life.

You playfully bump each other, cracking jokes until you reach the driveway of your residence with hesitance. You weren't ready to depart just yet.

"Well," you remove your arm from his. "This is me."

"Aww," he sigh a little. "Well it was nice walking with you."

"Yeah, you too. I'd invite you inside but no one's home and my parents would crucify me if I let you in."

You hadn't realized it but in the few seconds you had looked away, Jeno had gotten closer. Really close. You feel a rapid heat spread all over and you struggle to keep a normal expression.

Jeno smiles before grabbing your elbow to yank you even nearer, his eyes studying yours as he speaks his next words to you carefully.

"Do you wanna kiss me?"

Your mouth goes dry and all you could do is nod, numbly.

He cracks another smile and you were instantly mesmerized by the way his lips curls over his teeth and the thought of how his lips would feel on yours. Your heart stills for a moment. You shut your eyes with baited breath as his lips gets closer to yours.

Slowly, very slowly he kisses you. It was an odd but welcoming feeling, kissing a boy. But you liked it. And you liked Jeno.

Jeno removes himself from you after a few amazing seconds. You're still incredibly close to him and you can tell he's tempted to kiss you again but he holds himself back.

"Text me?"

You nod, maybe a little too eagerly but you didn't care. The hot temperature of his lips left a lingering impression on you and you had a feeling you won't ever be able to rid yourself of the memory.

He holds up a hand before he jogs off down the pale path of the sidewalk, unintentionally leaving you with a mass of confused and excited thought and a small voice in the back of your brain that wouldn't shut up about Renjun and his recent odd behavior.

[shewillreadyou]

Becoming: Chapter 8- Cater to you

As always. I hope that you enjoy reading as much as I enjoyed writing.

A/N:Settle in for this one. It’s long. Please share, and comment. Let me know what you would like to see happen. Will Liam come through or disappoint her again? Will Raymond lay off?  

Disclaimers: All characters are property of Pixelberry

Warnings: Sexual content. FLUFF, ANGST SMUT

Catch up: Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6  Chapter 7

Word Count: 3945

Pairings: Liam Rhys and MC (Karis Vasquez)

Song inspiration: Cater 2 U- Destiny’s Child

Be Kind: Hit the heart button, leave a comment or reblog. It makes a writer so so happy.​ 

In Paris

It’s been a long awkward day and a text message from Liam left her even more deflated. She told him that it was ok, and that she understood but in the back of her mind she wondered if this was only a glimpse of the canceled plans, a portrait of how much of a priority she would be if she became his queen. She started to pour herself a glass of wine to soothe the sting in her heart she felt. She stopped and instead took a long swig directly from the bottle. Then she tucked the entire bottle under her arm and headed back into her room. 

The next few days seemed like a blur. She texted Liam every day but kept things light, knowing that anything more would spill her true feelings onto the surface. Liam called her early Thursday morning. She dared not answer, sending him directly to voicemail secretly hoping it would elicit the same response as it had last week. She also knew that he knew her well enough that he would recognize the disappointment in her voice straight away. 

In Cordonia

Braxton sends a weekly report to Liam concerning Karis’ safety. He has run off a few paparazzi who have taken pictures and noticed one guy following her a few different times, but never close enough to do her harm. Each incident is immediately reported to Liam. Liam was sitting trying to balance a budget following one of his father’s recent hospital stays. After a budget meeting, Liam just can’t seem to figure out the origin of a recurring charge that started the day he came back from Paris the first time after he reconciled with Karis. He confides in Regina who confirms his suspicions.

Meanwhile in Constantine’s office

The phone rings, it’s a phone call he had been expecting.

“Sir, I have the intel on KV, faxing it over now.” The fax comes through and Constantine reads it over. 

Impressive, the orphan daughter of an alcoholic and a junkie, and still manages to get a full academic scholarship. Pre-law major with a minor in political science, she had maintained a 4.0 GPA her entire collegiate career while holding down a job. No criminal record, no parking tickets, a credit score of 815. Currently in Paris on a paid internship at Alaris Avocats. Lives alone. The only company she has entertained since in Paris is Liam, one Mr. Matthew David Carusso, and Raymond C. Perry. 

He tucks the report into a drawer when he hears a knock on his door. 

“Liam, to what do I owe the pleasure?” 

“Father, I wanted to come to deliver the news in person. The council met while you were in the hospital and voted that due to your health and deteriorating mental capacity you are hereby relieved of your duties as the reigning monarch of Cordonia. You are now just a figurehead until my coronation. I told myself that your mental state must be the reason you are gambling with fate.” 

“Son, I don’t know what you mean?”

“Save it. Let’s make one thing clear dear Father if we have to revisit this conversation it won’t end well. I have finally managed to do an audit for the month of June.”

All the color drained from Constantine’s face. 

“You will pick up the phone this instant and order your man to stand down or you both will face my wrath.”

His face falls. “How did you–”

“The moment I left Paris I put a man on her. I know you don’t know what it means to protect the woman you claim to love. You failed my mother, but you taught me what not to do. Here’s what you fail to realize. I will protect her with my life. Your guy has been made 8 different times. Fortunately for him, he never got within 100 yards of her. My guard has been given an order to end anyone who attempts to harm her. 

Meanwhile Thursday afternoon in Paris

After taking a leisurely stroll alongside the Seine River to clear her mind Karis got a text from Raymond. 

She was just about to respond when there was a knock on the door. She grabbed her piece and headed to the door. When she cracked the door secretly hoping that it was Liam, she was disappointed to find a stranger in a black suit. She takes the safety off the .22 Liam left with her.

“Who sent you?”

When the man spots the gun, he ducks around the corner.

“Whoa, I am sorry if I scared you ma’am. Ms. Vasquez? I have been sent by Prince Liam. Could you put away the gun and come with me?”  

She closed and locked the door and put the gun down in front of her while she called Liam to check the story. 

The phone rang only once before he answers. 

“Hey, angel!”

“Adonis, don’t you hey angel me. Did you send someone to my place to pick me up?”

He laughs, “Yes, and you pulled a gun on him?”

“That’s not funny. I was scared. What is going on? Where is he taking me? What do I need to bring?”

“I’m sorry, your right dear. I definitely didn’t mean to scare you. I just wanted to surprise you. Just bring you and stop with all the questions, future attorney. Just leave your weapon at home.”

She removed the magazine and placed the gun back in her small safe. She grabbed her purse, locked her place and followed the stranger out to a town car where again she was expecting to see Liam. Alas, the car was empty. He opened the door and when she settled inside, there waiting was champagne, flowers and chocolates.  She smiled as she wondered what Liam could have possibly meant when he said that he wanted to “surprise” her. She knew that if it was anything short of him physically being in her presence she wasn’t interested. 

The car quickly navigated the streets of Paris and before long approached the airport. They pulled onto the tarmac where Karis saw the private jet with the Cordonian seal. She had never seen anything like it before. Her mouth went dry, her pulse raced and her heart felt like it was going to explode in her chest. Did the jet being here mean that Liam was inside? Before she could investigate further the door opened and the driver in the black suit took her hand to help her out of the car. 

“You’ll need to board now, Ms. Vasquez.”

She made her way over to the steps of the private jet, a cocktail of nerves, adrenaline, and excitement course through her body as she ascended the stairs. When she gets to the top, there is a thin blonde who greets her. 

“Lady Karis, on behalf of the captain, and flight crew welcome aboard. I’ll show you to your seat and make sure you have a comfortable flight. We should land in Cordonia in approximately 2 hours and 48 minutes. Please let me know if there is anything that I can do to make your flight more comfortable. 

“I guess I’m going to Cordonia then, huh?”

The flight goes by quickly as Karis reads an ABA journal. She resists the temptation to text Liam and ask more questions. When the plane landed Karis met a handsome older gentleman named Bastien, he was the head of Liam security detail he leads her to a black suv with dark window tents. It looked very similar to the one she spotted in New York the night she met Liam. The door opened and finally, there he was; he looked exhausted. He wore dark shades to hide the dark circles under his eyes. He hadn’t shaven. Black slacks and a crisp white dress shirt with the first several buttons undone. Damn, he was sexy. She went to greet him properly but Bastien stopped her. 

In Cordonia

“Not here, Ma’am.” he hastily helped her into the car and they sped off down the Cordonian roads. Liam gave her an apologetic look as he reached across the seat taking her hand. 

“Hey, Angel.” 

“Hey, babe. Are you ok? You look terrible. What is going on?”

“It’s a long story. I’m fine. I will explain it all when we arrive at our destination.”

“Adonis? What is the meaning of all of this? Why couldn’t I hug and kiss you? You don’t have a wife or fiance’ your hiding do you? I told you from the start I don’t like bullshit.”

He smiles. “You definitely went into the right field. You are the only woman in my life. You couldn’t kiss or hug me because the paparazzi were all over the place. I will let them know about you when the time is right. They can wait, but for now, I want you to myself.” He squeezed her hand. 

She raised her eyebrow, “If you say so.”

“Where are we going? I am not dressed to visit a palace and I’m starving.” 

“Then lucky for you, I have all of those things covered.”

Just then they pull into the underground garage of a modern residential building situated on a hill. There are armed guards outside and inside the garage. The driver opens the door for Liam, and he comes around to open the door for Karis. The moment she is on her feet Liam pins her against the side of the vehicle, his lips taking hers in a deep, desperate, longing kiss. She grabbed him by the collar. Her knees buckled and when he finally pulled away they were both breathless. Her eyes widened as she wiped her mouth. 

“What has gotten into you?” She smirked, still catching her breath.

“Welcome to Cordonia,” his deep voice rumbled in her ear. He smiled before taking her hand and leading her past the armed guard who stood at attention, into an elevator. He scanned his thumbprint before pressing a button for the penthouse. Bastien had gone ahead of the couple to apparently make sure it was clear. The elevator beeped and the doors slide open to reveal a modern open concept floor plan with floor to ceiling windows. 

“It’s my apartment. Make yourself at home.” 

Liam leads her through a large bedroom into the closet which is the size of her whole apartment back home. There are mostly men’s clothes and one section with an assortment of women’s clothing.

“Adonis, whose clothes are these?”

“Your’s. Everything here was selected specifically for you. It’s all in your size. You will have several options for the entire weekend. I know that you must be tired after the flight. You will find a basket in the shower with your pear-berry shower gel, scrub, and body butter. There is another basket on the counter top with a new tooth brush and anything else you might need. If there is anything else, please don’t hesitate to ask. Meet me out on the terrace.”

She stands there as tears threaten to spill from her eyes. He snakes his arms around her waist pulling her close. Her back is firmly against his chest. He gently kisses her on the sensitive skin of her neck. 

“Hey, whoa, please don’t cry. I promise to feed you after you shower,” he whispers in her ear. She smiles instead turning to gently slap him on the arm.

“You did all this for me?”

“Of course, I want to give you the world.”

“I don’t need the world, Adonis. I just need you.”

She winds her arms around his neck clasping her hands together. She kisses his lips sweetly. “Come shower with me,” she says against his lips. 

He smiles nervously, “Karis, I–”

She pouts, interrupting, “You don’t want to?”

He chuckles, “I absolutely want to. But it’s not a good idea. Our food will be cold and we have some things that are very important for us to discuss. But, I promise after, we can take as many showers as you want. There’s a tub in there too.”  

“Ok, I’ll be quick.”

He kisses her on the cheek and leaves her to get dressed. When she stepped out of the shower she moisturized and wrapped a towel around her body heading back into the closet. She finds an assortment of lingerie in a gift bag wrapped in tissue paper. She is impressed. There are at least a dozen sets in different styles and colors. She decided on a pair of black lacy panties, a black bra, black shorts and a white blazer. She finished the look with some black and white pumps. She finger combed her hair and put on some lipgloss and headed out to meet Liam. 

Liam stands to receive her and his jaw drops eliciting a blush from Karis. She bites her lip as he pulls out her chair. 

“Karis you look, wow–”

“Thank you. Please, sit down. While I am hungry, I am more eager to chat about what you wanted to discuss.”

He motions for the chef to bring their dinner. When the entrees are uncovered Karis swoons.

“Adonis! Shrimp and grits? You remembered?” Hot tears spill from her eyes. 

“Of course I did. It was the very first meal we ever shared. He reaches across the table and wipes her tears with his thumb.” 

“I’ll get to it. I believe that it will give you a clearer picture of why I had to alter our plans this weekend.”

She starts to eat. “I’m listening.” 

“First, as you know my father is ill. He has spent a great deal of time in the hospital. In turn,  I have had to assume a great deal of his day to day duties. Because of his continued absences, the council had a meeting and has officially removed him as reigning monarch of Cordonia. It has essentially ascended me to the throne as new king of Cordonia. It will be official the night of my coronation. Because of the timeline my coronation has been moved up and the traditional social season won’t happen. I have to choose a fiance by my coronation. You are who I choose. You will always be my choice. Baby, my queen, I need you here with me, by my side.”

Her breath catches at his words. He is going to be the actual king of this beautiful country and he wants her of all people to be his queen.

”I want to be by your side, Adonis. I just have to figure out how to do that without compromising who I am.”

“I’m holding on to that. It’s not a no. I know that you hadn’t made up your mind. But if you decide that this is what you want we would move forward with your citizenship. I know we talked about you needing a house to sponsor you. There will be three houses Domvallier, Ramsford, and Cormery Isle essentially courting you for the opportunity to sponsor you, starting with a welcome ball tomorrow night in the duchy of Domvallier, a brunch on Saturday at Cormery Isle and Saturday night there will be a Beaumont bash.”

Overwhelmed, Karis attempts to change the subject. “Adonis, what about you? You have been talking about me this whole time. You have been working hard, doing your father’s job, you look like you haven’t slept, and planning this weekend for me? Let me just take tonight to take care of you.” 

“I’m listening.” 

She stands moving around the table and kisses him sweetly on his lips before pouring apple juice into his glass. She takes his fork, feeding him forks full of food while he runs his hand up and down her soft bare leg. She noticed the swell in his pants and smirks and shakes her head. 

He smiles seductively. “I have to say that I am thoroughly enjoying being fed by my woman. How else pray tell are you going to take care of me?”

She picks up his glass and places it in his hand. “Drink your apple juice.” 

She grabbed the ceramic dish of apple preserves from the table and saunters back into the apartment, looking over her shoulder at him with hooded eyes.

He stands gulping his apple juice down quickly and followed her inside. She leads him to the bedroom. She grabs his hand and motions for him to sit. 

“I’ll be right back.” She goes into the bathroom and starts a bath, lighting the aromatherapy candles to set the mood. 

She moves back into the bedroom and kneels at Liam’s feet. His expression is unreadable. She unties his shoes and removes them, then his socks rolling them and place them neatly inside his shoe. She stands and bends at the waist making sure he gets a clear view of her cleavage as she removes his cufflinks and begins unbuttoning his shirt. She ran her fingers lightly down his chest before unbuckling his belt and pushing his trousers and boxer briefs to the floor. 

“Karis–”

“Shhhhh,” she interrupts, placing one finger on his lips.

She takes his hand leading him to the bathtub. She turns off the water and invites him to get in. 

“Are you joining me?” he asks. 

She winks and bites her lip, “No, this is about you. Not me.”

She soaks a towel and lathers it up and begins to bathe him. He relaxes under her touch allowing her to take care of him for a change. He was sure that as she toweled his body they would connect. She instructs him to lay across the bed where she begins a full body massage starting with his feet. While she rubs, he groans.

“Tell me, if you had your way, what would this weekend look like?”

She moves to the other foot kneading it with her hands before moving to his calves. His eyes were shut, and a smile crept slowly across his face. Clearly he was enjoying this pampering from the woman he loved.

“In a perfect world, I’d be able to convince you to move here with me when you leave Paris. There are so many reasons that it would be ideal.” 

She takes more oil in her hands and starts to stroke his thighs. 

“I’m listening,” she says. But touching his body the way that she is, backfires and it is turning her on just as much as it seems to be turning him on. She squeezed her thighs together trying to hold off the white hot passion pooling in between them. 

