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demonic0angel · 2 days ago

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Celestial Bodies AU (7/?)

(Part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4, part 5, part 6. Also on AO3)

Sometimes, it felt like the whole world was against her.

It was especially evident in Batman's pissy attitude and his insistence on her quitting her night job, despite how he allowed Tim and Dick to do whatever they wanted.

She may not have been trained like those two, but it didn't mean that he couldn't step up and teach her, right? She had to rely on her own wits and Tim's sporadic (and admittedly rather lackluster) moments of teaching in order to know how to defend herself without a weapon.

So yeah, now that she had an opportunity to rub it in Bruce's face that he was wrong to dismiss her, she wouldn't let this opportunity go!

At least, that was what she was thinking before the harsh reality of being stuck to Batman all the time hit her.

Quite literally.

Robin groaned, rubbing her sore shoulders after another day of patrol with Batman. She messaged Tim with one hand while the other started taking off her cape and belt. She started peeling off her mask as Tim responded back.

Girl Wonder: tim

Girl Wonder: howas ur day

Boy Loser: Fine

Boy Loser: How was yours

Girl Wonder: pandil

Girl Wonder: painful*

Boy Loser: Lmaoaoaoao

Stephanie sighed again, as Tim started teasing her about the spelling mistake. Sometimes, he would let it go and sometimes, he had to rub it in her face. Usually, she would just roll her eyes fondly and take the ribbing, but today, she just wanted comfort.

After Tim had been forced to shelve Robin after his dad found out about his secret identity, he has given her the role of becoming Robin. She had taken it with great reverence, but Batman clearly wasn’t ready to let go of Tim yet, because he was an absolute asshole while training her.

She felt like perhaps he was seeing someone else through her (either Tim or someone else…?) but it was so tiring and infuriating that she didn’t mention it, only wanting to quit Robin after a few weeks of this near-torture.

Batman was oddly petty for a man who spent his life fighting crime.

… wait a minute.

Stephanie sighed again.

Boy Loser: ... Steph? You alright?

Stephanie pursed her lips as she realized her uncharacteristic lack of reply was now worrying Tim.

Girl Wonder: yea

Girl Wonder: B is being a dick

Boy Loser: ... I wish I could make some sort of Dick joke but I feel like it won't be appreciated rn

Boy Loser: What happened?

Stephanie chuckled a little and continued to reply.

Girl Wonder: nthing but he keeps putting me down

Girl Wonder: it pisses me off

Girl Robin: im robin now! i dont deserve this

The three talking dots popped up as Tim began typing out his reply and Stephanie waited, suddenly wondering if she had been too whiny and he was annoyed. After all, how many people got to say that they were handed the Robin costume by an actual Robin and then allowed to be Batman's sidekick? She needed to be grateful, but it was difficult when Batman was being a little bi—

Okay, deep breaths.

Stephanie shook off her thoughts, just as Tim finally replied.

Boy Loser: How about going to meet the cluster?

She blinked.

Girl Wonder: the wut?

Boy Loser: The Phantom Cluster? All Robins got a star bonded to them. Like mine, remember?

She paused again.

She didn't know much about the Phantom Cluster. All she knew were that they were a group of cursed children who were forced into becoming sentient stars. They were considered all-knowing, but relied on a Robin in order to exploit some unknown loophole in their curse and grow up past their frozen ages.

At least, that was what Tim had explained to her.

Girl Wonder: ... can i do that?

Boy Loser: I'll come and bring you to them?

Boy Loser: I want to see my star anyways.

Wow, she almost wanted to feel jealous, but she had already been long aware of his obsession with his star and now it was just funny to see how close he was to them.

Girl Wonder: ok

Boy Loser: Sweet. Stay there

Her eyes widened.

Girl Wonder: right now??

He didn't respond. Only 10 minutes later, as Stephanie debated between taking off her uniform or leaving it on to leave a more professional impression on the stars, did Tim scurry into the Batcave with a breathless smile.

"Let's go!" He said. "I snuck past my dad and Bruce for this."

Stephanie laughed, "You're so excited! Don't you have camera feed of your star? It's not like you haven't seen her in a while."

"Nothing beats seeing her in person," Tim grinned. "C'mon, I'll show you how to get to the cluster."

He directed her towards the tube and began explaining its mechanisms and codes for various locations. Stephanie listened carefully, although there were butterflies in her stomach as she thought about meeting the cluster.

Would they hate her?

After all, no matter how much she wished she was, she wasn't like the other Robins. If all of the previous Robins had a star, would she be considered different if she didn’t have one herself?

Suddenly, she felt nauseous. What if she wasn’t chosen? Would it be further proof that she wasn’t meant to be a hero?

She suddenly felt a hand slide into hers. She blinked and looked up as Tim gave her a small, reassuring smile.

“It’ll be okay, I promise. They’re nice.”

Stephanie returned his look with a shaky smile and then the two of them went into the tube, and off they went.

When they landed, Stephanie barely had a moment to bounce back before Tim was pulling her through the metal halls. They walked for a while, and Tim finally burst from the silence.

“Did you read the files about the Phantom Cluster?”

“They’re locked to me,” Stephanie replied. “I only know what you and Dick told me and that they’re a group of sentient stars.”

“That’s because Bruce can get… irritated and try to delete or edit the information. We locked it so only Robins know the passwords,�� Tim explained. “But the Phantom Cluster is a group of sentient astronomical bodies, such as several stars and planets. There’s six of the main ones, but there are also a few other planets that can occasionally communicate with them. However, they’re not as sentient and only the six in the middle is— actually, I’ll just let you see for yourself.”

Stephanie followed him and when he finally opened the doors to the command room, she stopped in place and stared.

The room they were in was shaped like a half circle, and all of the walls were covered in glass, allowing ample view of the stars outside. In front of the glass were several machines and computers, silent as they flashed with notifications and alerts about the readings of the stars.

A soft song was playing, one made entirely by voices. It was angelic, like that of a choir and it sent a shiver down Stephanie’s spine as the chilling and seductive music wrapped around her like a siren’s call.

But she wasn’t too focused on the singing.

No, she was focused on the stars.

They were beautiful.

Dick had mentioned it once, how much he loved looking at them. Tim had also mentioned it several times, of how he visited them just to watch them and to see his star.

With the way they spoke of them at times, Stephanie sometimes wondered if they were brainwashed.

But now, she could understand.

Humans had always been fascinated by the stars. It was what created astronomy, telescopes, stories of constellations and space travel and aliens, it was what created NASA and the moon landing and astrology and rocket ships.