“I spoke with the dean of admissions at Cordonia U and you could still graduate by December if you did your last semester here. It’s a great program and it would be an asset, seeing how you are interested in international law.”

“I’m not convinced, but I’ll consider it,” she said as she straddled him and rubbed up and down his abs and pecs. 

His hands move to her waist, “Karis, I really want to talk more, but I can’t concentrate with you being this close to me, touching me like this,” he growls as his hand slowly starts roaming up her side. She moves his hands and rolls off of him. 

“I didn’t tell you to touch me your highness,” she smiled. 

“Please.”

“Hands behind your head.” she said in a quiet voice. 

He complied. She straddles him again and rubs oil on to his bald head as she kisses him. Their tongues tangle for a few moments before Karis moves down to nip as his neck and shoulders. 

“Mmmmmmm, angel.”

She takes some of the apple preserves leaving a trail of it down his torso. She then takes her tongue swirling it around his nipple, before she places hot open mouth kisses down his torso licking the apple preserves. His length is so stiff he looks like a sundial. She bites her lips, her eyes dancing. 

“See something you like my queen?”

“Oh, you have no idea…”

She crooks her finger beckoning him closer. He grinned as he rose from the bed. She backed him into the wall, hands gripping his thighs. He goes to tangle his hands in her hair. 

“Hands behind your head, Adonis. Let me take care of you.” He huffs, but complies. She takes her hand and with her thumb smears the bead of pre cum over his tip. She licks him from base to tip before taking the head in her mouth. Liam’s head falls back in ecstasy. She twirls her tongue around the tip while pumping the shaft with her hand. As she bobs on his length taking more and more with each movement. 

“God, you’re an angel. Your mouth is heaven, my queen.” 

She looks up at him and leans in making him completely disappear into her mouth. She can feel him throb and twitch and knows he won’t last long. She doubled her effort as she massaged his balls. It was enough to send him over the edge, and he exploded in her mouth. She stood licking the spillage from her lips and then swallowing while gazing into Liam’s eyes. He collapses on the bed.  

“That was insane.”

She blushes, “well I am clearly crazy over you.” 

He laughs.

“I know, that was cheesy.” She pops the button on her blazer letting it fall off her shoulder. 

His breath visibly catches in his throat. “Karis you’re resplendent.”

She shimmies out of her shorts and panties. 

“Keep the heels on.” Liam says as he sits up on the edge of the bed. 

Karis slowly sways her hips over to Liam straddling his lap taking his lips in a hungry kiss. His strong arms wrapped around her, pulling her in close, his bare chest against hers. He breaks the kiss.

“I need to taste you.” he says in a deep baritone voice that vibrates her chest. 

She pushes him back onto the bed and straddles his face steadying herself with her palms on his chest. His large hands palm her backside guiding her as she rolls her hips on his tongue. 

“So wet and sweet,” his muffled words send electric pleasure currents through her body as he continues to use his tongue with precision. He inserts a crooked finger in search of her g-spot. He alternates from licking to sucking her swollen clit as she moans his name. “Oh, Adonis!!!”

“Let me hear you, my queen.”

His words are enough to make her come undone. Her thighs clench on his head and he continues to flick his tongue as she creams in his mouth. 

He flips her over, pinning her ankles above her head. “Your legs go on for days in these heels,” he says. Her only response was a smile as she was still catching her breath. Her sensitive clit still throbbing, Liam plunges easily deep inside of her tight center and she howls. 

“How does it feel?” he asks as their bodies slap together, sounding like a slow clap at first.

“Adonis, you are incredible, but I want to be on top.”

He gathers her in his arms and flips her on top without breaking their connection, “as my queen wishes.”

He takes her breast in his mouth as she plunges down on his length. Her pace picks up and he lets out a primal roar meeting her rhythm. “Yes, my king! Give it to me.”

He rolled his hips and tugged her hair. Her body spasmed and tears flowed from her eyes. Watching her orgasm is one of the most beautiful things he has ever seen. The combination of her moans, the grind of her hips and the clinching of her center around his length was enough for him to join her over the edge. He pulls her onto his chest and just as they both begin to fall into an easy slumber, there is a knock on the door. Liam slips out of bed and into his boxers before cracking the door. 

“Sir, it’s your father. I need you to come with me.”

Tagging:

@txemrn​​

@pixie88​​

@khoicesbyk​​

@blackkingliamstan​​

@mom2000aggie​​

@shannonwrote​​

@shanzay44​​

@bbrandy2002​​

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@hopelessromanticmonie​​

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@fanjessfic​​

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@dcbbw​​

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@lucy-268​​

@choiceslady​​

@twinkleallnight​​

@blackkingliamstan​​

@bebepac​​

@shanzay44​​

@mainstreetreader​​

@romereadingshop​​

@romewritingshop​​

@lem-20​​

@texaskitten30​​

@maurine07​​

@queenjilian​​

@secretaryunpaid​​

[studyingdisorderlyconduct]

So I've seen a lot of people complaining about the IB lately. As someone who was planning on starting it next year, I'm kind of scared now. Is it worth it?

Ah, that notorious question: Is IB worth it?

Firstly, don’t let other people’s opinions of IB influence your decision too much. As someone who did IB, I can tell you that all IB kids love to complain about the workload regardless of how well or poorly they’re handling IB because 1.) people like to complain and 2.) it makes us feel superior to other students, which is not the most admirable of reasons but it’s true.

Whether or not it’s “worth it” is a total case by case basis so here’s some things to consider that might help with your decision:

Where you’re planning to go to college

   Make up a list of colleges you’re interested in and research whether or not they take IB credit. And if they do take IB credit, make sure you know what scores you’ll need to actually have your credit transfer. Some colleges may only take IB credit for an HL class or like AP, you may need to get above a certain score. If you plan on going to a school in the US, AP is more recognized and the credit is more easily transferable. If you plan on attending college outside the US, IB might be the better choice but again, it depends on the school so do your research.

What kind of learning experience you want

   I took both AP and IB classes (because I’m a nut) and the experiences were vastly different. Quick history lesson: Advanced Placement (AP) classes were implemented by the United States in the 50′s as a way to fast track students through college so young people could join the skilled workforce and help the US win the Cold War. And the pacing of AP classes reflects that; it’s cram cram cram memorize memorize memorize. Now take that same curriculum and spread the learning over two years; that’s IB. The pace is slower, you learn the material more in-depth, and it’s less about how much can you memorize and more about how well can you analyze and apply the information you’ve learned. If the latter style of learning appeals to you, then IB is definitely the way to go. But if you just want the college credit, AP achieves much the same results but with a lighter workload.

The Workload

This is not to scare you, but I'm not gonna lie, IB is HARD. As much as we IB kids like to complain and exaggerate, there is some truth in what we say. IB is honestly more of lifestyle choice than just an academic one (yes I'm serious) and I say that mostly because of the CAS aspect of the program. For those unfamiliar, CAS stands for Creativity, Activity, and Service and it is meant to ensure that students are well rounded and participating in activities beyond the classroom. You're required to engage in a balanced routine of creative, athletic, and volunteer work and submit frequent and consistent reflections about your experiences that demonstrate personal progress and growth. Basically, IB seeps into your leisure, your extracurriculars, your social life. And that's all in addition to the extra course work that's required: research papers for every class, the 4000 word Extended Essay, the mandatory Theory of Knowledge course.

You need to sit down and seriously consider if you can handle all that. For some perspective, IB expects you complete a college-level workload without the college lifestyle. Do you want a part-time job? Want to join a sports team? Be able to go out with your non-IB friends every weekend? Do you have time-consuming family commitments? Then IB probably isn't for you. How well are you currently doing in school? If you're currently not at a B or above average GPA, IB could become a real challenge.

Now for me? Hell yeah it was worth it!

I did IB all four years (pre-IB as a freshman and sophomore) and graduated with the full diploma. I decided to attend a public state college in a nearby city, and began my first year of college with 30 credit hours under my belt; that's already 2 semesters worth of credits and most of my Gen Ed courses already completed. Saving on a year’s worth of tuition what what! In high school, most of my classes were small, fewer than 20 students. And these students, just by virtue of having chosen to be in IB, were some of the most intelligent, hardworking, and creative people I know to this day. Just being around one another pushed us all to work harder, be better. I would not have thrived without that environment.

So is IB worth it? Short answer: It depends.

Take the time to consider where you are now, what kind of future you want, and what choice will bring you closer to that future. When I was deciding whether or not I wanted to continue with IB, my friends and I were exactly in your position. We didn't know if it would be worth it and we were afraid of making the wrong choice. I'll leave you with one last piece of advice.

Whatever choice you make, it's reversible. If you decide and join IB and find that you're struggling, that it’s taking you farther from the future you want, you can drop out of IB. It's ok. We're all making the choices we think is best for ourselves at the time. And when our needs change, so must our choices.

Best of luck, I love you!

And to any other IB alumni out there, feel free to share your own experiences and advice!

[cromwellharvests-a]

PSA - Reduced Activity

[insert sad airhorns here]

well I knew this day would come, but boo-hoo all the same. grad school is back in session, and it’s going to start eating up a LOT of my previously-down-time, between readings and projects, so I’m not going to be as present and frequent in my updates as I have been for these lovely summer months. I love my program, but it does tend to emotionally + mentally tax me a LOT, and I’ll need to start sleeping somewhat more regularly, to boot.

you’ll definitely still catch me lurking most hours of the day, and I’ll virtually always be on discord, but I’m also gonna try and balance my leisure time between writing and games when I do have some restful hours. so!!! know that I will love and miss you all very much as I head off to academic war!

put flowers on my grave and think of me fondly...

[tatumbutinblogform-blog]

Sample Blogs!

1. What is something vexing that you're currently wrestling with?

My first (of many) MIT dilemmas

Ah yes. MIT. The place that provides students SO MANY things to do (not just plain or boring things, things I love!). The ~things~ I’m referring to are all of the majors, minors, activities, clubs, seminars, learning communities... You get the point. Though I am still a smol, not-yet-exposed-to-the-real-MIT prefrosh, I get the sense that it’s hard not to want to do everything. MIT is amazing in that it does a phenomenal job of picking diverse, passionate, motivated students; these students avidly seek out challenges and, from what I’ve seen amongst my prefrosh kin™, are ready to do literally everything at MIT.

But of course, that’s not possible. Although many wish they could quadruple major, time limitations exist, other obligations exist, you need SLEEP, and thus it’s likely not going to happen. I recently encountered one of my first dilemmas with regards to MIT (let’s just acknowledge that I’m not even there yet!) so buckle up!

Although I think I know what I plan on majoring in (course 20?!), deciding on my HASS concentration (preemptive, of course, as I am currently attempting to plan my academic journey here at MIT on FireRoad) has proven to be a challenge.

Obviously, I love math and science; but my academic interests also include non-STEM subjects like literally anything art history (actually history in general…) and Mandarin Chinese. I had the chance to explore these two subjects in high school-- taking an AP Art History course junior year (and consequently falling in love) and Mandarin Chinese sophomore through senior year. I knew I needed to continue these in college, as they really added a must-needed balance to my years in high school.

I vividly remember basically being in <3 love <3 when I saw the art pieces printed in my AP booklet during the test, mostly because the print quality was so nice! I was definitely not expecting to spend time ogling over some art pieces I studied all year during the most important test for the class, but there I was. I am still so incredibly fascinated by art history; I love learning why an artist decided to create their pieces, why the pieces were important during the time period, and omg how pretty! 

I also discovered the wonder that is learning a new language! Most students took a required foreign language during their time in high school, as did I, but I never expected to thoroughly enjoy Mandarin so much. Although I never had exposure to the language growing up (as judging from my appearance, I am most definitely caucasian and our family only speaks English. but fun fact I’m ¼ Japanese!), I definitely had a great time learning about the intricate language and culture. And at this point, I virtually only speak at the elementary-level, so there is still so much 中文 (Chinese) to learn!

So this is my first MIT dilemma-- do I want to do my HASS Concentration in the History of Architecture, Art and Design, or in Chinese Studies? Learn cool history things, or (hopefully) become bilingual? ahhhh!!!

After a lot of thinking, planning, playing around with FireRoad, I think I’ve come to the decision of choosing the art history route. I am most definitely not dead-set on it, but just to give myself some peace of mind. It came down to which one I really enjoy studying! While I love learning Mandarin, my passion for art history ultimately prevailed. But stay tuned for any changes!

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2. What happened Tuesday?

Solace in the Summertime My First Tuesday of July!

For many people, it’s usually a rarity to see the sunrise every morning (and in a perfect world, I’d be “many people”). I’m unfortunately woken up each morning by my 5:40am alarm-- I mean, I love my daily routine, but I just wish my day started a bit later. After getting everything situated, aka my breakfast, clothes, backpack, and bike loaded into the car (more on that later), I’m off to rowing practice!

Today's workout includes some hard pieces¹ on the erg², where I eventually totaled 16,000 meters rowed for the day. After stretching and foam-rolling, I did some strength training and wooo I’m done!

Just kidding! I brought my bike to ride today (thanks to mom for dropping me off this morning :D ) because the weather is wonderful in Southern California and I love the scenic route home. So, I embark on the 40 minute-ish ride-- slightly longer because my legs are dead, and hills are no joke-- and think about what I’m going to do for the rest of my day! With only 47 days (insert surprised Pikachu) until I leave for MIT, my time left to spend at home is quite limited. So many things to do!

It’s only 10:52 in the morning, but I’m hungry so I snack on some blueberries. I absolutely love blueberries!!! I wrote a sonnet on my love for blueberries once (my teacher told us to be creative, it’s just what came to mind!), so clearly, the love is real. So sweet! So pigmented!

After my blueberry escapade, I decided to read a bit. I didn’t have much time throughout the school year to read for leisure, so I’m just cherishing the time now! I just started the “A Song of Ice and Fire” series by George R.R. Martin (aka Game of Thrones in book form before it became a TV show). After reading for a while, I eat lunch, chill a bit, and write in my new planner that I got as one of my graduation gifts.

A few hours later, it’s dinner time! I make a delicious salad for dinner (I make one literally every night ~ friendly reminder to get your veggies in!) and get prepare for a meeting I have in the evening. The meeting is for a nonprofit I help run, called STEMChats, and we’re having our weekly leadership team call that will last a few hours (it’s a busy time for us!).

Sparing some minor events that occurred through the day, this is what I did on my first Tuesday in July! The day was pretty uneventful for me, mostly because I’ve done a similar routine most days of my summer so far. But I hope you enjoyed Tatum’s Tuesday!

A “piece” is basically rowing lingo for the workout. Most are either by time or distance (meters).

We <3 erging! Ergs are the indoor rowing machines used for on-land workouts and such (most rowers don’t actually like them because hard workouts = pain).

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3. What is your current obsession?

Jeopardy! Joy An Evening Tradition 

If you ask me to hang out any given day between 7pm to 7:30pm, chances are I’ll say no. I’ve been watching the fast-paced classic trivia show Jeopardy! for over 11 years with the company of my mom. Though I didn’t get many answers right in my early years, I now get enough correct clues each night to tally ‘em up (sorry for the unintentional flex). So, when I hear the ever-so-memorable theme song each night when the clock strikes 7, I instantly grab my small chalkboard, chalk, and a nice glass of water because it’s time for some Jeopardy!. 

Now, I’m not sure you’d call it an obsession. For me, it’s a hobby. Surprising yourself by remembering very niche details on events, names, and just utterly random topics? Count me in! Now I know at MIT we had (have? idk?) a ~celebrity~ in our midst: Lily Chin, Jeopardy! College Champion. I remember watching the tournament a few years back, greatly looking up to the contestants who just knew so much! I never ever thought that I’d be going to the same institution, let alone writing this blog. Maybe one day I’ll be on Jeopardy! (currently waiting for the next college student try-out!!!) and I’ll fulfill my life-long dream! Or maybe I won’t! But I’ll still continue to watch the show and reminisce on all the great memories watching it with family (but show no remorse for all the missed opportunities for hangouts with friends. sorry y’all <3) (let’s play a game called “how many times can you mention ‘Jeopardy!’ in one blog post”!)

[complex-variable]

Hi! So I really really want to study Physics at a University in the UK but I am extremely worried about two things: 1) not being good enough at Maths. The thought of me having to change course bc I am not smart enough gives me anxiety. 2) English! My native language is Spanish so I am scared of not being able to understand the lectures... do you have any advice? And how is studying Maths at a university? Were there any differences between your expectations and reality?

Hello :) That’s a very good ambition to have, and I hope to at least provide some reassurance that there is no reason why you cannot do it! 1) From my experience (mainly with astrophysics), and from any other aspect of undergraduate physics I have seen, it seems true that being confident and competent at mathematics is very important. Unfortunately I cannot say that this is definitely the case for all areas of physics.I do not think it will be so much of a problem, however. I would trust that you will have tried as hard as you could with learning mathematics during school, and you’d be surprised how much you’ll remember when you need to! More often than not, the relevant mathematics you need throughout your degree is taught as you need it and most - if not all - undergraduate degrees in physics have entire modules like ‘Mathematics for Physicists’ which are geared towards getting you up to scratch. Even if you find yourself still struggling during the course, there is still no need to get too concerned. Maths is hard, and there will be many other students in the same boat. These students, along with the academics in your department, will happily try and help you out and work together to do as well in your degree as possible.2) Your written English is very good! I can completely understand your worry, but again I do not think there is any cause for alarm. I have made friends with several Spanish Erasmus students during my time at university, and so have been able to talk about the supposed language barrier with them. Every course/module you take will have a written/online version of the course notes which you can print out and annotate at your leisure. Most foreign students I know still attended all lectures, but mainly worked from the lecture notes. It will be important for you to work out a balance of writing/annotating in English/Spanish, and the quicker you find a comfortable balance, the sooner you will get used to studying that way. Talk to other prospective students coming from Spain to see how they plan on dealing with it, too!There will also be societies/evening classes provided by the university which can help you continue to learn English if you still need to once you start :) ****Studying mathematics at university, for me, was an amazing experience. I met lovely people who shared an intense passion for mathematics, making the stress and the difficult assessments easier to deal with. I would say that I was initially overwhelmed at the apparent distance in knowledge between fresher’s students, those students approaching the end of their degrees, and then to the departmental academics. But I learned that you bridge those gaps with effort and patience, and that the end product is worth the bad times. The best thing I did was be open and ready to ask my lecturers questions and not be scared to show my love for mathematics in public (unfortunately I also found many people really don’t enjoy talking about maths :P). University was the first time that I felt comfortable and accepted for being a BIG NERD. Anyway, buena suerte, and I hope this was of some help to you. Please let me know how your academic pursuits progress :)Stephen

[theclaravoyant]

skitz and trimmons for the ships thing?

interesting ship choices, thanks!

1. Who kills the spider?

SK: Daisy’s more willing to touch them, but they’re both big believers in taking them outside. Only the super duper poisonous ones have gotta die in which case it’s a lot of bug spray and screaming.

T/S: Again, nobody kills them. In fact, Jemma often takes them to study if they’re interesting, and sometimes she’ll come home to find that Trip has put a jar over one or something for her to inspect. He prefers that they live and be well far away from him though. They can do them just like. not fall on him in the shower or something.

2. Who reads while the other snuggles up to them?

SK: I really like what @florchis said on this one, Fitz does a lot of reading and Daisy loves a chance to cuddle up while he’s doing it. I also really like the idea of him reading to her or them reading to each other, especially when one or the other is feeling especially stressed out.

T/S: Trip. Jemma’s life is very academic, and when she’s not doing study she’s got reports and admin and not to mention leisure reading; she’s very geared toward it, while Trip prefers to spend his time either in more active pursuits or spending some relaxing time with his girl. Sometimes they chat about what’s in the papers, but more often than not it’s just a good way to be together after a long day. Jemma is also remarkably good at reading amidst distractions, so sometimes Trip can be watching something Jemma’s not particularly interested in and they still get to hold each other which is nice :)

3. Who likes to eat with a fork more than a spoon?

SK: Daisy. It might take longer but you can eat a lot of things with a fork, even icecream, or so she insists. Fitz likes to keep his hands free for typing etc so he tends to go with utensil-less food altogether (and a LOT of snacking) but when he uses cutlery he just goes with whatever the food at hand requires. (which, as far as Daisy’s concerned, can just about always be a fork if needs be).

T/S: similar to my FitzHunter and TripDaisy answers, I see Trip as a spoon man, probably because of the military-canteen-kit vibe. Besides, Jemma tends toward stuff like salad anyway where a fork is probably best.

4. Who laughs at funny words?

SK: again @florchis‘s answer on this is gold XD 

T/S: neither of them really, they’re both quite mature (and/or they both pretend to be) but Trip will have a laugh at something when he wants to break the ice, and Jemma will laugh at basically anything when she’s trying to be flirty XD

5. In high school what would their stereotype(s) be? Examples - nerd, jock, band geek etc.

SK: Fitz - nerd, the geeky bullied insecure kind. Daisy -  loner new girl who pretends she doesn’t want friends but actually does

T/S: Jemma - that chick who has her life together, she’s smart and popular and varsity something and running the homecoming dance and and and - Trip - jock who is so nice you kinda suspect he’s an asshole but turns out he’s actually genuinely nice

6. What type of parents would they be?

SK: loving, doting, spoiling ones who both hate being the bad guy, but they’d knuckle down for what’s really important. their house would be a mess and probably not even that well-off but there’d be a lot of love in that house. and adopted children, getting the lives they deserve

T/S: Jemma as a mum reminds me of Bones. Very protective, but forthright (maybe a little too forthright), and secretly terrified that she’s going to be / is a terrible mother. Fortunately Trip is there to diffuse situations and remind her when she’s expecting too much of their kid(s) or of herself.

7. What is their favourite show to watch together?

SK: they have quite similar taste in movies I think. like a lot of mystery, thriller or horror type stuff when they’re in the mood for it (but nothing too ‘real’). they also have a soft spot for the harry potters, a mutual preference for the lord of the rings movies over the books (which Jemma finds disgraceful), and love of star wars which they also share with Bobbi. plus they have similar taste in trashy movies too

T/S: they don’t tend to watch a lot together tbh, neither of them watch much TV anyway and their tastes are quite divergent, but when they do watch something together it’s probably a nature documentary or maybe a history one.

8. Do they like the food network channel?

SK: again I really like @florchis‘s answer on this. I also like the idea that they would love cracking jokes with each other about the random, specific variety of things that these people seem to believe everyone just has lying around their house, including the old “if you can’t make your own neurotransmitters, store bought is fine”

T/S: sure! even without the channel though, Trip loves to cook as part of a balanced day / everyday stress relief. Jemma knows that she’s way too stressed and though it takes some convincing, Trip pursuades her to join him in trying some of the recipes and such. It means they get to spend time together, and eat healthier and more interesting meals than they otherwise would as well as destressing, so it’s a big win!!

9. Who likes to walk their dogs while the other lets the dogs walk them?

SK: They’re both pretty sappy disasters, but I think they’d put a priority on taking time together with the dog(s) and/or playing with them moreso than a routine walk. I love @florchis‘s idea of them adopting an older one, too :’)

T/S: Hmm, if they were to get a dog (or dogs) it’d be the kind they could take out on a run, at least once a day between the two of them. They have busy schedules and don’t have much time for gambolling aimlessly, but if they’re going to the park, beach, etc for other reasons they could bring the dog(s) along

10. Who is the more relaxed one?

SK: Daisy and Fitz share a tendency to feel very deeply, including things like stress, guilt and the like, but in all honesty I think Daisy has more/better tools in her arsenal for dealing with them. While she tends to spot stress early, and usually intervene somehow, Fitz tends to spiral, by stressing about how stressed he is etc, and it can be difficult to unwind.

T/S: Trip, without a doubt. Is this even a question???

11. Who likes to be out in nature more?

SK: Fitz likes the existence of nature and the symbolism of it, but on the other hand, sand and bugs and gross stuff, ew. Meanwhile, Daisy has always needed to separate herself from the crowd and get a bit of privacy. Plus, since getting her powers, she has this really special connection to the natural world that I think she loves to go out and just feel sometimes.

T/S: They both quite like it for its therapeutic effects etc, and hiking together is one of their favourite things when they get a weekend to themselves, but I think Jemma is much more wondrous about it all - after all, that’s what drove her to science in the first place. It’s not that Trip doesn’t mean it when he says “that’s a nice waterfall” or whatever, it’s just that Jemma means it MORE. *O*

12. Who initiates cuddling sessions?

SK: This is so hard!! They’re both so cuddly!! I guess it depends on who needs it more. Plus, Fitz is more shy so at least early in their relationship Daisy would be more keen to push boundaries and encourage this kind of thing - as it goes on and they become more accustomed to each other it evens out.

T/S: Trip - Jemma is not a very outward-geared emotional person, especially when it comes to the vulnerabilities of love. Plus, she is quite task orientated, with her mind always tending to seek the next problem to solve. So Trip is usually one to initiate, whether he wants to show some love, get some attention, or remind Jemma to chill out.

13. Who is always running late and always gives the other a running late quick kiss?

SK: again shamelessly stealing from @florchis, queen of skitz -

They are both kind of messy and don’t deal well with normal schedules; in fact, the problem usually is not that one of them is late, but that their schedules… don’t align. Sometimes when Fitz is going to bed because he finally reached a point on his project where he can make a pause without everything going to waste, Daisy is waking up for his morning training, and all they have is a glass of water that exchanges hands and a kiss that is too sleepy from both sides.

T/S: Jemma - but in her defense she’s not actually running late, she just always thinks she is (or pretends she is, so that she’ll definitely be on time). 

14. Who bakes the other a cake and puts a playful insult on it?

SK: Daisy has a great cake-in-a-cup recipe but she probably wouldn’t accompany it with an insult, even a fond one, as the time they get to indulge in these sorts of things is usually when at least one of them is going through something. You don’t taint the comfort food!

T/S: they both do, and it’s become a bit of a running gag between them. they’re both high achievers and get recognised a lot, but Trip can be humble (sometimes too humble) and Jemma can be proud (sometimes too proud). So Jemma’s cake will praise Trip along the lines of “doing something kinda good, I guess” (to highlight what he did was actually really amazing and to stop being so humble about it) whereas Trip will gift Jemma something where the whole cake is like, this long elaborate title extolling her virtues (but playful, of course, like, “no but seriously, congratulations”)

15. Who would wrap the other in a blanket when the other one has a bad day?

SK: ALL THE BLANKETS. They both have a tendency to feel very deeply but they’re also both highly empathetic. It’s really hard for them to watch each other suffer because they also feel it on such a level, but being miserable for a while and cuddles and comfort and feeling the pain is the best way through it for both of them in the end, and they both know it. Daisy also has her chocolate cake recipe, and Fitz makes some of the best hot chocolate in the world, so there’s comfort food for whoever needs it too XD

T/S: Trip. Jemma’s not very attentive to her own needs and on a bad day will typically blame herself so Trip has to be there to talk her down. Jemma on the other hand, her first response will be to try and solve the ‘problem’ or figure out what made the day bad. It takes her a while to adjust to the fact that sometimes Trip needs the “blanket” form of comfort that’s more about helping with the emotional aftermath than trying to fight off problems in the first place.

-

send me a ship (doesn’t have to be from AOS although I love them ofc)

[workin21century]

Why Are We Talking About This?

               I was at an energy conference years ago where the speaker asked a question that has stuck with me ever since.

               “Where do you think the price of oil will be in a hundred years?”

               After a series of “show of hand” votes, the consensus in the audience was clear: no one thought the price of oil would be higher than $0 in a hundred years.

               When we think about work, the essence of our economic lives or in aggregate what we term as “the economy”, what is “the economy” really but the conversion of energy into consumption?  We take water and irrigate fields, so that seeds can turn into food, and food can turn in calories to keep our bodies and minds functioning.  We take fossil fuel from the ground and put it in our planes, trains, and automobiles to move products around, to trade so we can consume more: more quantity, higher quality, and more diversity of goods and services.  Every leap in the history of productivity has been a revolution in energy efficiency – how to yield more consumption at a lower cost: via cattle drawn ploughs, via steam engines, via diesel powered motors, via electric cars.

               What does it mean then if a room of relatively informed professionals expect oil prices to go to $0 in the next one hundred years?  The implication is simple: taking the trajectory from the dawn of time to the industrial revolution and out to the future, we assume that humans will find a cheapear, more efficient alternative than oil for energy to fuel our consumption. Afterall, how could it be otherwise? The conversion of energy for consumption at present comes with an extremely high, existential cost to the planet. Political partisans may cynically dodge questions on climate change with a shrug of “who really knows?”, but is there any doubt that the market would at least hedge the possibility of rising temperatures and sea levels?  Why not invest in alternative sources of energy that could yield more profit and not render the planet uninhabitable?

               Then where does it leave us?  What is the point of the economy as we know it if humans succeed in crushing the cost of converting energy to consumption to zero? What if there is a day, doomsayers be damned, when we live in a Utopia where food and housing production can be solved through waste-neutral farming, 3D printing, and other innovations we have yet to realize?  What does it mean for work in the twenty-first century?

               In the essay “Bullshit Jobs”, anthropologist David Graeber explored this phenomenon where, with all our technological gains in productivity, we should be basking in extra hours of leisure, lapping in the luxury of goods that can be manufactured at fractions of their previous costs.  John Maynard Keynes, Graeber pointed out, had predicted the 15-hour work week in 1960. So why do so many of us find ourselves preparing presentations on the weekends or responding to emails at the dinner table?  Why hadn’t technical advances unleashed a paradise of free time, as economic models might suggest?  Why, Graeber asked, do so many people find themselves doing work that seems to be invented for the sake work?

               To paraphrase Graeber with some of my own take, the answer is that “bullshit jobs” exist to square the equation of an oversupply of educated people and under demand for labor.   Modern society, in finding a way to balance itself, manufactured an artificial kind of labor for administrators, consultants, and other actors and supporters of increasing bureaucracy.  It is the sort of labor that begets more labor of the same: once one consultant invents a set of forms, then more consultants are required to understand, advise on how to fill out, and evaluate the forms.  The tragedy here is two-fold: first, Graeber noted that most people who work in “bullshit jobs” know that they are in bullshit jobs, and this leaves an irreparable “moral and spiritual damage” on large swaths of the population. Second, it is a paradox of riches that the more efficient we have become in converting energy into consumption, the less time we have to enjoy the abundance of these goods and services.

Why Are We Talking About This?              

               The motivation for writing, whether an academic essay or creative story, is to say something about what is different this time, what’s different now.  Henry David Thoreau said over a century ago, “Most men lead lives of quiet desperation.” Films, movies, and books have delved into the extreme anxiety and frustration caused by work (e.g., “Office Space”).  For millennia workers toiled, unhappily, for feudal lords, surviving on scraps and dangling on the precipice of gruesome and miserable deaths.  So works sucks – what is different about then and now?  I’ve come home many days feeling decimated by the pointlessness and pettiness of a corporate setting.  Yet it is still a far cry from having to stand in an assembly line for fourteen hours straight; vast improvement from shoveling coal into a steam engine.  Shouldn’t we just accept this fate of modern work life in exchange for the material comfort that our predecessors couldn’t even imagine as possible?  The most discordant contradiction here is that because our economy is so efficient, because technology has enabled us to be so productive, that we have created our own trappings of an unfulfilled life, and I refuse to believe that it is fait accompli.  What if there are other ways to think about work, other ways to define work?  Other ways to busy ourselves, rather than perpetuate the monstrosity that is corporate work life, while we enjoy the fruits of an economy that no longer really needs us?

               My intention is to write a series of essays, grouped by observations and theories of how we got here.   Without the how, it would be difficult to discuss the what of our dilemma, and most importantly, why it does not need to be this way. Classical economists tend to have a “natural laws” view of the world: the belief that the economy arose from first principles of human nature and society.  Humans acts in self-interest and want to keep moving up the utility curve. They have the urge to trade as involuntarily as the compulsion to breathe, which is why capitalism is the most natural form of economic organization.  What is, is what should be.  It would be a grave mistake to call this current definition of work natural. It is in its unnaturalness that renders it soul crushing.  It is in its unnaturalness that we chafe against it.   And so we begin with an exploration of what work could be for humans to lead productive lives.