She could understand it now.

In the middle of space was a cluster of stars. Four of them whirled and twirled around each other with various degrees of energy. One in particular spun and slowed down in intervals, like doing a skip during a walk because it was so excited that it had to jump a little, but it still wanted to keep pace with the group.

There were also two planets, one covered in clouds and the other was a red and yellow sandy looking planet with wide rings surrounding it. They circled the stars quickly, but carefully, like trying to keep close but also not wanting to bump into the hot balls of gasses. A variety of asteroids and other smaller planets then circled them at a distance, as if not wanting to get closer.

Stephanie could quite literally see the personality within all of them, as they orbited one another.

Tim grinned. “They’re amazing, right?”

“You weren’t kidding,” she breathed.

Tim pulled her to the window and then pointed at a large, bluish star. “That’s Dick’s. We call it Nightwing’s star or Dick’s star. He’s one of the oldest and also the largest. He can be kinda mean, but he protects Dick a lot.”

“How can a star be mean?” Stephanie wondered. She watched as Dick’s star spun and then directed the pretty pink and purple clouds towards two other astronomical bodies.

“You’ll know what I mean,” Timothy said, before pointing to another celestial body. This time, it was a swirling, bow-tie shaped thing that was funneling gas and dust. There were two of them, but this one was distinctly colored blue and was smaller than the other.

“Is that…?”

“Yeah. That one is my star. Well, she’s actually a baby star— a protostar,” Timothy proclaimed proudly. “Isn’t she beautiful? I call her partner.”

Stephanie stared with a mixture of amazement and endearment. “She’s pretty cute. She’s smaller than all of the others!”

“Yeah. She’s the baby of the cluster.” He pointed to the other protostar. “And that one is… Jason’s.”

Stephanie stared at its enormous, funneling body and nodded slowly. “… it shows that he’s alive, huh?”

“Yeah. That’s the big sister of the cluster. She’s Jason’s star, and we don’t know how but… they’re back.”

Stephanie nodded again. She knew of this. Before Tim quit and while she was still Spoiler, she would occasionally babysit Gotham whenever he left with Nightwing in order to search for Jason.

“…. At least they’re both back?” She offered awkwardly.

Tim nodded. “At least they’re back.” He pointed to a small, faintly glowing blue and green ball that was following Tim’s star. “That one is the King. He takes care of the other stars and he’s a neutron star. He also used to be a hero, like us, before he died.”

“How young was he? Do we know?”

Tim met eyes with her.

“He was fourteen when he died,” he said softly, and Stephanie pursed her lips.

The amount of child heroes who died before 16 was quite uncomfortable.

The atmosphere was suddenly awkward, but Tim forcibly changed the subject and pointed to the two planets. “And lastly, these are the other two planets. They’re part of the ones singing as well as the main six of the cluster. That one is a rocky planet and that one has life on it, but we haven’t been able to touch down on either of them.”

Stephanie blinked and leaned closer to the glass in awe, squinting to try and see past the thick clouds. “Life? Like Earth? Why can’t we land?”

“They won’t let us. Sometimes, we can fly along their orbit, but when they get mad or want to stop us, they’ll push us back. The stars will help and send out solar flares and if they get really pissed, well, it’s not pretty.”

Interested, Stephanie asked, “What happens?”

Tim shrugged. “I'm not sure. But there were some people who betrayed the Justice League and tried to come here to take over. The stars took them out.”

Stephanie’s eyebrows rose.

She looked around for an invisible camera.

Did Timothy Drake, once Robin, just tell her that the stars killed people?

“Wait, what? How?”

“One ship got pulled in via the gravitational pull and then exploded on Dick’s star, and another ship had an asteroid hit them and a hole appeared in the hull. They all died.”

Stephanie recoiled. “Wait, seriously? They all died?”

Tim nodded. “Yeah. The Justice League was pissed. Dick argued that the stars were just defending themselves and—“

“The Justice League was mad at the stars??”

Stephanie felt like she was learning too many things at once. She was almost dizzy from the confusion.

Timothy gave her a light glare for interrupting him again but said, “The Justice League was angry since they had deliberately killed people. Even the asteroid was intentional.” He shrugged then. “But what can they do? Punish the Cluster? Dick fought for them and they’re still here as allies to the Justice League and to the Robins. But that’s also why you don’t see any other heroes here. They kinda stopped coming after that, though Superman does visit sometimes.”

“… wow. That’s so messed up on so many levels.”

Tim grinned.

“So, ready to introduce yourself? They’re waiting.”

Well, that wasn’t ominous at all. Especially with all of the very nice, normal things he just told her about the stars.

Stephanie told him that and he laughed. She took that brief moment to allow the panic to sink in and then flow out of her as she took a deep breath.

“Okay,” she said, facing the main communicator, “I’m ready.”

“I’ll introduce you,” Tim said. He tapped the glass softly and then said, "Hello, everyone."

There was a pause as the hair rose on the back of Stephanie's neck, and she listened as the sound of angelic song slowed to a halt, allowing only ocean waves and TV static to fill the room with an energy that she could not place.

The crackle of static and burbling of water was the only sound for awhile.

And then—

"Hey, partner."

Tim beamed. "Hey, partner. It's good to see you. You're getting bigger, huh?"

The protostar gave a deliberate whirl, sparkling as gas and dust rubbed against each other within its accretion disks.

There was suddenly an angry, high pitched noise on the communicator.

Both Stephanie and Tim winced, although Tim also looked exasperated.

Dick's star, which had been silently following the orbital path suddenly froze in place. It turned slowly, seemingly facing in one spot before stopping completely, its edges flaring with bursts of light.

“Is… is that Dick's star glaring at you?” She said, bordering on a laugh. Tim’s star did a cycle around the other protostar and then did a loop around Dick’s star, as if trying to poke it into reacting. Dick’s star was still for a moment longer, before inching along their orbital path again without spinning, as if still trying to keep its eyes on Tim through the glass.

She burst into giggles, absolutely delighted in the way Tim looked exasperated and resigned of a star seemingly trying to antagonize him.

“Yeah. He’s like that a lot whenever I’m around,” Tim sighed exaggeratedly.

“That’s so cute! To be honest, I didn’t expect them to have so much personality.”

“Yeah, me too. But once you get to know them, they’re really fun. Even if Dick’s star hates my guts.”

Stephanie giggled again. “He’s like an overprotective dad.”