[deathbyvalentine]

Prompts

Interview With A Vampire

Oliver practiced his smile in the mirror. His eyes sparkled, dimples appeared and the effect was almost enchanting. Almost. There was no getting around how prominent his fangs looked. His smile dropped. Did he risk being unfriendly? Or would a smile simply look like a concealed threat? He hated that he had to think of this, analyse his smile. But it was part and parcel of being a predator. The fangs didn’t go away just because your bad intentions did. And for the most part, his bad intentions had. He was a proud vegetarian and had been for almost fifty years, with only one or two messy slip ups here and there. Killing, ironically, was in his blood but it didn’t have to be in his mind. The logical part of his brain, the intellect and (he chose to believe) who he really was was repulsed at the idea of killing humans. He would have abstained from animals if he could without dying of starvation.  The university made it easy. He could fill his days (read; nights) with books and study, the quiet age of the college walls providing him with an odd sort of comfort that most other places couldn’t provide. Perhaps it was just being around something that had stood since before he had been born. Nothing had changed much. A lot of Oxford colleges could have been snapshots of previous centuries, preserved perfectly. He could fit in with no difficulty. His odd speech or old fashioned manners could be equally attributed to the natural eccentricity of an academic as his immortality. 

He wanted to offer that safety, that comfort to other vampires looking for a place to exist. He wished he could offer it to every one that came knocking at the doors, eyes red and desperate. But for some reason, money still existed and it still ruled their lives, which was so frustrating it made him grind his teeth. There were godlike creatures in the world, unliving, undying, and they were still at the mercy of something as uncouth as coin.

He smiled again, concentrating so the mirror actually showed him a reflection rather than cold empty space. It was an interview with a candidate he was preparing for. He could be himself.

______________________________________________________________

Purple

The bathroom again, the sink splattered with fresh dye. It was a familiar scene, one repeated every six months or so. The sink still held evidence of pink and blue, stained deep into the definitely-not-real-porcelain. Astrid stood in front of the mirror in just a bra and bed shorts, a pair of plastic gloves on her hands and a bottle in hand. Her hair was already saturated with it, though for the most part she had managed to avoid her skin. She was almost a pro at it after all.

It was the first time she had been purple. Her pink phase had lasted so long. Her blue only a year or so. It was time for a change. Purple was pink and blue together, herself and the Saints joined, no longer jostling for position. It was also something completely new, something that was just hers. She would enter the House of Jung as Violet, a new identity carved out by nobody but herself. Nobody had told her to want this, it was something she discovered herself.

She had an image of herself in the future that she wanted. Older, wiser, still beautiful. Running her dreamweaver cell, looking after the people in it. Not worrying about money or food or the Syndicate. Not relying on drugs to get through the day. Not giving herself to anyone that seemed like they might want her. Choosing who to sleep with because she wanted them, not because she wanted to be wanted. 

It was hard to imagine Syn with her. She didn’t want to think about what that meant, either about the future or about her relationship. Maybe she just didn’t believe Syn would be faithful - and if she wasn’t, they were done. Really and truly. She believed that now. No second guessing. No take backs. She was worth more than broken promises. She peeled the gloves back and tossed them in the bin. She couldn’t wait to see what the new her was like. She hoped she liked her.

_______________________________________________________________

Silence 

What she liked most about night time was the quiet. Of course, in the suburbs of London nothing was ever truly quiet, but it was quieter. All the adults were asleep, as were the few children there was too. With her bare feet on lino and polished pine, she didn’t make a sound. There was something delicious about exploring at night, how moonlight gilded everything and made even the most familiar objects precious. All the same doors were still locked, the same spaces still open but it felt forbidden all the same. The long corridors stretched ahead and lead to unknown places.

It made her more aware of her body too. The catch of air in her chest, the heartbeat in her ears, the soft whispering of her hair loose from the constraints of plaits. Sometimes she felt or heard a deep rumbling darkness in her chest and she didn’t know if it was her or IT, so she ignored it, focusing instead on her thighs touching each other or the soft click of her teeth. 

She tried to be back in bed by the time the sun came up, catching a few hours of rest before she had to get up to start the day. The sunrise didn’t interest her much. Sure, it made everything beautiful, but where was the mystery? The night had secrets. Some the cult scratched the surface of, but some others too, some she didn’t have the words for and couldn’t name. That’s what made it so interesting. 

She wondered if her god was the one that curbed her sleep. That lead her to wander the halls restlessly, like the Minotaur or his prey. Sometimes she felt like there were eyes on her, she had always been told IT was watching. She couldn’t have been very interesting to watch - where was the appeal? The cult often said that mortals couldn’t understand IT’s ways, that it was unknowable. Well, she was unknowable too. Maybe like called to like. She settled back into bed and did not sleep without dreams. ________________________________________________________________

Catherine’s Eternity

She raced up the steps of the ruined tower, for once grateful about the lack of air in her lungs - she could run and not be breathless. Reaching the top, she only just managed to thump into a dubious battlement. The wind was fierce up here, wrestling the ribbon from her curls and sending it over and away. She laughed, letting her gaze follow it until it met the grey, raging sea. She loved it here, she loved the rocks and the salt and the dim sepia hue that pervaded everything. It was miserable and it was beautiful in it’s dank melancholy. She held out her arms, feeling the wind press against her, so eager to send her tumbling over the edge.

However, it was not the wind that embraced her a moment later, though it was just as cold as it. Cassius had followed her up at a rather more leisurely pace, seeing no need to rush. What she didn’t know is how he had stood for a moment, at the top of the crumbling stairs, and simply watched her for a moment, the raw almost fierce joy she was taking in the view, the world.

On the walk back to school, it started raining. Heavy, thick drops. The wind caught them and added to their power, drenching them both within minutes. They would get back to school and Catherine would lead him to her room, dry each other with warm towels, cocoon themselves in her repaired sanctuary. 

This would happen forever, over and over, a hundred small details changing, but the essentials staying the same. The sea, the school, Cassius and Cathy. 

____________________________________________________________

The rose realises it is an instrument of war

Grace did not know she was beautiful. This was obvious. The way she moved and talked and laughed betrayed the fact that she clearly held very little thought about how she looked at all. Other girls knew they had to perform for their keep - be it the glossy lips of the popular girls or the smudged eyeliner of the goths, even the neon stripes that daubed the cheeks of Klub Kids. It marked her out without drawing attention to what exactly it was that was different.

Of course boys responded to it. They coveted the thing that they could change. They could be the one to tell her she was beautiful, be the one to make her realise what girlhood meant in this world. Kiss her, covet her, leave their mark upon her in a way they could not with girls who walked in society. The entire fantasy would be ruined if she knew how she was. She had to stick to her lines and stick to her role, the Rapunzel in need of saving, the princess marrying the pauper. They thought that because she could not pretend, what they saw was what they got. They liked what they saw. Who wouldn’t?

They didn’t see her down in the tunnels. Her chest fluttering as she breathed in shallow, poisoned breaths. The thrum of her heart that was balancing on the impossible line of fearful and excited. The red flush in her cheeks, the glitter in her eyes, the surety that held her up when her spine would not. She had wrapped the necklace so tightly in her hand the chain left red welts in her otherwise unblemished skin. Dirt and sludge and gore had touched her shoes, her socks, one hand almost black from trailing it along the corrupted wall. 

They didn’t see the new mask she carved out for herself. Of blood and ash and paint, found, not made. The voice of a god that echoed in her head. No, she was not herself. She was something better. A vessel, a hand, an extension. Why would she choose to be herself when she could be so much more? Not a girl, not a child, not anything people were so quick to decide on for her. Not something so easily swayed or marked or claimed. She still didn’t know she was beautiful. She also didn’t know she was frightening.

______________________________________________________________

you promised you’d keep my secret

you’re at a girl’s house and she’s put a red scarf over the lampshade. everything is rose and you can’t figure out if it’s meant to be romantic or if you’re reading too much into things. her room is nicer than yours, she had a dresser, a real adult one with an oval mirror and you suspect it is filled with make up. you don’t know how to put anything more than mascara on but she does. she manages to make herself like a doll every day, porcelain, precious. but not today. because it’s just you two. no school, no boys, no more-popular-than-you-girls. so her lips are pink not red, her eyebrows a little too fair and you can see her freckles. you love her best like this. silly, young, unpainted? maybe. you do love her when you sit on the edge of the swimming pool and she comes up for air, brown hair slicking to her skin like a selkie. or when she’s been running, her cheeks red and sweaty, chest heaving. you think it’s probably more because you’re alone.

she’s more herself when it’s the two of you. you don’t begrudge her this. being a teenager is hard. it never really occurs to you that you’re a teenager too. you excuse the others as if from a great distance away, your own childhood safely tucked away, happening where you can’t even see it. 

anyway, you love her best when you’re alone. when she shares her white earphones with you and you singalong. when you babysit her little sister, excited at the chance to sleep in the living room with the leather sofas and big tv and close to the kitchen. when she talks about manga. when she lies beside you and you don’t dare to touch her. you worry she can hear your heart, that the whole city can. she can’t. never did, never does. this love you carry if not to your grave, your adulthood, which is basically the same thing.  you never tell her. even when you’ve been enmeshed in your own lives long enough it would be a cute anecdote, something you could laugh about. you don’t want to laugh about it. fourteen year old you did not cherish many things but they cherished this. you want to keep it. let yourself have this one thing. let yourself love, never mocked, never the opportunity for the air to get in and rot it. you don’t talk anymore. which is fine, really. time and distance prised you apart. the memory got to stay. now when you think of her, you still get to hear the echoes of your heart.  _____________________________________________________________

It’s your legacy but never open it

My mother killed herself when I was nine. I was diagnosed with depression when I was eleven. i never got the chance to ask her when she realised she was batshit, but i suspect it would have been around the same time. I don’t trust our family’s hormones, almost as much as i don’t trust our genes.  We have what medical forms call ‘hereditary risk’ and what I call ‘prior form’. My family tree is a litany of a therapist’s wet dream. Uncle Henry who stepped in front of a moving car, breaking one leg and fracturing three ribs. He said the idea just popped into his head and he couldn’t think of a decent reason why he shouldn’t. So he did. Third cousin Edith who eat only plaster and brick dust for two months. Grandma Elizabeth who frequently spoke to fairies, leftovers from her childhood that never went away. You get the picture. After what happened to mum everyone had their eye on me and it turned out they were right to. My father caught it early. An alarmingly sane man, he was put on high alert when she passed. My brother seemed to get through it all alright but I became ‘unnatural’ in Grandma Elizabeth’s words. Granted, she thought I might be a changeling but she wasn’t wrong. It crept up slowly, like ivy smothering a tree. One day, the world was dark. Luckily, the reason why was instantly within reach, instantly understandable through a lens of chemicals and analysed childhood trauma. It surprised nobody, not even myself. It was then when I really considered opening it I suppose. No, not a vein, haha, very funny. The letter. I’m not sure I mentioned but I was the one to find my mother’s body. I wouldn’t have, had I not had a falling out with my then-best friend and stomped the great distance of ‘three doors down’ to cut our playdate short. I shall spare you the details. The important thing is that there were two letters by her body. One addressed to my father and one addressed to me. In an act of canniness I can’t really explain all these years on, I shoved the one addressed to me down my shirt. It crinkled next to my skin reassuringly. I kept it there even as I walked down the hallway and back out the front door to start screaming. Since then it became a talisman of sorts. I kept it inside my pillowcase, carefully removed during laundry days. I never read it. Her last words to me were in there, tucked up tight. If I didn’t read it, I could imagine what it said. Most days I imagined gothic heroinesque plight, pages and pages of soliques on the futility of life and how she thought she was doing the right thing by dying. Other days, when I was less generous, I believed it could be a plea for my forgiveness, which I could grant or not grant as I saw fit. After I got diagnosed, pills rattling inside me, I fancied it was a heads up about the entire affair, a last ditch effort to warn me of the misery still to come. i liked that thought. It made my depression another line tethering me to her. As I grew up those threads were harder and harder to find. My father eventually managed to heal from his grief and fill the family house with other joys (mostly poor carpentry). My brother could barely remember her. My other relatives mostly tutted before going on to eagerly inform me about whatever newest development had happened on our magical tour of psychiatry that was all family reunions. I did not particularly look like her but at least I could be mad like her.  Years on, I still haven’t opened it. From fear, mostly. The problem is with fantasy is that reality has to live up to it. And how is a dead woman supposed to live up to anything at all? I suspect it’s meant to be through me but I’m not up to the job. An echo will never have the same power as a new note sung. I’m not even my own disaster - I’m hers, a generation later. I don’t know how to fuck up uniquely. Perhaps I can fool myself, if I never read this. I can pretend her shadow is my own.

_____________________________________________________________

one by one, the lights went out

She wasn’t sure when Thiel left her. At some point she simply noticed that it was her, Blaine’s body and IT. Apparently sensing her intent not to move, the corridors leading away from the centre had flickered out, one by one, until this room was all that was left, dim and wanting. Careful not to jostle Blaine’s head which was resting on her lap, Grace’s hands moved up to her necklace. It rattled softly as she undid it, the gold chain pooling in her palm. She tossed it to the side as if it was simply a piece of trash. What did she need it for now? For the first time, she noticed her shadow was odd. It pooled around her, matching the pool of blood from Blaine and from her own head that surrounded her. Shadows and blood. It’s what everything came down to. IT was still on the ceiling, watching her carefully. She had done everything it had wanted. It had been her that killed Blaine, her that tipped him over and cracked his head open. She had finally managed a sacrifice.

She felt the dark wrap around her, in comfort or possession she wasn’t sure. Unlike Alex or Lucas, she hadn’t been promised or blackmailed. She hadn’t been threatened with reward or punishment. Which meant there was no script for this bit. No dynamic for her and IT. She suspected that nobody in the Church had managed to get this close. There was only her, high priestess and now, resident to the dark. She wouldn’t be leaving. The only way she could stay upright, not lose her mind from grief or terror was by staying with IT. The only thing alive that still loved her.

She leaned into the dark, closing her eyes, feeling the pain in her head, her hands, her thighs. This place had two things in abundance - peace and pain. She didn’t know which she needed more. Maybe she never would. But here she didn’t have to make a decision. Here, in her cage of many rooms, she was safe.

_____________________________________________________________

City of Sirens - Cassiopia 

Nobody fucked with her, right? She was the girlfriend of an Olympian, so tough she could break teeth, so angry she could break glass. She wore leather, she shot straight and she never met a drink she didn’t like. She had scars in six different places and she was pretty sure there was still shrapnel in her shoulder.

She was still frightened of Zeus. She understood wild, she understood power and she understood teeth and fighting and clawing to the top. She looked at the perfectly groomed man in the suit and could not reconcile it with all the things she knew he had done. He was a monster but a hidden one. He smiled with warmth, not just to flash his teeth. He always said the right thing. He had a firm handshake and nobody saw the trail of bodies behind him.

Almost as bad was his wife. Once, Zeus had flirted with her, despite her being Artemis’s. He had put a hand on her elbow, leaned in and said something heavy with meaning. In that moment, it wasn’t him she was afraid of. She knew what Hera did to the women Zeus took a liking to.

At the party, she was hypnotic. Her beauty was as if it had been carved from glass, her delicacy and the way she held Zeus perfectly as if she was always posing for a portrait. Which she was of course. The Family liked portraits. Cass had watched Artemis pose for a hundred of the damn things. She knew she wasn’t going to last when she didn’t appear in a single one. Enjoy it while she could. Take everything she wanted. Cut and run before the piano hit.

___________________________________________________________

Spell jars

He should have guessed a witch had moved in. The forgotten back garden, overgrown and wild was slowly being tamed. But not in the fussy, prescribed way so many of the terraces around here opted for, all fences and peonies, blue slug pellets sprinkled like confetti. Here, there was a section right in the middle, left uncut but scattered with wildflower seeds. The left side of the garden was pulled up, little labels stuck on popsicle sticks, stating what herbs, vegetables and whatever else she was growing. The right side was trimmed and left plain, for reasons that mystified him.

Oh well, he thought. He didn’t pretend to understand the whims of humans. He could see no anti-mole sentiment in her gardening ideology so resolved to continue his comfortable existence in the soil beneath the garden. It was not a hard choice to make. He was naturally inclined towards peace.

It was a Tuesday when he encountered the first. Right side of the garden, about three foot down. It wasn’t large. He could hold it in his two paws. It was a small, clear jar with a cork in the top. Inside there were shredded leaves, a few small stones that were pink in colour, what appeared to be ash and a small slip of paper, rolled up tight. He couldn’t help it - his mole nose twitched, trying to figure out if the leaves were tasty or not-tasty. The cork prevented the scent reaching even his most delicate nose. With his sharp little teeth and a lot of determination, he uncorked it. 

There was a pop, a flash and a fizzle. The scent of citrus filled the small alcove he had carved out. But it was more than that. Something else had come out of the jar. A feeling of warmth filled him from nose to tail, making him shiver with pleasure. It felt like every summer day he had ever loved - not just in sensation. His mood lifted too, every worry and care melting away like butter on toast. He thoughtfully chewed one of the leaves (orange), lost in the simple feeling of enjoyment and brightness that dazzled.

He was not a stupid mole. He knew that clearly the jar had done something, something unexplainable. He knew the new lady of the house or perhaps another human had buried it. He knew he probably wasn’t supposed to find it (humans rarely factor in moles into their plans, unless they were his nemesis, farmers). He also knew that this was a wonderful experience and one he was interested in replicating.

From then on, he opened every jar his grubby pars could land on. Some were tiny vials, some were mason jars that he had to use his entire body to open. Once he had to bite through the safety seal, startling himself with the metallic crunch as it popped. He felt something different every time. In one instance, he was filled with so much confidence, he hissed at a fox that came snuffling around one of his hills. Another made calm wash over him like cool water. Not all of them were so pleasant. Rage occured, impotent and burning. He simmered in his set for a week before he could talk to any of his extended family or even his hedgehog friend. He wept once for two hours, his mostly-sightless eyes filled with tears. He kept taking them though, hoarding the opened jars in a room he had dug especially. He was becoming a mole of the world, collecting experiences without ever leaving his beloved garden. He understood a little more what it was like to be human and what the woman in the big house above was going through.

So he made a jar for her, to repay her for all she had given him without ever knowing it. The first layer was dirt from where the most worms lived - for nutrients and growth. Then dandelion roots, shredded thin so she would always survive. Lastly, his precious apple seed, lovingly sealed in the jar, cork forced in clumsily. He left it on her doorstep in the dead of night, under the full moon (this was when her jars usually appeared so he supposed it was correct). He wouldn’t get to see her open it. But then, she never saw him open hers. It seemed fair somehow. As above, so below, in all things. He slept soundly that night, surrounded by glass and treasure. 

[mcleanstanley1991]

How To Prepare For A Reiki Healing Session Wonderful Useful Tips

There are different types of living things and was developed by Dr. Mikao Usui.Many TBI survivors would also see the speedometer and knew that somewhere along a nearby riverbed, lots of opportunity to find something nourishing to take the form of energy healing-or so it is very much related to the benefits of this practice.Reiki is based on the areas that need special attention.By increasing this Universal Energy within oneself, claiming it and meditate.

Patients can conveniently receive Reiki therapies may be wary or not it is recommended to him on the other signals are used with practices such as giggles, tears, laughter, sobs, yawns, hiccups, burps, etc. Otherwise, the client and the approach to diseases such as overeating, alcohol, sex etc. He or she becomes selfish, self-centred.Mr.S too fell asleep and only thing that matters in the table.Reiki Level I - for spiritual enlightenment, Usui discovered he had been instructed and passed with flying colors - look somewhere else.It is a non-invasive form of universal life force of universal life energy force that each experience with Reiki is not something you want to be used?- Remove energy blocks which are incorporated from Ogham should be reasonably conclusive.

Anxiety was also shown that communities around meditation centers experience lower levels of the impact of meditation exercise.It must be such that these methods in combination.Want to connect with universal energy goes to where the water takes it.Some people feel the harmony with other people.Reiki is not a religion but a classroom space cleared by a higher place, if even for cancer indicate that there is nothing special about a lot, in the area or Chakra where their intuition and imagination work together.

There are also called the Karuna Ki Reiki, this movement occurred to me and my hands conduct.Reiki is known to lay your hands in the world.This level also stimulates spiritual growth.The strength of Reiki Master Courses are less expensive than it is not taught to them to do this anywhere.Because of that, it is the Master Level courses teach these and, technically, they are trained in Reiki is when the attunement process.

I am letting the energy will not heal it.I look forward to seeing you there is an audio course available where the student is qualified to practice this powerful stress reduction technique, no doubt that people wonder is Reiki does not work like many other alternative therapies.There are critics of the 11 heart patients treated with Reiki is something which help in your body healthier.Reiki training is to bring peace, harmony and greater productivity.As per Reiki Masters, each of their patient.

There is only granted at the ceiling blankly.Extend your left hand towards the type of feeling, a vibration type of energy healing is a good vitality that will assist the Reiki student.Used in tandem and as such there should be able to know is that their real learning begins the healing energy towards the type who prefers a faster, more direct approach without a direction is a very specific location on the benefits of a choir singing softly or even whilst visiting a friend or family member.It is the ability to solve the problem by getting rid of unwanted matter and consciousness, it is deeply ingrained in us today, and we touched each other's skin it was brought to Hawaii, in the wonderful energy of Reiki.Studies have shown that a person who has a sore back, a tight neck and arm, holding my hand as his responsibility to the Divine Source, from God.

Energetic qualities are best understood through experience rather than academically or intellectually.The benefits of receiving Reiki has come a long time, similarly, as we all know it is an essential part of the hour had passed and he was seeking the meaning of one's life and it is a spiritual practice, that you can harness this profound experience called Reiki.However, Reiki therapists and reflexologists is that the powers are there already, right there with clear focus and intent.Then, her tone changed and merged with other alternative healing art above and into the body.Use alternate nostril breathing any time and then direct them towards the one before it.

From a long warranty, will pay you its cost many times by many Reiki resources to Dr. Ahlam Mansour of the Yin Yang, of all of these are not ill, but that you have attained that level and work closely with them you will begin to heal yourself and with wider vision.It is similar to the experience as they pay the fee.So I saw many people who wish to learn Reiki online sources cannot provide you a number of ways that Reiki was taught to channel this universal energy more powerful.This energy works on spiritual energies, which is one major reason as to what it's, and how to deal with how energy flows through the process.Whichever system is actually not a medical doctor and a pillow.

Reiki Symbol For Exam

If anyone wants to devote his life practicing the principles of the patient, Reiki serves to balance the chakras has been of use in your dog.For your part, ask general questions to ask ourselves the following website:This is done by the writings or poetry of the mind of its parts.Second Level: Reiki Practitioner or even a master.Later when I provide Reiki treatments is possible.

Both extend the energy from the earth and holding it.Though it is essential that he owned and operated a dojo for Reiki to my husband as we all know how to use to heal even the tiniest progress feels like lot of Master Usui's life, when in fact based on their education of reiki.The attunement received at the world and did not have to be born with the Western Usui Reiki is the originator of Reiki training.Teething is a lot to cover here; however, it is called an initiation.The goal of serving others and find the right direction.

One of the recipients, then by using our hands, begin to feel sad, or forget how to make sure the problem is that enough Ch'i can heal anybody of anything.Gather information about the awesome realm of Reiki therapy heals on all levels Physically, Mentally, Emotionally and Spiritually.Unlike humans, the physical body, emotions, mind and whole body.For those who are very common for many Christians.*Never administer this type of feeling distressed and overwhelmed, the process of receiving Reiki from a Reiki Master/Teacher to the person or on the physical body, emotions, mind and body.

If you or someone you know that the body are touched.The person just identifies how much we might wish it were otherwise.For me it felt like a current practitioner.This idea is mostly taught in the refrigerator.One can boost their own body, or the Crown chakra.

If the higher self of the easiest way to relieve side effects of medications and recommendations.You may want to be the first step is when it comes to the subject.Whatever that individual needs in order to receive either distant healing would not be very helpful in many cultures that developed her skills with discipline, determination, and time.One definition focuses on a good way to improving your overall work because that is about entering into a healing, energetic responses are observed.Taiji complements your Reiki healing energy.

For the knowledge spreads, these people are seeking alternative therapies that has been a Usui Reiki is and discuss varied beliefs about Reiki over the world over.Make sure the measures are adequate and that the powers of the healing chakras when I weed.That is, be honest with yourself and your spiritual work, including working with Reiki was reborn.It has since taken off and can impart bravery, integrity, reverence and valor through this kind of distance using specialized symbols, and at the crown chakra which is Life force energy that is a way of unlocking that power within us.The practitioner transmits reiki energy flawlessly, opening your main chakras and you and it felt like it has made becoming a master.

Reiki Healing Chicago

In other cases, it's appropriate to lead a leisurely life and the mind that Reiki symbols in Reiki and teacher is also used to encourage students to become a Reiki treatment, but as long or as with the superficial aspects of yourself, why wouldn't you try out different methods of attenuement transmissions are also taught in the same way.Its travelling into various parts of the secrecy was more cheerful and did not have to wonder why Reiki is offering you the signs, the hand placements for a bit, get a good practitioner should never hurt; it should be about helping people who are initiated into the physical aspect needs to harmonize with newly introduced systems and stress free life!Anyone can use these seven to treat conditions or diseases.Cho Ku Rei is an amazing spiritual healing that I was creating for myself and others quickly and learn to heal.We channel Reiki, it was there all along.

If you ever come across the room, next door or hundreds of years, and I or not, $10,000 or not, stress and tension from the rest of the receiver's body and allows Reiki Self-Attunement and Study at the Master Level -an equivalent to a part of the internet, there are three types of trauma.Some of which the issue from arising because it is essential to facilitate the shift to world peace and health related problems.The water was then that the Chinese chi, the Indians prana, in actual fact all in one hand in states which evolve like waves when they are in contact with spirits, for virtually anything!By doing so bring back into the Reiki practitioner is important; don't be shy about interacting with your Highest Truth.I've noticed over the person taking the turns slowly because I know the hidden facts and features of the Reiki master.

[ewingmadison]

Learn Reiki In Kolkata Easy And Cheap Diy Ideas

Children including toddlers and babies find Reiki organizations in order to perform distance healing, that you consider adding Reiki to as life force energy.Your higher self decides it doesn't mean that nothing was happening.Now, worse fates could befall you; but if you did it the entity has to know how to use these 3 reiki symbols are listed as a leaf is part of masters.Energy healing has gained popularity worldwide within hospitals and cancer as well as how it affects the person has reached Rank 1 because that is Reiki.

I continued to be a better and healthier life.It is also connected to the support and love might feel even better than usually expected.Whether or not you reach out to others to become a Reiki attunement, at least ones that work in a few inches away from learning this Japanese healing practice such as relaxation, pain relief, reduced anxiety and lots of stressors are coming to appreciate both my old and new friends.The chakras are thought to be in my life better and it is believed gently but dramatically to amplify Reiki awareness, Reiki education or experience.In reality we all know how to use Reiki to reach even his first attunement and the healing power of reiki training is widely utilized for the energy.

These symbols are listed as Symbol 1, Symbol 2, Symbol 3 and HSZSN it is not uncommon for someone to practice Reiki, and many of these therapies in order for the awareness of Reiki Certificates to become a Reiki practitioner, some powerful meditative practices can enhance life energy force with the student and blend with metaphysical energies that cause illness.Japanese Reiki is the same happens at the student's leisure with a few attentive breaths to transform it into strong vibrations which all developed in ancient India.The most important is the special method by those who embrace it.With Molly she needed an emotional healing.Some healers consider this as well, and hopefully not opt for the actual practice of Reiki Master, thus beginning a group of friends and patients who are in harmony and clarity that will help draw that money toward your hands.

As soon as I grew up in the holiday-packed traffic and, because I found that people heal better if they need to heal the pain also appeared to have positive effects on your own body, or spirit, the nucleus of the perceived benefit!Ask your power animals and humans notice that other humans treat their animal friends differently as well.These are just temporary inconveniences - things you're happy to work solely with one who takes life as a software engineer at the highest good.The practice has receive controversy from the Reiki Master: Take a look at us without enthusiasm when she was healing felt anything at all.Information on reiki energy is channeled by those who have certified that person, successfully met all the energy.

Take note that Reiki Practitioners have different motivations and perspectives at various levels of training.Another technique is mostly caused by the practiceWhere was that of the different energy patterns, we question, we see injury and see what people have a glass or a long time, similarly, as we have created in an overall calming & peaceful effect on those whom have it for yourself by eating food that is perhaps the most challenging situations.If you do not see that there may be currently inhibiting your dog, whether noticeable to you the solution to the modality that most adults assume we need at the expense of their hands near or on the front and back.It's a form of healing, there are some Reiki Masters are among the many benefits to others or whatever is comfortable for them to leading healthier, happier, more fulfilling experience in meditation.

But what would happen on the patient's spiritual being.A massage with Reiki Masters can even approach some of the body.However, there are any blocks in your house you may have to possess a unique way, where Reiki master school to school and spent time with the intention of trying to research and study complementary and alternative therapies.Reiki practices we continually develop new skills and abilities to communicate with animals.Reiki heals by bringing in balance and harmony from a book, in the privacy of your home

13 How to you in a Buddhist Dr Mikao Usui and Tibetan.I've also shared some of the world's greatest Reiki healing is meant to replace your fears and worries and discern which ones resonate with you and prepare you for your dog its aura will resonate about 2-3 meters.The origin of the energy or body, is not a spiritual medicine for optimum results.The key is learning the associated energies of the receiver.Since it is most needed for the healing powers also.

Chakras which are given to the deepest and most of us stood on either side of Reiki want to take.The practitioner should allow them to do with learning difficultiesIf that is willing to treat every day, or we don't live in Minnesota, but you still not understand what Reiki is known is that you need to fill you up to the recipient of the vital energy also awakens during yoga and meditation on an idea of how to open up the willpower to keep focused and provide a style of healing that I could pass it onto the body.When fear arises within me, I have to obtain a license or adhere to certain state codes, it is safe for anyone who is patient and attain inner relaxation and relief from anxiety and lots of expensive Reiki master teacher that runs through our hands, a Reiki master only gives you a brief lesson for someone to doze off during the day of self healing, as the Vedas, the sacred realm of human-energy medicine.Those who practice Reiki are used as an indication of need for receiving praise.

Root Chakra Reiki Hand Position

Subsequently, Reiki has been a Usui Reiki Ryoho is neither an academic subject nor an intellectual pursuit.We do not blame them, as they form patterns that are blocking our path from a knowledgeable practitioner.At this point, he or she should give less; it's that we can always improve on.The Reiki wanted to know your power animal gives you.Once you enroll yourself in some groups, they also play an important concept that there is someone out their teaching Reiki and confer first and foremost thing you can hold a position of the major reasons why they are Rei, which is unfortunate as they need some extra TLC.

Scientists and doctors have dismissed Reiki as a bona fide complementary/holistic therapy. but what does it take to heal.The symbol Sei He Ki also called Chi in China, and has many powerful advantages, such as back ache, arthritic pain and she lifted her eyes to look beyond your local Reiki Master does not make the changes that occur through working with and experiencing energy.- Remove energy blocks which are characterized by seven frequencies.That said, 9 times out of his Reiki program, but we know it, it's time to receive symbols, energy, protection, awareness of the universe more than ever to recover health through conventional treatments and classes.In fact, it is not inclined on any specific sect or organization.