“Yeah, but at least I'm not the only one he hates. He also really— uhm.” Timothy paused in the middle of his tirade.

Stephanie blinked and turned to stare at him.

Timothy looked uncomfortable, but soldiered on and continued, “But I also heard that he disliked Jason too. Apparently, he was pissed when Jason got his star. He has a real complex about his sisters from what we know.”

Stephanie tried to imagine the image of a big blue ball throwing a hissy fit because his sisters were being taken away by human boys, and the absurdity made her laugh.

“Aww, poor guy!” She snickered. “He just wants you stinky boys away from his sisters.”

“Hey!” Timothy exclaimed with a playful glare. “I take showers!”

"Coulda fooled me!"

Tim huffed a laugh and then addressed the Cluster again. "Everyone, this is Robin."

There was a pause, and then the Cluster spoke in unison, a whispery coo, "Hello, Robin."

Stephanie breathed out a sigh of relief as Tim perked up, smiling broadly.

One voice in particular spoke up over the rest.

"Robin, I have someone who'd like to make a deal with you."

Its voice was soft and light, but there was a quality within that made her want to relax within its soothing reverb.

Stephanie couldn't help grabbing at Tim in excitement, who patted her hand with a wide grin.

"Would you like to accept?"

She coughed to calm herself down. "... who is asking?"

The communicator crackled and then the cluster spoke again, with the one voice leading in front, "Come into the space pod and you will be taken to him."

Stephanie met eyes with Tim. Timothy raised an eyebrow and then shrugged.

"Now what?"

"... I guess you go?"

She gulped. She looked at Tim for reassurances, for him to tell her— something, but he didn't.

He just stared at her and then smiled, a glint in his eyes that she knew was him knowing something that he didn't want to share.

Stephanie sighed.

She went into the space pod that was attached to the station with instructions to just stay still and let the Cluster's solar winds lead her to where she needed to go, and off she sent.

Stephanie sat in the space pod, watching the distant stars and galaxies while she was slowly led deeper and deeper into the Phantom Cluster. The communicator crackled with no words as she sat there in a drifting metal ship within the vacuum of space.

For a moment, she wondered if she was going to die.

She wondered if they were rejecting her and would then kill her via asteroid smashing into the pod or fire as they guided her straight into a star's surface.

She wondered if this was going to be the last thing she ever saw, stars and planets and galaxies in her eyes before her life ended, but when she blinked, she was sailing straight into the golden planet with rings.

Her eyes widened and she held on as the pod began to shake with its descent into a planet's atmosphere.

She yelped as the pod sank past the deep yellow clouds and then she was falling.

"Oh fuck!" She screamed, as she immediately tried steadying the pod.

But there was nothing. The buttons on the pod were not meant to let the driver steer, since it was merely an extension of the space shuttle that the stars were meant to guide themselves.

For a moment, she cursed Tim and Dick and all of the Robins and their insane trust in the stars for creating a death trap of a machine, and as her heart lurched into her throat, she was suddenly caught and the pod stilled.

She looked out the window and gaped.

Metal contraptions were floating in the air, attaching to the pod to slowly bring it down to the ground.

No, wait, it wasn't floating. The metal contraptions were part of the ground too. They looked like long tentacles that drifted from the ground to bring her down.

A shudder ran down Stephanie's spine.

What did this mean?

Had someone landed on the planet before the Justice League or the Robins had?

When she was guided down onto the ground, she hesitated.

She was not like Tim or Dick. Hell, she didn't even become Robin because she particularly wanted to or because Bruce offered. She became Robin only because Tim asked her to take care of Gotham while he was a civilian.

She was Spoiler before she was Robin. She was not like the others.

(She wasn't even a boy, or a particularly good Robin. Batman had never treated the other Robins like he treated her: carelessly, callously, coldly.)

But the thought of getting Batman's approval, of being a real Robin made her move. She pressed the button and the door opened.

For a moment, she worried that she wouldn't have been able to breathe, but before she could worry about lack of oxygen, something sand colored began crawling towards her at high speeds.

She screamed and immediately flew back to the pod, trying to close the door to no avail.

Looking closer, it was like some bizarre mix between a gold colored android and a mummy. It was the size of an adult man and looked half broken, like it needed repairing. It didn't matter though, because it was approaching the space pod rapidly and Stephanie was weaponless.

She shrieked again when the android climbed into the pod and started crawling after her. She kicked at it and it stopped moving when she started screaming and cried out, “What the hell!”

It twitched and then crept towards her again.

Stephanie waved a hand hurriedly. “No, no! Don’t get closer!”

It paused.

Stephanie almost could've cried.

Just what was going on?

The android twitched and then it pulled out something from a pouch on its waist.

It clicked and then laid the thing on the ground at her feet.

Stephanie flinched and moved away.

"What is that?" She asked, thankful that she did not stutter.

The communicator finally spoke then, and a voice called out, "That's a mask to help you breathe. If you don't want sand or glass in your lungs, wear it."

Stephanie blinked and turned her head, though she didn't take her eyes off of the android thing.

"Are you... the planet?"

The echoey voice of a planetary body made him sound wistful as he hummed, "Mhm. You should leave the ship."

"What about..." she did a vague gesture towards the mummy-android thing.

"He's a helper. He won't hurt you."

Stephanie hesitated for only a second before she moved. She took the mask and fit it onto her face. Then she carefully followed the helper. It crawled away and led her to their destination, but as Stephanie stared at it, she realized that its legs were broken off.

Was it damaged?

She didn’t ask, a little too weirded out by the entire situation. Instead, she observed the world around her.

The ground was dry with dirt and sand. A light wind blew the sand in billowing, gold swirls. She noticed that the mask seemed to protect her from the sand, since she felt none of the wind against her skin, and she narrowed her eyes before looking up at the red sky. Slightly visible above the yellow clouds, was the bright figures of the other stars, glowing brightly like white circles.

The air was thick, like she was breathing through a heavy, dry soup. The temperature was hot, almost scorching, but Stephanie persisted as the robot continued.

She swallowed, trudging carefully past the thick sand, and the robot thing led her to a blocky mobile home-looking machine. It stopped by the door and tilted its head.

Stephanie shivered. “Am I… supposed to go inside?”

It creaked and then nodded.

Stephanie cursed out Tim again and then stepped inside, pushing the heavy door with a grunt. Piles of sand covered the floor, making her feet sink as she walked through.