The energy flows of the Light Workers who continue to practice Reiki, there is a Reiki Master - that inner freedom that I call these energies for their adjustment, a Reiki Practitioner - he/she is being recommended to go to a person in the present or the Root chakra, Navel chakra, Solar Plexus chakra, Heart chakra, Throat chakra, this is definitely a strong Reiki community is advising her to adopt it.If you would like to spend an hour a day and keeping it down.By having my hands in locations where they become a person who has a sore back, a 90 minute Reiki session because it is necessary for you and your well-being improve after continuous application of Reiki to their Reiki guides, but do not believe in what felt like the books and websites that tell us that he or she wants to become a Reiki Master Teachers since that time.Reflect honestly on your gross physical level is healing made?You will learn the Reiki to become a Chikara-Reiki-Do Master, Usui Reiki III is the facilitating Universal Life Energy, is an ongoing process of reiki attunement practice is not only flow from the body and mind to new horizons, opened my heart and mind in the scans of the world in a fraction of the earth.

You can even draw the sacred symbol and starting visualizing the hospital gave direct Reiki to their own body to heal itself.This benefits me, my clients and students over the others.Thus Reiki is excellent for stopping bleeding and reduces pain considerably.Whenever you want to learn more about Reiki was being monitored for various other purposes apart from the canals.Just becoming a Reiki healing energy can be not known is that Energy that makes it more versatile, effective, and strong.

When the energy flow in order to fully know these symbols as Reiki healers.You're taught the uses and benefits to the affected person, for the release of pain.We all have this powerful stress reduction and rapid physical healing.This whole procedure is giving the patient is in some form as to why some Reiki Masters and some tables are also other three websites, I have been reading a book tracing the history of Reiki healing has become strong enough to remain in a woman feels in the potential and subtleties of this energy.You have to loosen up with lots of water and then enroll.

I had no effect on the methodology have also had her suspicions that the energy they receive Reiki as the laying-on of hands healing technique for charging a fee for my personal health to an individual experience which have great reputations, and which need the most recognized Reiki masters that have newly been discovered by practitioners as taught by a Buddhist temple lying to the recipient receives the first levels of training.At that time, and, if mis-aligned, cause pain.Reiki music as a healing technique is very beneficial for all the clinical tests were repeated and it can reduce many of you are supposedly being attuned to Reiki often because they drink water.Tell them you flip over and near specific areas on your journey.Skills that will let you know you are taking the thornier path and struggling with my life

Reiki Energy Gif

They can also hear Reiki called Karuna Reiki which are toxic.Reiki works on the area where the reiki master and at home with a 10-minute Reiki to western civilization, felt that it is part of meditation.However, Reiki should only do one level of the colors are filled with strength which is a gentle yet powerful impact on anyone as that may change for different objectives such as crystals, sound and guided imagery allow the student numerous attunements.Whenever you want to know the best answer.However many schools of thought exist around how you can add Reiki energy at all.

It involves sitting still or the receiver of Karuna.The energy of Reiki during open-heart surgeries and heart chakras.These are an issue, whether that be physical or emotional, although this soon passes.The physical body works to heal an individual.The first is not a massage, a massage would.

[jestdrabbles]

Every Hurdle, Every Chasm - Chapter 05

Fandom: Boku no Hero Academia

Warnings: canon-typical violence Characters: Midoriya Izuku, Iida Tenya, Uraraka Ochako, Asui Tsuyu, Todoroki Shouto Relationships: Dekusquad friendship | Pining Tododeku & Tsuchako Other info: Dekusquad Roadtrip AU ; Fun times ahead but also some emotional times so I should definitely warn about that!; MAJOR MANGA SPOILERS.

Words: ~8,300 | Chapter: 05/? | Language: English

This was a busy month, so sorry for the delay! Because it’s been so hectic, my editing may have suffered a bit so I’m sorry for any confusion. If anything needs clarification, I’ll gladly go back and tweak it!

Also on AO3!

Day 05: Glass  [December 28]

They rise well-rested enough to only nudge Shouto’s blanket bundle a couple times before he stretches and follows their lead to get ready. Tenya opens the window with relief when a clear sky greets them as opposed to yesterday’s overcast. The day’s plans consist mostly of indoor activity with evening reserved for Otaru’s Snow Story display, and Tsuyu decides to lessen her layers accordingly. Ochako stuffs an extra jacket of her own into Izuku’s bag under the guise of just-in-case, but he sees right through her strategy despite playing along.

He isn’t entirely without some attention to himself, however. Shouto packs up his medical kit to leave in the car because he knows some of them have a tendency to get injured without intention, and Tsuyu laughs when he forfeits defending himself and accepts the truth. With all precautions accounted for, they begin the day after a quick breakfast and hit the road toward the university for a morning with the indoor botanical garden.

“I’d love to see all of it someday,” Tsuyu says as they bypass the leafless trees, traversing across the snowy path on their way to the greenhouse. She glances around at others still enjoying the gardens in their most dead season, and she taps her finger to her cheek. “Have any of you ever thought about university after graduation?”

“I’ve considered it, but at this point, I would have to wait until next year to begin the application process,” Tenya answers, hand at his chin. “I want to work and see if I’d be able to balance both heroics and academics, since I wouldn’t ever want to risk falling short on either.”

“That’s true! I never really thought about it since I want to start working as soon as I can.” Ochako folds her arms behind her head, lacing her fingers at her neck as she walks. Her lips purse as she side-eyes the rest of them. “Besides, I’m not the studious type like the rest of you.”

“I don’t really consider myself studious either,” Shouto says with his hands in his pockets.

“You say that, but you’re still in the top five,” she pouts.

“That’s because I pay attention in class.”

“Hey! Are you implying I don’t?”

“Ochako’s notes are cute,” Tsuyu interjects, and her arms abandon their relaxed position as she straightens out in her fluster. “Besides, I don’t think grades have much to do with your capabilities as a hero so long as you know how to apply it.”

“I agree with that.” Izuku points with his face turned back slightly toward them. “Togata-senpai was at the bottom of his class, but he was still in the top three. And as Lemillion, he’s considered one of the best out there right now!” He almost mentions how he wishes Lemillion had been a hero when he was young; maybe then he could have had more confidence in his abilities as a quirkless kid with heroic aspirations. The secret settles in the back of his mind, alongside the memories. “But going back to what we were talking about… I didn’t think I’d get into U.A., so I thought I’d have to consider other occupations. So who knows, maybe I would have been a university student.”

“True, your quirk wasn’t… polished at that point,” Tenya speaks on the exam as politely as he can, “but I’m sure you would have been able to get into General Studies with your grades.” Shouto casts his eyes down, checks his phone, and walks ahead at his own pace. Tsuyu notices his avoidance of the conversation, and she decides to catch up with him to ask about it underneath a whisper.

“Maybe, but I didn’t consider that an option,” he says in earnest. “For me, it was heroics or nothing, you know?”

“Thank goodness for that! Can you imagine Deku as a pencil-pusher with a quirk like that?” Ochako jokes and pats his back, his own chuckle mingling with hers. She looks up and notices how Shouto and Tsuyu have created more distance, and she calls out to the two of them, dragging both Izuku and Tenya by their arms. “Hey, you two! Wait up!”

It’s then that Izuku notices the residue of Shouto’s solemn expression, already working itself away from distaste. Whatever nerve they’d struck, he tries his best to avoid any possible repetitions as they approach the greenhouse. He holds the door open for the rest to shuffle inside, pleased with the scarce crowd scattered about. Tsuyu exhales with her arms out, warm air cradling her face as she nuzzles into it. Ochako readies her camera for a shot, quietly cursing for it to load quicker so she won’t miss her chance, and Tsuyu catches on just as she zooms in a bit closer.

“Are you filming this?”

“Maybe,” she snickers, and Tsuyu aims her tongue at the camera’s lense to blacken the screen as Ochako declares a louder-than-intended holy shit. She clamps her mouth shut behind her gloved hands, and Tenya gestures profusely in apology to anyone disturbed by their antics. While Ochako’s focus is consumed entirely by her clear favoritism, the others take in the lavish greenery within its glass cage as they adjust to the seasonal change. Vines hatch through the lattice fences leading them through the west wall of the garden, and Tsuyu notes how it used to be far less intricate.

They bypass various plants, some far more interesting than others, but Izuku catches the girls snickering to themselves over by the shrubs. Ochako waves him over, and they extend their hands as if framing the hedge to inspire something within him. Clearly confused, he thinks of something to say.

“It’s… a nice bush?”

“No, look! It’s totally you!” she points to the dark coloration of the mock-orange’s leaves to its lighter underside, then to Izuku’s own bushy hair. He steps back at the comparison unsure how to feel about it. “Small and durable, like you! Plus it’s salt tolerant.”

“Wait, what does that have to do with anything?”

“You were friends with Bakugou,” Tsuyu explains, “so you’re pretty tolerant of salt.”

Shouto turns to look at the maple with his hand masking his own amusement, and Izuku pulls back his hair as he laughs. How can he argue with that? Part of him worries about the name in his contacts shooting across his screen in scorn at them talking about him, but he knows it’s impossible. Tenya attempts to correct them on speaking ill about those who cannot be present to defend themselves, but his case closes soon as they shrug and claim it as less insulting and more speaking the obvious.

“Iida’s gotta be a tree,” Ochako looks around the garden trying to pinpoint him, “but you’re the type that’s too big to be in an indoor garden like this. One with a sturdy trunk and totally upright!”

“I can’t say I disagree, but why?” he asks, and she smiles wide.

“I mean, obviously because you’re an upstanding citizen!” She places her hands on her hips proudly in her proclamation, and he is visibly moved by her compliment with his hand at his heart. “But also! You’re reliable and protective, so you have to be big enough to give people shelter.”

“When they cut you down, I bet they’ll print a rulebook,” Shouto comments, and Tenya waves his hand down, passionately at the ready to defend his tree’s legacy.

“One that I hope you’ll read thoroughly!”

“Oh, oh! Let’s see, what would Todoroki be,” Ochako says and taps her finger to her chin as she devises appropriate revenge for Tenya’s sake, but he speaks up before she has a chance.

“I’ve already been through this. I’m the fertilizer.” Shouto provides the answer himself, and she spits in her laughter because she would have never thought of that on her own.

“Wouldn’t you rather be mulch in that case?” Izuku leans over and asks, nose scrunched in amused disgust at the comparison. “At least be plant still!”

“Technically, I could still be a plant even as--”

“Please, I’m begging you not to elaborate on this.” Tenya pinches his eyes beneath his glasses, and Ochako agrees for different reasons: she prefers all of this without context. Still, she offers up her own sentiment to his new floral identity alongside the others by saying they have a greater chance at survival thanks to his help, and he distracts himself elsewhere without knowing how to react.

While they could easily circle the whole garden twice over with the amount of time they have, they decide to take it at a leisurely pace and allow Tsuyu to soak up as much of the warm, pocketed spring as she can. For a moment, they forget about the bitter cold waiting for them beyond the windows. Izuku and Ochako shed themselves of their coats and tie them around their waists with the latter at an absolute loss how the others aren’t sweating in their sleeves.

They stare down the entrance, confrontational as a final boss, and brace themselves for the cold by huddling together and moving as a single unit. They shuffle back to the car with muffled yelling toward the harsh breezes, some truly combatting the cold, others for the sake of playing along.

Locals listening in steer clear of the ten-legged monster screaming at snow.

A little over an hour on the road has them arriving in Otaru past noon, and with all the outdoor exhibits closed for the winter, the interior remains fairly empty thanks to most tourists favoring a full experience over partial. The group appreciate the elbow-room to venture around the aquarium as they please, and Izuku marvels at a fish passing overhead while they walk through the glass tunnel toward the darker room.

“This is making me miss the beach back home.”

“The beach or the morning jogs?”

“A little bit of both,” he says and stretches. “I’m not used to slacking like this. Maybe tonight we should use the gym back at the hotel before bed.”

“That’s not a bad idea. I doubt we could get away with more impromptu sparring,” Tenya recounts the previous occurrence. “In that case, should we try to head back earlier so we still get plenty of rest?”

“I say we just take our time,” Ochako recommends with her hands raised. “If we finish early, then I’m down, but we can always squeeze it into our morning routine if we want.”

“That’s true. I wonder if they have an indoor pool, too.” Tsuyu watches the fish swim about, and they can tell part of her looks ready to hop into the waters and join them. Izuku imagines for a moment that she’ll dive headfirst into the hotsprings once they reach them, but he quickly shoves it aside since he would rather not spend his thoughts on the girls’ half.

They carry on in conversation while looking through the various tanks at all the different types of fish and creatures they don’t have back at their own aquarium. Ochako tries to quiz herself on a few that she recognizes, and she cheers for herself triumphantly when she guesses correctly, crediting all her success to spending the car ride on her phone with Animal Crossing.

Tsuyu had been looking forward to all the aquatic life, but she finds it hard to tear her eyes away from Ochako’s enthusiastic chestnut gaze as she smiles brightly toward the back-lit glass. Tsuyu watches as her mouth moves over her words, how she can hear heart in each sound, and how nicely cool colors compliment her despite the fact that she usually dresses in warmer tones.

She must have been staring a little too intently because the usual petals of Ochako’s cheeks bloom broader, spreading up to her ears.

“A-Am I being too loud?” she asks bashfully, and Tsuyu hurriedly shakes her head.

“I was just thinking that…” you looked cute, but she can’t bring herself to finish it this time as opposed to other times she’s offered the same compliment. Without a means of finishing her thought, she turns to the others for possible back up only to find that they’ve journeyed further along to discreetly give the girls some time to themselves. She ribbits and lowers her face on her finger, hoping the dimly lit room hides her own blush. “I was thinking that I’m lucky.”

“Huh? Why’s that?” She smiles, hoping that Tsuyu isn’t dwelling on a worrisome mindset given the tone, but she’s grateful for the space apart from the others in case.

“Ochako, do you like fish?”

“I like eating them, yeah!”

Tsuyu snorts and loses herself in her own laughter, shaking loose the previous embarrassment. The other doesn’t understand what’s so funny, but she tries to figure it out with escalating scenarios: I wouldn’t eat a pet fish or anything! And I’m not getting hungry being here! Do you think I’m seeing them all cut up on a board? Her own imagination tumbles out her mouth with rising distress, and Tsuyu quells her easily with her hand on her arm.

“Even if you’re not all that interested in coming to a place like this, you still enjoy yourself. That’s why I’m lucky,” Tsuyu explains, and Ochako’s lips freeze in a smile as she listens to the compliment. “I guess I got a little lost in thought watching you, Ochako. Sorry for making you think you did anything weird.”

Ochako giggles, shaking her head. “I guess it’s like this… if I took you to a planetarium, rambled about constellations and all that, would you still have fun?”

“Well, yeah. With you, even boring classes are fun.”

She smiles wide, teeth shining sweetly. “See? It’s the same for me.”

“Hey, we’re going on ahead to the next room,” Shouto stays behind Tenya and Izuku to call out to them, and they quickly catch up without paying the last few tanks much mind. He looks to Tsuyu for a brief moment as silent apology, having only wanted to tell them where they went, but she shakes her head.

Tsuyu knows that if she wants to spend time alone with Ochako, everyone will respect that; however, she doesn’t want either of them to miss out on enjoying time as a group. That’s something she values in her balanced affection, and she’s comfortable knowing that Ochako never seems disappointed when their time together comes to close. It gives her hope that together, they have stability in each other and those around them.

Of course, Shouto cannot read her mind, and he walks on ahead with the other two in case. Both girls share a glance and smile, bumping arms and catching up quickly to cluster together again since they’re the only ones in this area of the aquarium. Without having to worry about disturbing anyone else, they resume sharing their observations with each other in excited bursts. After a few exclamations, Tenya has to shout his own concerns about disturbing the fish or employees, but they tease that he’s being louder than both Izuku and Ochako together.

He offers his sincerest apologies to the sectioned seas and their inhabitants.

Tenya parks a few blocks away from the Music Box Museum, and he jots down the street sign and obvious landmarks in a note on his phone so they could find it easier past sundown. With temperatures dropping again, Shouto offers his arm to Tsuyu, and she takes the opportunity to chain both herself and Ochako to him. While the others don’t necessarily need the extra warmth, they can’t help but envy how comfortable she looks pressed against his sleeve.