It was like a small cabin made of metal. Inside were tables and a bed, all crowded in unreadable papers and books. Wires and metal tubes covered the ceiling in a tangled mess, and a large supercomputer was attached to the wall at the end of the room.

The screen buzzed with static.

Stephanie stared, watching the faint light of the computer sparkle across the dark room, lighting everything with dark shadows before she stepped through the sand and approached like a mindless puppet.

When she was close enough to the computer screen, it flickered with a spark before turning black. Stephanie tensed.

The air began to feel heavy, like a pressure was being put on her, like eyes were beginning to watch her.

There was a hum, and then the screen crackled.

It turned black, and then pale bronze words began to type, one by one in quick succession.

“Hello, Robin.”

There was no sound, beyond the hum of machinery and the faint back-and-forth of rising tides, despite this place clearly being a desert planet.

Stephanie swallowed again.

“Hello,” she said carefully. She laughed a little, trying to shake off the jitters. “This whole thing is very creepy, y’know?”

“LOL, sorry about that. I’m glad you’re here, Robin.”

She laughed at the first statement, finding it surreal as to how a planet knew how to use words like “LOL”. At the second sentence, she bowed her head, a weird flare of happiness appearing within her, the humor quickly dying and being replaced by a sense of pride. “Glad to be here,” she mumbled. “Are you… are you the planet?”

The silence was brief, but oddly, she could tell that its personality was pleasant.

“Yes.”

Her mouth felt dry. She just wanted to confirm that the same being who spoke to her on the communicator was the one on the computer, but she still couldn't help but feel a sense of cold going down her spine.

So this was the strength and power of a celestial entity?

“… what is all of this? If you’re a planet, then… who created all of this stuff?”

The pressure grew heavier, like a hand was being pressed down on her. Stephanie tried to straighten underneath it, but it felt gentle and firm, like the hand of her mother when she wanted to scold her but didn’t have the heart to do so.

It made her feel cold and sleepy, but she was awake as the planet then spoke.

"Would you like to make a deal with me?"

The planet asked, and Stephanie hesitated.

Why did it not answer her question? Should she continue to press for answers?

She did not feel the same devotion and love that the other Robins did. She did not know if it was because she was not a real Robin or if it was because she was different from the others, but she just didn't feel the same blind trust for the stars.

(But…

She wanted the approval of Batman. Of Gotham. Of the other Robins. Of the stars.)

She decided not to ask again.

"What... what would it mean? To make a deal with you?"

"You'll be my host,"

Was the patient reply.

"How am I supposed to be a host? What does it do?"

"Just live. And be your true self."

She bit her lip.

But then she thought, what was she supposed to lose?

Every other Robin had a star. Only she didn't have one, and this was her chance.

She wanted to do good. To be good.

"Deal," she said, and the machine crackled. “I’ll be your host.”

“So be it.”

Stephanie had placed her hand carelessly on the machine’s surface, and in the next moment, her palms began to burn. She yelped, but it hadn’t actually hurt. The surprise of the heat made her pull back and she raised her hand to look at her right palm, where a four pointed star now bloomed into existence.

The highest point touched past the second knuckle of her middle finger, while the lowest point reached her wrist. Bronze yellow and wine purple blended together into something unique and beautiful and a flare of warmth spread throughout Stephanie’s body and into her chest.

No wonder the Boy Wonders were so devoted to the stars.

So this is what it felt like to become a host of the stars.

Cheerfully, Stephanie asked, “What do I call you? Is there anything you want me to do for you?”

“Call me whatever you like. And I’ll tell you if I need something.”

Another line appeared below that one.

“Thank you, Robin. For saving me.”

Stephanie blushed. “Okay! Uh, bro!”

“LOL. OK, buddy.”

Later, when her ship was guided back to the sky with the unexplained metal tubes, she was met back into the Phantom Space Station with a pacing Tim, who beamed when he saw her.

“How was it! Did you get it!? Who were they?! What did you call them?!”

Stephanie grinned and presented her palm to him.

Tim squealed.

————

Batman was not as thrilled, but nothing she could do satisfied him much anyways. Nightwing and Oracle were delighted to hear about her new celestial body, while Batgirl looked interested and curious.

Robin was just happy that she had her own celestial body to herself.

At first, it was awkward as Robin didn't understand the signs or signals that were given to her by her astronomical object, but Nightwing and Tim had no problem helping her understand how to interpret them. As time continued, they began to work together in amazing ways.

Whenever she dealt with any machinery (which was unfortunately a lot as too many people had access to bombs for some reason), it was always handled easier than before. She also felt no more fatigue or exhaustion from traveling in hot, dry weather, and had a minor immunity to heat and electricity.

Her abilities were not entirely unique, as she discovered that the other Robins also had shared abilities, but only she could communicate with her celestial body through her phone or computer.

She learned that he was a funny, easy-going individual who loved food and meat dishes and technology.

In many ways, he was so human that she often forgot that he wasn’t actually one.

It made her feel complicated, remembering how he was once a child, just like her, before whatever happened to him and the other astronomical objects.

But no matter how she asked or cajoled or coaxed, it was useless because he shut down every single time.

In the end, all she knew was this.

Whatever curse was placed upon the stars, only the Robins could save them.

So she just shrugged it off and continued to chat and use her planet’s help in being a better vigilante. With his technological help and his aid in guiding her, she was slowly learning new hobbies, better techniques, and more knowledge.

Robin was relearning her place in the hero scene as the partner of Batman, and with her celestial body by her side, she knew that she could do anything.

But all good things must come to an end. Like how great TV shows got canceled, like how the last day of childhood ended, like how everyone died eventually, like how the sea pulled back, like how stars evaporated from going supernova.

It had happened so suddenly.

She had thought she was doing well.

Robin— no, Stephanie bit her lip.

She wasn't Robin anymore.

Batman had fired her.

She fought back the tears in her eyes at the injustice of it all. She knew she made mistakes. She knew she wasn't perfect. But she just wanted to feel like she belonged, like she was doing good.

It wasn't fair how everyone else made mistakes, but she wasn't allowed. So that was why she decided that she had to prove herself.

She had thought that she was doing so well, but Batman had not thought the same.

It had not even taken him a second thought before he fired her.

He would have never treated any of the other Robins this way.

(Somewhere in the sky, the stars murmured to themselves, tending to their comatose sister.)

She was about to look into the files of the Batcomputer for a plan to implement and prove herself as a hero, when the keyboards sparked as she pressed her fingers down.

She paused.

The spark crackled and then flew into the computer with a fizzle. The screen glitched and then turned black and Stephanie froze as an intense wave of fear entered her, quickening her breath and heartbeat until she was frozen with terror, almost unable to breathe.

The feeling of being watched by an otherworldly being washed over her again, more pervasive than ever before.

The screen flickered and then coppery yellow words appeared. The fear began to fade like a lowering tide and Stephanie finally breathed as she read the words that began to type.

"Stop what you're doing."

The sound of space filled the Batcave with a hiss, the familiar crackle of technology struggling to understand the words of celestial objects and the ocean waves of outer space, washing over her like the unforgiving sea.

"... buddy?"

The keyboard moved without her input. Words were typed onto the screen by unseen hands.

"I'm here."

His words were reassuring, but the next sentences that appeared were anything but.

"Stop what you're doing, Robin. You'll kill yourself."

The stars could see the future. They often warned the Justice League of future events and dangers, and even the Robins were often given prophetic dreams when the stars could offer them. Jason was the best example, as the only Robin so far who could communicate with his star in dreams. Everything he had known from the stars were foretold as true.

This fact popped into Stephanie's mind.

Her vision began to blur from an onslaught of tears. Her breath hitched and then she sobbed.

Oh stars.

Nothing she did was right.

She covered her face and whimpered. Tears involuntarily flowed down her face and her cheeks felt hot with humiliation and shame. Humiliation for being caught at trying to hack the Batcomputer to come back as Robin, and shame as she realized that she would've inconvenienced everyone by dying doing so.

Was this a sign that she was actually supposed to abandon her life as a vigilante?

The keyboard tapped away again. She blinked the tears from her eyes and looked up through blurry vision.

"Don't cry. You're still my Robin."

Stephanie sniffed. Finally, she croaked, "What?"

"You were Robin once. But that's not your future. You have another identity, don't you?"

Spoiler.

Stephanie straightened her back as she realized what he was trying to imply. After a moment, as the realization set in, she reached up to wipe her eyes. She breathed in deeply and calmed herself down forcibly.

"Are you saying that... I should go back to being Spoiler?"

"You were never meant to stay as a Robin, bro."

The casual, flippant "bro" was so absurd that she giggled wetly.

She stood up from the chair and nodded, blinking the sting from her eyes.

But she felt better.

Sharp relief filled her and she shuddered at the swell of emotion that got rid of the dark negativity within her.

Suddenly, she knew who she was.

Like Nightwing, she had found her true calling. But unlike the others, unlike any other Robin, she was returning to her true identity.

A Spoiler of secrets and evil plans.

She wore purple far before she wore red, yellow, and green. She was a vigilante far before Batman. She was a Spoiler far before she was a Robin.

And just because she had changed her identity, just because Batman fired her, just because she had failed in one thing did not mean she had failed entirely.

Now she was almost embarrassed, but she just felt relieved more than anything. It made her want to go slack, but she took another deep breath to calm down.

"Okay," she said softly. "Okay. You'll be with me, right, buddy?"

She looked up as the keyboard clacks continued and golden letters started to appear on the screen again. Even though there was nothing spoken aloud, she could sense the affection in each word as her celestial body typed a response for her.

"Of course. I'll always be here for you."

Stephanie beamed and tidied up the Batcomputer before leaving the cave.

She did not need Batman to be a hero.

Just like she didn't need to be Robin to do something more with her life either.

The next day, as she put on her old uniform, dark purples and magentas and blacks, she checked up on her astronomical body with the tablet given to her by Tim and laughed.

A pale yellow moon was following her planet.

A gentle song came from the screen, soft and soothing, a sign of change and revival, like the rain after a period of drought, like the peeking flower buds underneath snow, like the moon's reappearance after a dark night.

In it, she could hear a third voice, a male voice that was lighter than Dick's star, one with a hint of teenage youthfulness and strength.

Stephanie smiled, touching the screen with her right palm.

“Is that yours? Are you in your final form?" She asked with a small smile. “Did that appear because I’m Spoiler again?”

The moon gave a little deliberate twirl and Stephanie grinned.

She pulled out her grappling gun and then opened the window to her apartment. She jumped out onto the roof and aimed the grappling hook. With a single shot, she hit a building and then jumped, flying through the air with a loud whoop.

The Spoiler was back.

||||||||||||||||||||||||||||

Soooo much lore. I’m not sure who would’ve betrayed the Justice League, but knowing DC’s long history, there’s probably someone, right??

Nothing makes me lmao more than having Dan hate on Jason and Tim bc they’re too close to his sisters.

Tucker with the ability to communicate with Steph through tech!!

Him guiding her through becoming a hero on her own right without Batman 🥹 the reason why she feels different from the other Robins is bc she actually doesn’t feel different, she’s just doesn’t understand the feeling.

Also, has anyone noticed that a lot of the events that make a Robin who they are is basically Bruce being a jerk or an uncommunicative asshole? Like seriously, I'm struggling to make him a good dad sometimes.

Planet classification is not as fun as stellar classification… but Tucker is an extragalactic, chthonian, and desert or terrestrial giant exoplanet. Extragalactic = outside of the Milky Way, chthonian = a gas giant that’s been stripped of its gas layers and circles really close to its star, terrestrial = made of rocks or metals, exoplanet = a planet that orbits another star from the Sun.

…. Ik it’s a lot, but I had to get specific. In essence however, he’s just a terrestrial giant exoplanet. He’s big, but only around the size of Neptune or Uranus.

Why does Stephanie get saved but not Jason? You will find out :) writing these as one-shots mean that they take time, also bc I’m close to finals and my classes are getting harder.

#dc x dp #dp x dc #danny phantom x dc #dpxdc #dcxdp #dp x dc crossover #celestial object au #stephanie brown #tucker foley #tim drake #phantom family

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lovelylogans · 2 days ago

Text

debutante

previous chapter / chapter five

part of the wyliwf verse.

warnings: mentions of transphobia, food mentions, alcohol, kissing, mentions of child abuse, but nothing actually happens (virgil suspects something and dee mentions parenting attitudes that aren’t healthy) also a mention of harassing women, but it’s more of an abstract than any actual harassment. please let me know if i’ve missed anything else!

pairings: logince, moxiety

words: 21,961

notes: fifth verse, same as the first: i hope this can serve as a distraction for some of you today—please go out and vote if you are in the united states!! i'm actually posting this as i'm in line for my ballot so i can vote before work! there are so many important issues on your local ballot (several states have potentially life-saving but certainly life-altering provisions on ballot this year for a lot of folks!) in addition to national-level stuff! and, in regards to why this took so long to get here,

⁂

janus looks at the jar skeptically, his arms folded across his chest.