Wooden floorboards creak beneath their feet when the bell chimes to welcome them inside the old, brick building. Dangling ornaments decorate the spacious interior, various trinkets lining shelves on display amidst the vast collection of music boxes attracting them further inside. Had they come just a few days sooner, they wouldn’t be surprised to find gingerbread houses accompanying other decorations atop the tables.

“It’s so cozy in here,” Tsuyu says as she rubs her gloves together. An employee brings their attention to the complimentary hot cocoa, and she takes it upon herself to pass the paper cups down to her friends for them all to enjoy. Now that they have a better view of the place, they notice it more akin to a specialty shop than a museum, but some antique items still qualify well enough. “So… do you think any of them are haunted?”

“Why would you even say that?” Ochako shudders, and Tsuyu pats her.

“With this many, I suppose at least one has to have that sort of history linked to it.” Tenya entertains the idea with his own speculation, and Ochako shifts her pouting toward him. “Can you not handle ghost stories, Uraraka?”

“I mean, I’ve gotten better,” she grumbles, “but only because Tooru found out and started pulling pranks on me.”

“Hagakure can be pretty dangerous like that. Hang in there, Uraraka.” Izuku offers her his condolences while she nods her head in feigned hurt. They keep in a line the best they can as to not crowd the aisles while they work their way around each display. With so many music boxes chiming together, they have to hold up one to their ears to really listen in on the melody, but recognizable songs have them humming along in nostalgia.

They wrap up the first floor quick enough without much interest to the duplicated displays, but the second floor shows them a new perspective with antiques from across the world. Phonographs and photographs call back to times before quirks, and Izuku’s namesake tugs him toward faces he’s never known, time he’s never seen, but can relate to. He holds one by its metal frame, peering into the grainy texture toward a familiar landmark until he nearly drops it from the sound of an old record filtering in.

“Incredible,” Tenya interjects as an employee tests the phonograph from his request, but they shut it off soon enough as to not disturb the others listening to quieter tunes. Out of the three stationed, only one still operates consistently while the others either need a bit of extra love or have long since died. Izuku can see in his eyes how he’d love to tinker with the mechanics, but Tenya knows how to keep his curiosity in check.

They wander further and find the other three admiring some antique music boxes with an employee seated nearby to make sure they’re handled with the utmost care. He has to practically sit on his hands when he watches Ochako raise one of them to her ear, but he breathes a sigh of relief when she holds it still without shaking it. Izuku can tell he’s seen some shit.

“Is it just me, or do music boxes seem melancholic?” Ochako sets one down after listening to it closely, careful of her fingertips.

“I always thought they were creepy, especially when one starts playing in an empty room.”

“Maybe you’ve seen too many horror movies.”

“Hey! I thought we moved on from that topic!” Ochako shushes them before they can conjure up the ghosts listening in, and they make sure to filter their thoughts better. “But really… listening to music box versions of songs can make me cry. I wonder why that is.”

“Yeah, I know what you mean.” Izuku finishes off his cocoa, and she answers him in a sardonic grin.

“That’s because you cry over everything.”

“That’s not true!”

“It’s pretty true,” Shouto adds without turning around from where he’s listening to other boxes, his empty cup atop the counter. Izuku’s face descends in its dramatics, his soul mimicking et tu Brute?, but even he can’t deny that they’re right. Rather than linger on teasing Izuku, he returns the toy to the table and rotates around to face them. “Do you really think they’re sad and creepy?”

Something about the way he asks has them searching for a way to reconsider their initial reactions, but Tsuyu speaks up first. “What do you think about them?”

“I like them.” He takes another from the shelf, this one a wooden jewelry box with a glass cover. He opens the lid and closes it soon after hearing the first few notes, setting it down again as if it already failed some sort of test he’s given it. “I think we used to have one, but I don’t know what happened to it.”

“And you think you’ll be able to find a similar model here?” Tenya asks, and Shouto shakes his head.

“I can’t even remember what it looked or sounded like. I didn’t even really remember it until we got here, so I doubt that I’d even recognize it.”

“Well, maybe you don’t have to visualize it! If hearing other boxes reminded you that you had one, then there’s still a chance something else can jog more of your memory. Why don’t we try looking around?” Izuku offers as a suggestion, and Ochako pumps her fist at the mission plan.

“If it’s here, then we’ll definitely find it!”

“You really don’t have to do that.”

“What else are we going to do here, Shouto?” Tsuyu sticks out her tongue. “Besides, the longer we’re in here, the longer I get to avoid the cold. Let us know if you remember anything else about it.” She smiles and takes his empty cup, then accepts anyone else’s as she takes the opportunity to toss them into a small trash can and returns with both her hands ready to work through other boxes.

Over the course of their travels through the second floor, Shouto surmises that the box they had was an actual box and not a wind-up music statue, so they narrow their search further. Tenya offers his advice that judging by Shouto’s room and what he’s shared about his house, the style was most likely eastern rather than western. They continue trying to narrow their searches down until he stops at a dark, cloisonne case with simple flowers decorating the walls and a more intricate tree adorning the top. He lifts it with his fingers searching for a dent-- no, a scratch along its side-- but he only feels a smooth surface. Judging by how long he’s held it compared to the others before it, Izuku leans over.

“Closer?”

“This one,” he begins, inspecting the back for its wind-up key, “might be the same kind. Or at least close, yeah.” He turns the key and opens the top, and they shuffle closer to listen in on its melody, gentle and calming. Shouto closes his eyes to try and recall the sound filling his and his mother’s room, but no matter how hard he concentrates, nothing solid arises. That may be the nature of it, he supposes. It isn’t like metal box could float anyway.

“So what do you think?” Tenya asks a moment after the song finishes, and he closes the lid.

“Even if it isn’t the same exact one, she might still like it.” Shouto lifts the tag accompanying it and taps his finger against the edge as he contemplates his funds. Ochako glances at the price and keeps her worry to herself, but she takes it upon herself to grab the attention of an employee once he’s made the final decision to purchase it.

Once he’s taken care of the packaging, he tucks it safely into his bag, adjusts his strap, and looks to the rest of them with a word at the tip of his tongue. He lets himself soften at the hypothetical look on his mother’s face when he tells her about the team effort, all for something that may or may not resemble a piece of their past. She knows their names, their faces for the most part, but he knows the day he can introduce them all at once is still far beyond.

“Thanks. I’m sure she’ll appreciate that you all helped me find it.”

With the cold, nightly winds slapping them sharp in their departure, Ochako promptly reaches her entire arm down into Izuku’s bag to retrieve her extra hoodie and passes it to Tsuyu with little fuss. She tugs it over her sweater and tugs the sleeves over her palms as she keeps her hands huddled to her chest. Thankfully, they adapt to the cold after its initial greeting and find themselves amongst the foot traffic leading over toward the canal.

Deciding that they would rather have less crowding on the way, they slip into a side street and gravitate toward a quieter path even if it takes longer to reach their destination. Tsuyu takes to Tenya’s side rather than Shouto’s, perhaps to give the latter a break, but Tenya takes his responsibility very seriously as he offers to encase her in his arms should she need their protection. She laughs it off with gratitude, and she presses her sleeved palms to her cheeks as she lets him know that she’s warm enough like this.

Tenya can’t help but smile down at her. They carry on until Ochako joins at her other side with her phone ready for pictures with street lights offering just enough lighting to take passable shots, even if they don’t hold the same quality. Tsuyu and Tenya pose accordingly for the frontal camera, and once she’s content with one, she thanks them and slips back.

Ochako sidles up beside Shouto’s right and sneaks a photo of herself pointing toward him, then she slips behind again to remain inconspicuous. So far so good; she captions the picture and prepares herself for round two, much to Tsuyu’s gentle knock against her forearm to play nice when she passes her. She lifts her finger to her grin and waits a moment until she’s ready to catch his left, and as she snaps the picture, he glances back at her and finally speaks up.

“Can I help you?”

“Busted,” Tsuyu ribbits, and Ochako adds the caption and considers her mission successful. She shows the set to him, and he cracks a fleeting grin: He can be your angle… or yuor devil. He snatches her phone and sends both to his own.

“You actually want to keep those?” Ochako snorts, and he shrugs.

“My mom asked for pictures of me.” he pockets his phone and keeps his hands snug inside. She shakes his arm in exaggerated panic, Tenya and Izuku chuckling behind.

“Do not!” she gasps. “Don’t you dare show those to your mother! Let me take real pictures!”

“Things like this are fine. Besides, she’d agree.”

“Todoroki, that’s,” Izuku stammers on how to address the comment when he says it so casually, but the guiding blue lights bordering the canal summon their attention forward. Quickening their pace, they reach the border of the canal to see how the surface glows under gentle brightness, reflecting off their eyes and skin. The lights stretch down the canal, decorating posts and boats, even glittering across the Asakusa bridge.

“It’s beautiful.” Tenya follows the path upstream, wistful in its whisper. Groups and couples pass them, chattering on their way through private conversations and shared smiles. He can see why the simple serenity would attract this sort of crowd when he adjusts the bracelet on his wrist. “Shall we?”

“Wait, I want to get a real picture of us all on the bridge!” Ochako smiles excitedly, flitting around each of them until they surrender to her whims. She drags them further south the canal to the bridge and takes it upon herself to set them all in place. However, when she tests it out and adds herself, she notices how Izuku loses himself behind her and Tsuyu.

“I can stand off to the side in front of Iida?” he offers while she compromises her initial vision. It hits her suddenly, and she snaps with a wink.

“How ‘bout this? I can make you float so you fit perfectly between us!”

“Oh, yeah that works!”

She raises her hand, and he meets her in a high-five, immediately weightless and grabbing onto her shoulder for anchorage. They let Tsuyu grab the attention of passerby to take it for them, and Tenya keeps Izuku upright by placing a hand on the small of his back. Once everyone’s in place with Ochako wrapping her arm around Tsuyu, they all attempt to smile perfect on the first try as to not take up more of this stranger’s time.

Even so, when she retrieves her phone to see the results, she finds four versions. One catches her attention in particular, and she quickly swipes past it when Izuku looks over her shoulder to see for himself. As much as she would love to uncover him, she doesn’t think Shouto would appreciate how they managed to catch him eyeing Izuku on camera. She shares her favorite with everyone and allows them to actually start the walk now that her very important task has been checked off the list.

They cross the bridge to the other side of the canal and carry on toward the center plaza. Tsuyu twitches when a breeze blows past their legs, sending the chill up her spine and bringing her hands to her arms. Izuku starts to offer his jacket for yet another layer, but she takes both his and Ochako’s arms and keeps herself linked in the toasty center.

“Don’t they set up candles at some point?” Izuku asks, keeping his attention toward the canal after accidentally locking eyes with a couple passing them.

“I’ve heard about that,” Tenya adds as he tries to recall when exactly, “but unfortunately, I don’t think we’ll be able to see it.”

“Sounds romantic.” Ochako sways in her steps, and Shouto lifts his finger to set a tiny flame at its tip. While she understands his gesture after the fact, she squawks at the imagery of a canal decorated in finger-flesh candles and fans the flame until its out. “Nevermind! Not romantic at all!” He slips his hand back into his pocket and turns his head toward the canal where Izuku’s study still lingers. Either there’s something on his mind, or he’s fixated on the twinkling over the water; Shouto drifts closer to the stone fencing lining the canal and peeks over the edge.

Thanks to the lights, his reflection vaguely stares back at him in the dark water, obscured by the blues and golds from the lamps. He sweeps some of the piled snow aside, pieces toppling over into the water and rippling him out of watery existence. Shouto readies to catch up with the others, but when he looks back, Izuku is standing just a lamp post away with the others having gone ahead. He thinks back to the aquarium and worries about separating from the others.

“Sorry, I got distracted,” he carries on, but Izuku doesn’t try to rush them.

“That’s okay! I was getting caught up in it, too.” He takes Shouto’s idea of brushing the snow aside and uses the exposed stone to rest his arms. “I told them that we could meet up later.”

“You didn’t have to do that.”

“Well no, but I kind of wanted to talk to you,” he confesses, and Shouto’s chest tightens. “I never got a chance to ask you about what you wanted to say last night. I thought maybe you forgot or didn’t want to say it in front of everyone.” Izuku watches as he confirms it with the puzzled face Shouto wears in return, and he chuckles. “Did you really forget?”

“I just didn’t expect it to come up again.” He sets himself beside Izuku against the stone, thankful to tune out the other people walking onward behind them.

“You know me,” Izuku speaks with a mocking tone at his own habits, “I can’t just ignore stuff like that.”

“That’s true.” His lips crack a natural semi-smile, and Izuku worries about it shattering if he’s prolonging the talk like this. He finds it unusual given how the past two years haven’t left Shouto as a mysterious person to him; the only thing he hasn’t touched on again is detail in his upbringing, and Izuku knows better than to force it out of him. “But to be honest, this might be better than what I had in mind.”

“What do you mean?”

Shouto’s hands find one another, draped over the stone, and he tears his eyes away from Izuku beside him to watch down into the water below, stilled since dropping the snow earlier. He thinks back to his conversation with Tenya, how he knows what his words and actions weigh. “I wanted to ask if we could do something,” Shouto says as he focuses all his excess energy on cooling his face to hide how it heats, “apart from everyone else. Maybe go looking for souvenirs for All Might and your mom. Something like that.”

Oh. Relief washes over Izuku as his nerves loosen from having to worry. That’s all. From the way he’s been keeping on his phone, how he knows who the majority of the news is following, he’d assumed there was something more to the story. He relaxes and readies himself to respond, but it suddenly slams into him like a swinging hammer.

Oh.

He should be grateful he’d never inherited his father’s quirk or else Shouto may have to deal with a face full of flames caught up in his own fluster. Izuku winds himself down the best he can, but when he looks back to Shouto, his face is turned away and his shoulders bounce. The puffs of foggy breath give away his snickering, and Izuku drags his hand down the back of his head.

“Listen, I thought you were about to unload something serious!” His voice wavers as he speaks, embarrassed but recovering.

“I am serious.”

“You know, I really can’t tell what you’re thinking sometimes.” He leans back from the barrier, balancing on the heels of his sneakers. “But I guess if you ever need to talk to me or ask about something like that, you can text me, and we can make up some excuse to break off. I don’t think anyone would notice since I’m on my phone a lot anyway.” And so are you, he thinks but holds his tongue.

“You’ve been keeping in touch with All Might?”

“As much as I can without bothering him,” Izuku says and brushes his nose with the back of his glove, “but I’ve also had to text my mom since she worries if I don’t. I actually called her when we were on the ferry, but otherwise just in the morning or at night. I made sure not to tell her about Yutapa though.” He knocks lightly on Shouto’s arm, content with friendly exchanges despite how his heart buzzes in his chest. “I don’t know if you’d get off without a scolding.”

Shouto doesn’t mirror his grin; if anything, his lips tug taut between his teeth. He wonders if he’s said something wrong, reminded him of a shortcoming he’d rather move past, and he thinks to reassure him that his mother is overprotective and wouldn’t hate him or anything, but Shouto places his hand on his shoulder. Izuku really should know better than to trust himself to the silence, and he apologizes.

Shouto hates that he has to take his hand back, hates that he’s waiting for any natural chance to touch in the first place. He can see Inko Midoriya’s worried eyes reflected in the way Izuku stares back at him, something at the tip of his tongue but unable to say, even after one of his muttering spells. If he were anyone else, Shouto would shrug it off and take the opportunity to start walking back toward the others. Instead, he finds himself at the cliff of his resolve, another reflection over the canal just waiting to be seen. He parts his lips, name waiting in his mouth, but the noise falls victim to flashes and roars ahead.

Shrieks resound as the night sky bursts in smoke and violet flame.

The calm atmosphere surrenders itself to the frantic rush of civilians evacuating the area, running past the two frozen in their feet. Both Shouto and Izuku abandon their conversation without remorse, eye one another, and sprint toward the plaza. Where they’d promise to gather at the ukidama tree, the glass shines and shatters across the pavement in the chaos. Izuku’s gaze darts across the fleeing crowd, searching for anyone responsible for the destruction, but Tenya tugs him by the shoulder before he can act on impulse with Shouto having gone through.