“this. this is your favorite food?”

logan tries not to take the slight too personally, but he offers the spoonful of loganberry jam to him again.

“yes, it is,” logan says. “i said nothing when you said your favorite food.”

“because my favorite food is normal,” janus grumbles, but he takes the spoonful anyways. “but seriously. just straight up jam?”

“crofter’s loganberry jam,” logan corrects. “followed by the rest of the jams that crofter’s offers.”

janus sighs, but ingests the jam, presumably in the name of getting to know each other better.

with the introduction of a name, logan had thought to propose getting to know each other better; so now logan knows janus’ favorite color (yellow) his favorite book (the art of war) and his favorite food (he’d said mille feuille, then admitted it was really pretzel m&m’s, which perhaps was a more conventional choice than a specific type of jam.)

logan watches him, hawk-eyed.

“so?” he says when janus swallows.

“i mean,” janus says. “it’s a good jam, i guess?”

logan sighs, but accepts that janus’ education when it comes to jam is a work in progress. that’s fine. in the meantime, logan will prepare a jam sandwich as a midnight snack. he dearly anticipates the day when he is no longer a teenager and therefore no longer so hungry all the time.

⁂

janus waits a long time to change into his pajamas.

logan gets up, presumably to go to the bathroom, and comes downstairs with an overly large hoodie without preamble, or even mentioning it at all, really.

janus refuses to smile, but he does change into the pajama set his parents bought him, with a big hoodie advertising a sideshire save-the-bridge fundraiser.

⁂

“why are you making me watch this,” logan groans.

“because it’s a cultural touchstone, hush,” janus says dismissively, staring at the screen but really staring at logan out of the corner of his eyes, trying his very hardest not to start cackling.

“this sex scene has been going on for three minutes!”

“cultural. touchstone.”

“you’re doing this to make me suffer,” logan accuses.

“obviously,” janus says. “that’s the whole point of making someone watch the room for the first time.”

“i should have just lied when you asked if i understood that reference,” logan mumbles under his breath, pointedly avoiding looking at the screen.

janus, in deciding to go full obnoxious, croons, “yooou are my rose, you are my rose, you are my rooo-ooooo-ooooose—”

logan pulls a pillow over his face and declares, muffled, “i hate you.”

“save it,” janus says dismissively. “we haven’t even gotten to the flower shop scene yet.”

“the what?” logan says, peeking tentatively from behind the pillow.

or the other terrible subplots, janus thinks gleefully. he’s not a huge fan of the room, himself, it’s not like he’s proudly in the cult following for it, but being able to show it to logan for the first time is something he absolutely cannot miss out on.

⁂

“but it makes no sense,” logan practically howls at the screen as the credits roll, janus laughing so hard he can barely breathe.

⁂

“christ, isn’t your boyfriend a dancer?” janus complains, shuffling his feet out of the way.

“my boyfriend is the dancer,” logan says, scowling. “my boyfriend.”

“either way, he needs to bring you in for extra waltzing lessons,” janus says. “poppy is going to kill you if you step on her toes even once.”

logan goes a little pale at that.

⁂

“why this,” janus groans, tempted to do what logan did and put a pillow over his face.

“you picked a movie, now i get to pick a movie,” logan says smugly, and janus considers throwing the pillow at the screen. the only reason he doesn’t is because he somewhat respects ken burns, even if logan picked his most boring documentary ever.

⁂

“this is ridiculous,” logan says.

“it’s meant to be a traditional sleepover activity,” janus says dismissively, counting each curl of the spiral, tapping the paper with his pen. “the internet says so.”

“yes, famously lauded for accuracy, the internet,” logan says. janus ignores him and starts crossing off options, counting under his breath as he goes.

“okay,” janus says, straightening the paper with a great deal of fanfare. “you’ll graduate from princeton—”

“surprising.”

“—i know, quite, i’d had you pinned as an east coast man—after majoring in chemistry, that’s a bit of a departure, isn’t it? but after you graduate, you’ll marry bowman—”

“bowman?!” logan says, aghast. “bowman wasn’t one of the options!”

“i editorialized,” janus says dismissively, “and you’ll have a hundred and two beautiful children—”

“where did you get that number?!”

janus ignores him. “—but you’ll settle in los angeles and live in a cozy little shack—”

“well, i’ve done that before,” logan says fairly, and janus tries his hardest to hide his wince as he continues.

“—and, funnily enough, you’ll be an astronomer. the end.”

“this game is ridiculous,” logan says, snatching back the notepad, before he hesitates and looks at janus.

“all right, fine,” he sighs, and readies the pen. “mansion, house, apartment, shack, those are listed. marriage options?”

“jeff bezos, bill gates, and elon musk,” janus says briskly.

“those are all terrible options,” logan says, disgusted.

“those are all terribly rich options,” janus corrects. “if this is going to be my imaginary m.a.s.h. life, i will live lavishly due to the money my husband will provide. i don’t have morals, i’d gladly be a sugar baby.”

“you don’t get to pick all your spouses,” logan says. “you married me off to bowman.”

“i’d argue elon musk is worse than bowman,” janus points out.

“narrowly,” logan says under his breath.

⁂

tristan, janus reflects, has to go, of course.

if not for his being racist toward janus—which is, admittedly, a more self-preservational factor that has put janus into plotting more actively than he has in the aftermath of almost everything else tristan has done. this includes that tristan cheats poorly, lies without even being clever about it, peacocks about with absolutely no sense of swagger or charm, is generally obnoxious, and somehow manages to both virgin-shame and slut-shame girls at their school without imploding from the hypocrisy of it all—

wait. he’s getting distracted.

if not simply for everything else tristan has ever done, then certainly for the note that’s been smuggled into his pocket.

the question, of course, was which plot to pick: to go out with a bang, or to pick a piece of blackmail so heinous that he’d shipped off to military school, with absolutely no time to lose…

⁂

“—and that’s how you say where can i find a newspaper in french, creole, and portuguese,” janus says. “i mean, your next problem would be if you could read it or not, but.”

“i wish i knew another language,” logan says thoughtfully. “the closest i have is latin, and that’s not exactly something i can use to converse with people.”

they’re both lying on their backs, staring up at the artificial ceiling of the pillow fort.

“i mean,” logan amends. “i know some conversational spanish, but. certainly not fluent.”

“spanish?” janus asks sleepily.

“roman,” logan explains, and janus makes an ah noise. then, “portuguese?”

“childhood nanny,” janus says. “she’s from the dominican republic, not haiti, but. she did teach me some things about haitian culture.”

“i met her, didn’t i?” logan says. “at your grandmother’s.”

“yes, you did,” janus says.

“creole from haiti,” logan guesses, and janus mm-hms.

“and you mentioned your grandmother was french,” logan completes.

“yeah,” janus says, and even logan can pick up the edge in his voice. logan props himself up on an elbow, furrowing his eyebrows.

janus looks at him, arching his own eyebrows, and repeats, “haitian.”

logan flushes, a little bit, remembering the (very little) amount of haitian history they’d covered in their mutual world history class, and the (slightly more, but still not exactly a wealth of information) studying he’d done in his free time.

“right,” logan says quietly.

“i’ve got ideas,” janus says darkly, staring up at the blanket ceiling. “my adopted ancestors’ vast fortune? it’s going to go straight into a trans, black haitian’s pockets. they’re probably rolling in their graves.”

logan is quiet, for a couple moments, before he says, “good.”

janus’s grin unfurls as he stares up at the blanket, daydreaming about how best to squander that fortune.

⁂

they’re lying in the pillow fort, mostly quiet, logan on the edge of sleep. but then, tinny and muffled, as if from a phone speaker:

your touch, pullin' fire out of me your touch, like the wind crashing on the sea...

“i am going to kill you,” logan declares, even if he does start laughing when janus does.

⁂

patton staggers down the stairs, stifling a yawn with his hand, and he has to stifle a smile at the sight of a blanket fort in his living room, just big enough for two teenage boys.

he edges around it carefully, heading directly for his first stop every morning: the coffee maker.

by the time the coffee maker starts making those slightly alarming sputtering noises that always makes patton think he should probably get it looked at, the boys emerge from the fort, bleary-eyed and honed in on the scent of fresh coffee.

“mugs in there,” patton mumbles to dee, who grabs three at random and pushes them toward patton so patton can pour, the coffee steaming and diffusing its delectable scent all throughout patton’s tiny kitchen.

there’s a stretch of silence only broken by the sound of sugar shaken into coffee, the pouring of milk, the clattering of a spoon against ceramic, and sipping.

by the time patton’s three-quarters of the way through his mug, he feels much more like a human.

“hope you boys slept well,” patton says, his voice not quite at its usual level of perkiness—he’ll need another mug of coffee for that. “do you have any preferences for breakfast? dee, you’re the guest, you can pick—we could go to virgil’s, that’s got diner breakfast—”

a strange expression flashes over dee’s face. patton takes note of it but doesn’t mention it.

“—remy, he runs the café in town, he does some good breakfast sandwiches… or fran’s, she’s got danishes and little pies and things. she runs the bakery near town center, you might have seen it.”

“fran’s,” dee says decisively.

patton nods, drains his mug, and reaches for a travel thermos. “i’ll go ahead and get going for fran’s, then, it can get a bit busy on weekend mornings. logan, could you fish out a menu and show it to dee? either of you can text me with your orders.”

both boys make sounds of affirmation, mostly preoccupied with consuming as much coffee as possible.

patton can’t really talk; he’s busy trying starting to drink the coffee from his thermos while simultaneously hunting for his house keys.

⁂

is the taste of cinnamon rolls in these small-town bakeries the entire appeal of living in a small town with an entire store for christmas lights? janus can now slightly better understand the appeal of living in a small town, if so.

squidgy without being mushy, just enough cinnamon to keep it from being sickly sweet, just enough icing to keep the whole thing moist, paired with the unexpectedly spectacular coffee from remy’s café…

janus eats three in addition to the rest of the pastry selection patton had generously gotten for them, and is only slightly regretful when a food coma signals its impending arrival.

but, as all things do, his visit to bizzare-o-town comes to an end—he’s put on his clothes and returned the hoodie logan had lent him, he’s tucked patton’s phone number into a small, almost-hidden pocket in his duffel bag, and he stands on the sanders’ surprisingly roomy front porch with logan, patton waving them both out with his ever-cheerful air.

“where are you going again?”

“newsroom,” logan says, shouldering his own backpack. “at this point, i think rudy’s just coming up with new typos to make sure i come around at least once a week. it’s ridiculous. look at this.”

janus obligingly looks at a newspaper, grimacing at the blatant inconsistencies of the use or lack of an oxford comma scattered across the page.

“we use ap style,” logan says mournfully. “he knows about proper comma placement. i know he knows about proper comma placement.”

“well,” janus says, striving for something polite to say, only ending up with, “best of luck with that.”

logan sighs, tucking away the newspaper. “i will require it.”

he holds out his hand. janus shakes it. (he notices only during the drive home his absolute absence of any hesitation.)

“i’ll see you at school.”

“see you at school,” janus echoes.

it’s probably the absolute lack of tension that is serving to make janus feel strange. since the beginning of the school year, they’d been picking at each other over grades, and he’d been needling logan for so long, it feels odd to leave without some kind of academic repartee.

and, well. who is he to break from tradition, after all.

the entire reason for this gathering being to forcibly break tradition aside.

so he adds, “i bet my score on our science exam is higher than yours.”

“it will not,” logan says, looking affronted.

janus snorts, shaking his head and starting down the stairs, heading for his car. “whatever you say.”

“it won’t!”

“four point margin.”

“absolutely not! your score will be less than mine by two at most!”

“i’ll make it mine is six points above yours!” janus calls, sliding into the driver’s seat, and sees logan shaking his head and probably muttering to himself.

janus rolls his eyes, but his lip turns up at the corner a bit more than usual as he drives down a rinky-dink little residential street and is that an old couple walking a cat in a stroller?! who put drugs in this town’s water supply?!

⁂

“hey, over here!”

the jolly bell fixed to the top of the door of this (admittedly quite cool) coffeeshop has barely rung before poppy’s attention is called to a corner lit by a big, dramatic brass lamp, where two fat, squashy buttery leather armchairs are framed on either side by bookshelves containing a boggling number of books in seemingly every genre and cool little bits of artsy decor.

poppy waves to lauren, before she points to the bar in a wordless offer. lauren, in answer, holds up her own to-go cup, waving her on to order.

poppy loves coffee.

poppy isn’t allowed to drink coffee.

well. decaf is fine. but the reason she isn’t allowed to drink caffeine “should be self-evident,” according to her mother. so this cuts down a bit on her café offerings.

the barista—who has the largest cup on offer in one hand, and his phone in the other—barely glances away from his phone to look at her over the frames of his sunglasses.