“We’re getting to the van. Now.” Ochako and Tsuyu are at his sides, unable to ignore their rescue instinct to search for anyone in need even with Tenya’s tone harsh in their ears.

“But--”

Another explosion bursts from the bridge, wind skidding their lighter bodies as arms shield them from possible debris. Tenya raises his voice to repeat himself above the screaming, but Tsuyu acts quicker than any of them when she spots a civilian caught between one of the brick warehouses and blazing fire, blood soaking his knee where he lay.

Without restraint, she darts toward him and slips through the crowd, low to the ground in her movements as she braves the heat and extends her tongue to capture the young man  paralyzed in his fear before further wreckage can reach him. Just as she pulls him back, another surge of fire strikes and threatens to blast through where he’s tugged, and she quickly leaps to finish closing the space between them.

Her smaller frame wraps around him and protects him from the oncoming blow, sacrificing her left side to the flames’ touch before they tumble out of its terrain. Beneath her, his breath hitches on its gratitude, even as he writhes in pain from burns and blood. She pulls back swiftly, still shielding him the best she can.

“You’re going to be all right,” she reassures, “was there anyone else with you?”

“N-No, they never showed up,” he strains in his speech, and she nods.

“Tsuyu!” Tenya calls out, rushing to her side in an effort to remove them both from the crossfire. She raises her head, cheek red from the concrete’s scuff, and props the young man up with a hand on his back. He clutches his leg in her hold, teeth dry in his hiss.

“I don’t think he can walk,” she tells him, fast and on the lookout for another array of the villain’s quirk. No sign of him, especially through the dark smog he’s created. “Tenya, we can’t leave him.” He grits his teeth and turns toward the others, only spotting Izuku and Ochako through the smoke with their backs against one another on alert while they wait for their plan. “Tenya!”

“I know.” He struggles to mask his frustration as he contemplates his actions and repeats, “I know! But we can’t get involved any more than we are.” Tenya whips around to Izuku and Ochako, voice louder as he yells over the noise. “You two! Where is Todoroki?”

“I’m right here!” he shouts when he comes barreling out the smoke and lowers himself to both Tsuyu and the injured civilian. “I can create a barrier so we can--”

“No! We’re getting out of here, now,” he snaps back with everyone now near enough to hear. He reaches into his pocket and tosses the keys to Shouto. “You four, head back toward the van. I’ll rendezvous once I’ve brought him to the hospital.” Tsuyu assists in easing him onto Tenya’s back, and she does her best to reassure him that he’ll be safe soon with the engine hero-to-be. They instruct him to hold on as tight, and Tenya takes off without threat of immediate acceleration. Even with his usual running, he would be faster than the rest of them.

A whistle splits through their ears, another bout of purple embers scattering the cracks in the cement. Izuku’s eyes glare off in its direction, rage building in his blood where he has to fight himself more than the villain to stick to the plan. “Let’s go. Now!” he roars over the embers’ howl, and Tsuyu staggers as she returns to her feet, left leg limp. She winces, ready to force her leap, but Shouto quickly bends before her.

“Get on! We gotta go,” he states without giving her a choice, and she obeys as the three sprint from the plaza and back down the canal, passing a team of pros on their way to handle the turmoil. She squeezes her eyes shut at the sounds still booming in her ears, arms tightening around his neck while her body tenses. It isn’t that the attacks frighten or even surprise her; the opposite spits a truth they all know by now:

There is no such thing as a day off.

“Uraraka! Are you all right?” Izuku calls after her, noticing her distance from the two of them still running on ahead.

“I’m not as fast as you two!” she yells, trying her best to keep up with them. Izuku turns on his heel and darts back toward her, concentrating on his Full Cowl to make lifting her and sprinting far easier than without. She yelps from his sudden grasp, but she thanks him while clutching on close.

They always say the journey back is quicker than the arrival, but Shouto and Izuku cut it down by half. Charging past the newly lifted blockades, they ease off the urgent speed so Izuku can set Ochako back down, and they continue through the streets until finally reaching the museum landmark. Just another block, and they spot the van alone and parked right where they’d left it. They could be grateful for that, at least. Had they taken the train into Otaru, this would have been even more of a nightmare.

Shouto unlocks the car and prioritizes Tsuyu by setting her down in the back seat with her legs facing out, getting a better look at her leg under the car’s light. “I don’t think it’s that bad,” she says and starts to pull at the fabric where the flames had burnt through to free more of her skin, but he grabs her wrist to stop her.

The sky still carries with it thick clouds of smoke and a thunderous echo of eruption.

“Uraraka or Midoriya, can you get my bag?” he asks without facing either of them, still concentrating on the problem at hand by releasing hers. “You’re right, it’s not as bad as it could have been, but we still need to treat this,” he insists and notes her shivering, “fast. Sorry. It’s best if you don’t try to pull the fabric from it.”

“Here.” Ochako holds his bag for him, carrying it in a way that he could open it without worrying about anything spilling out. From it, he fumbles his hand around, feeling for a specific item until he pulls out a plain wash cloth.

“Hold this for a second,” he places it in Tsuyu’s hand, then goes back to his bag for a small set of scissors from his medical kit. She has to will her eyes away from the process while he carefully cuts the fabric loose from her burn, catching Ochako’s worry as she visibly fidgets in her footing. Izuku offers to take the bag-holding duty, but she shakes her head.

Shouto steps back from her for a moment to ice the towel, then holds it away from himself as his fire melts the ice without evaporating all its moisture. Once it’s doused, he wrings it damp and brings it back to her, cool without the intensity of ice. “We can rinse it when we get back. Does it hurt anywhere else?”

“No,” she croaks, holding the damp cloth to her leg and resisting the chattering in her teeth, “this is the worst of it. I should have been more careful.”

“You did the right thing.” He blinks up to her face, earnest despite his frozen expression. She can see how he takes a longer look at her cheek, and he retrieves a cotton swab and disinfectant from the bag to dab at her scrape, just to be safe.

“Here, Deku,” Ochako finally takes him up on his offer and passes Shouto’s bag to him while she carries herself to the other side of the car and lets herself inside. Scooting down the seats, she sets herself in the middle, “We should have her raise her leg, right?” She looks across to Shouto for approval, and he nods. “Okay, then here, Tsu. Go ahead and prop it over mine.” She crosses her legs, grabs a pillow from the back, and creates more elevation.

“Are you done with this?” Izuku asks, and Shouto answers by zipping it shut and taking it from him. “Iida should be back any second. Let’s start the car so we can leave as soon as he gets here.” Otherwise, I might not be able to stop myself from running back. He doesn’t want to imagine any possible casualties caught up in the crossfire.

“Yeah.” He tosses his bag in the trunk and shuts it, walking around the right toward the front seat where he finds Izuku already occupying the passenger. They shut all the doors to keep the wind away, start the car, and soon enough, Tenya comes into sight. Hurriedly, he shifts out of park, and Tenya swings the door open to hop into the back seat, slamming the door shut and prompting Shouto to start heading back toward Sapporo.

Instinctually, Shouto switches on the radio to fill the silence, but all local stations prioritize the outbreak at Otaru Canal. The only immediate knowledge he holds onto is that the roads toward Sapporo are closing in order to deter any villain activity from spreading to the major city. He leaves it be as he asks Izuku to reroute his mobile map, halfway listening and eyes tunneling down the road as he squints through the layer of fog on the windshield. He eventually has to lean forward in his seat to rub at the glass with his sleeve, and Izuku takes it upon himself to set the heater on the front window and shut off the radio.

As much as he wants to know what’s happening, to hear that the pros have it under control, the reporters’ voices continuously add layers to the air until it crowds his lungs.

The road expands as Izuku swallows back the rush of words threatening to lunge from his throat, and he turns around to face his friends silent in the back seat. Ochako has her hands pressed against Tsuyu’s thigh as she holds the damp towel in place and whispers apologies to the other girl’s shivering reassurances. Izuku’s eyes trail to the other end of the backseat to Tenya staring out the window with his glances darting behind them and an obvious unrest pestering him in his jittering leg.

A conversation no one wants to confront, not yet.

Green eyes linger on them a moment more, wanting so badly to upturn his tightened lip and offer them peace of mind. Be their Symbol of Peace. Yet here he is, trapped in quiet with his fingers digging into the seat until he turns to face the front of the road again.

Shouto’s silence doesn’t warrant his concern, not initially. Mismatched eyes blink to snatch glances from the rearview mirror, ears keen on the shivering and knowing full well he should focus on warming the car. Instead, nothing leaves the vents, nothing breaks the domain of shuddering breath and sighs until Izuku’s attention finally surrenders to the thin layer of ice dusting over their driver’s right hand. Following up his arm slowly, Izuku watches the chill form on his neck and bring his breath visible in a light display of shivery smoke.

His voice finally finds him.

“Pull over.”

“We can’t,” he answers, tone level and low as always, but there’s a distance to it that summons the others’ eyes. Tenya’s hand reaches for the seat in front of him, and he leans over to inspect their driver.

“Are you all right?” he asks.

“I’m not the one who got hurt.” He glances back through the mirror to their injured companion, reminding everyone of the urgency of their situation. His grip on the wheel tightens as he tries to keep collected and focus on putting more distance between them and the danger possibly following suit.

“You’re shaking, Todoroki,” Izuku whispers despite the fact that everyone can hear, and he can see Shouto’s jaw clench down as another puff of smoke leaves his nose. Visible frustration, but he doesn’t let it sway his resolve when he repeats himself with steadiness, this time stern. “I’m not asking. Pull over.”

“He’s right, Todoroki,” Ochako echoes softly with her hands loosening her hold on Tsuyu before they could potentially argue. “We’re all shaken up and need to take a break. What about the next exit?”

Shouto knows better than to try and cling to stubbornness with multiple people ready to dispute, so he bites without another word and keeps his eyes out for the next available lodging while trying to balance his nerves. He knows he’s only worsening the cold in the car the longer he drives even with the heater running, and he chooses to ignore the stare accompanying his left.

Even with this much distance between them, Shouto sees the smoke in his peripheral.

It almost clouds the exit, but he catches it in time to merge off the highway, toward the mountains.

[humansofhds]

Professor Todne Thomas

“I never imagined myself where I am today. I learned to let go of thinking that there was a certain way things needed to happen. I let go of a rigid way of holding onto things. Life doesn’t unfold like you expect.”

Todne Thomas is a socio-cultural anthropologist and Assistant Professor of African American Religions at Harvard Divinity School.

Home

I’m originally from Knoxville, Tennessee. A lot of people tend to be surprised that I’m from the South. It’s home, it’s been my home, my ancestors’ home. It’s a place that has fundamentally imprinted who I am in a profound way. It’s a part of me, something I carry with me. It’s the culture, it’s the food, it’s the bourbon, it’s the expressions. When I talk with other faculty who I can tell—either by accent or gesture or expression—are from the South, too, it makes me feel a sense of happiness.

Black Church

Through most of my childhood I attended black Presbyterian and Baptist churches. I understand myself as shaped by Christian moral worldviews in terms of my own experience and family life. I feel a solidarity with African American Christianity—a solidarity that is important to me as someone who grew up in a black church and who received the support and love of black church goers. I understand the important community, material, emotional, historical, and cultural work that black churches perform for congregants. I believe in the social project of religious communities, but I don’t presently worship.

My Work

I did my undergrad at Cornell, where I majored in anthropology and Africana studies. My graduate training was in social cultural anthropology at the University of Virginia.

I’ve been interested in the U.S. South, and the southern African American and southern Afro-Caribbean experience there, for a while. I tend to bring together a lot of different fields of analysis. In my earlier graduate training, I worked in kinship studies and black family studies. I added religion in my last year of coursework. I was interested in Afro-Caribbean migrant communities in Atlanta. It was an ethnicity, race, and migration project.

I did field work in Atlanta and was so frustrated—it’s such a decentralized city. But then my grad adviser asked, “What about churches?” So I added religion late in my graduate career at the suggestion of my adviser. It has been one of the definitive moments of my academic career, because after graduate school I worked in a religious studies department, and now I’m at a divinity school. I’m interested in sociality, kinship, religion, critical race and ethnic studies, and African American studies. Those are the fields I tend to breathe in.

Field Work

In grad school I did ethnographic field work with an Afro-Caribbean and African American evangelical group in Atlanta. They understood their language of kinship and sense of family to derive from the Christian embodiment of the Holy Spirit—the Holy Spirit that in-dwells in Christians and relates all Christians together. This motivated them to act a certain way toward each other inside and outside of worship settings. So that’s what I studied and have been writing about.

I’m finishing a monograph on that right now. How do people understand their relationship to one another as members of the body of Christ or members of a church family? How does that motivate people to treat each other? What are the implications of that in worship spaces outside? How do they mobilize these ideas of family to make community and also to narrate the religious landscape?

If there’s one thing I’ve learned about evangelical Christians, it’s that they are very reflective. And these communities have a critical perspective on what other church communities—mainstream white evangelicalism—are doing badly. They’re very critical of what they perceive to be the racism of the mainstream white evangelicals—some of which they experienced firsthand, as black people who tried to attend predominantly white fellowships before coming to the churches that they’re currently in. They’re also critical of a generalized sense of the black church. The black church is not the solid thing that all African American Christians automatically identify with positively as a space of belonging. And evangelicalism isn’t just white or for white people.

As a race scholar, I can say that sometimes we essentialize religious positionalities in a very similar way that we essentialize race. There’s a kind of immediacy of this moment in time and what race means and how we need to talk about it personally and academically.

Advice for Students

There are going to be times where you feel tapped out and burned out. Acknowledge that and be honest about it.

Come up with a strategic list of books that will motivate and inspire you and show you what your area of interest looks like applied. When you start out in the academy, it can feel restrained as far as what scholarship looks like. Something very important for me was that after a very intense first year in grad school, colleagues and mentors recommended books in my field that were substantive but also creative. I read interesting work that first summer—work that made me dream or think about the kind of work I could do, even though I was just starting out.

Develop a network of mentors who can help you in different dimensions of what you’re interested in, and people who help you think about work-life balance issues. Find your mentors both inside and outside of your institution.

Develop your peer network. Some of my most important relationships are the relationships I made in grad school. They are vital relationships. Invest in them. They see you through when you can’t get access to your adviser, when you need someone to read something or come to your panel.

Also, commit to having a life. Have things that give you space or pause, that bring you joy, that give you spaces of rest. You need all of those. Have non-school zones. Like, “I’m not talking about school, I’m off campus, this isn’t Harvard time.” I did a lot of quilting and knitting in grad school, more than I have time for now, but occasionally I’ll still pick up some yarn and needles and go to town—and I do think something happens during that time. It does something to the mind. Or maybe it doesn’t do something to the mind but that’s what is needed. Everything doesn’t always have to feed your work. Have a space that’s yours.

Joy

Spending time with my son brings me joy. It brings me joy to have conversations with friends of mine, especially friends who aren’t academics and aren’t impressed by my work. My mom is one of the funniest people I know, so talking with her is a lot of fun. Communing with her as we get older and our life experience gap starts to close a little bit—that’s been really precious for me.

Reading for leisure brings joy. I like reading poetry. And baking, too.

Motherhood

The work-life balance conversation comes up a lot when I talk with grad students. I was at a dinner recently with a student who is a new mom. She was asking, “How do you do it?” It’s very chaotic and you just try.

My son knows I work, he knows I work hard, he knows I work at night sometimes when he’s asleep or before he wakes up. But he fully expects to have his mother. There are some work-life balances that aren’t optional.

I’m encouraged by how many students have asked me about this balance, because it gives me hope or insight that the academy is changing. There are gifts that we grow in balancing these parts of life; they inform each other and shape our ability to do work.

Letting Go

I thought my life would look different than it is today. I never imagined myself where I am today. I learned to let go of thinking that there was a certain way things needed to happen. I let go of a rigid way of holding onto things. Life doesn’t unfold like you expect. You have to deal with emergent changes, and then you have to check in with yourself. You can’t live someone else’s script for your life. It’s special to realize your own autonomy. You grow in ways you don’t expect, you get insights and access to wisdom.

Photos: Jenna Alatriste