“what do you want?”

okay, blunt. poppy can appreciate blunt.

“the honey lavender latte. decaf,” she tacks on.

“size?”

“large.”

“hot or iced?”

“iced.”

“anything else?”

poppy shakes her head, nods when he recites the order back to her, taps her card when asked, and shuffles off to the pickup area to get her coffee, taking a moment to look around.

all of the machinery is sleek, decorated in white and black, down to the framed wall art beneath the menu. the barista is talking on his phone, now, gesticulating grandly with his truly enormous cup of iced—tea, she’s pretty sure?—behind the espresso machine, even as he’s pulling a shot for her drink. it’s frankly an impressive display of multitasking.

she looks around the room. there are other chilton people here, but not many, and most of them upperclassmen lingering in sideshire before they have to retreat back to the horrors of the workload of their junior and senior years.

there are a few of sideshire townsfolk, too, most of them chattering in polite undertones, lounging on the couches are the same buttery brown leather of the armchairs. there are also a couple of modern black rocking chairs cushioned in white, also under a couple of those big, brass lamps, all so similar in style; it all looks right out of a period film’s library mashed together with a sleek, black-and-white modernist look. poppy’s burgeoning designer brain can appreciate the adherence to an aesthetic, and this place has it in spades.

the entire place is very… cool.

poppy isn’t very well-versed in how to handle cool. her peers have made this very clear to her.

she scoops up her order when called with a quick “thanks,” and scoots her way over to the other armchair.

“hey!” lauren says, immediately shifting her laptop so poppy can see. “i’m just getting the most likely stuff features onto a flashdrive—what d’you think on this one?”

poppy examines it. it’s a good shot, ana and janey talking, heads leaned in close, fan angled just so to shield what they’re saying from their seat neighbor, but not enough to obscure their faces. ana smirking in perfect profile, janey’s laugh covered in dramatic shadow.

“that’s good,” poppy says, then, with much more honesty, “well, with a bit of color grading…”

lauren laughs ruefully. “yeah, i know. it’s juuuust cloudy enough to mess with my exposure settings with all the windows in there, let me tell you. i’ll chuck it into the folder of likely contenders and meet up with mel to whittle all the options down on monday. do you wanna help? if you don’t, i can just do it later. i’m procrastinating on an essay for mr. medina.”

mr. medina teaches sophomore and senior honors and ap english. poppy isn’t sure how she’ll handle it next year; he’s a fine enough teacher, sure, but he also doesn’t seem to be the sort to do things when poppy tells him to, like some other teachers at chilton. one compliment to mrs. caldicott, for example, and she’d probably eat out of the palm of poppy’s hand.

“sure, i can help sort photos,” poppy says, wondering if this is some kind of test. she doesn’t know lauren very well—should she just agree with everything she says? will lauren be the sort to get ruffled up if disagreed with, or would she think poppy a suck-up if she didn’t?

and photos, too! so prone to artistic disagreement. so prone to subjectivity! at least design tended to have some very classic rules. poppy knows less with photography; rule of thirds, and that was about it.

“cool, thanks—i don’t have many left, i don’t think, let me get it set up here…”

poppy takes a nervous sip of her beverage as lauren plugs her laptop in to charge, then angles the screen so they can both see it without too much glare.

the drink is good. very good. just sweet enough with the honey, just floral enough with the lavender, but the drink isn’t too sweet nor too floral nor too bitter from the coffee; all the flavors work in perfect concert with each other. it’s the sort of good that makes poppy very happy she’s taken a risk and gotten a large, and she’s already mentally plotting an excuse to come see logan just so she can swing by this coffeeshop again.

“okay!” lauren says brightly, enlarges the photo, and poppy can’t help but snort, then wince.

but—it’s, objectively, a bad photo. it’s an insanely blurry shot; it looks like lauren accidentally snapped a photo on its way into her camera bag, focused mostly on the ballet studio’s wooden floors.

“okay, yeah, immediate no,” lauren says, also laughing, which makes poppy’s shoulders relax, just a bit.

she also files the information away; lauren is, at least superficially, okay with laughing at herself. that’s useful intel.

there are very few other immediate nos in there; one where kai, lauren’s boyfriend (poppy thinks? she’s not up on the gossip. she has better ways to spend her time) has stolen lauren’s camera and attempted to take a selfie with it, missing most of his face and instead capturing a surprisingly steady photo of their own shoulder. there’s one where tristan dugray is obviously in the middle of sneezing. (her mother says that poppy ought to have a crush on a boy like tristan, who is objectively handsome, poppy can yield that, but he’s just… such a jackass.)

a few others pass in that nature; people who turned at the last second, awkward blinking, action stills that aren’t very photogenic, but the one five photos after that are, that kind of thing.

but the rest of them are remarkably well-composed, featuring a mixture of chilton students, not just those who are popular. there’s a mix of dynamics, of expressions, of poses; even as poppy tries to peruse them with a critical eye, as she gathers that lauren does actually want to know her opinion, it’s obvious that lauren has a talent.

she says as much as they wind down on the end of the photos, lauren detaching the memory card reader from her laptop and packing it away into a teeny tiny little case.

“aw, shucks,” lauren says, grinning, starting to dissemble her camera with swift, practiced motions, detaching the lens and reaching for a microfiber cloth. “i mean, i’ve been taking photos since i was a little kid, i’d hope some sort of talent would have rub off on me by now.”

“so you’ve always wanted to be a photographer?” poppy asks, immediately intrigued.

lauren hesitates, pausing from polishing the lens.

“...um,” lauren says, and laughs a little bit, awkward, and poppy immediately know she’s overstepped. she doesn’t know how—this is a frequent occurrence—she just knows that she has.

“sorry,” poppy says hastily, knowing that this is typically the smoothest path to resolution.

“no, no, it’s fine,” lauren says, waving her hand. poppy watches the cloth flutter like a flag in the wind. “um—i dunno, it always just gets a bit… you know how chilton is.”

“they do tend to prioritize STEM careers,” poppy agrees hastily. this is a boon for her, considering she intends on going into medicinal research, but she can see how this might be a bit of a struggle for someone more artistically inclined.

“yeah,” lauren says. “um. it’s more… i don’t know what i want to do. actually.”

poppy freezes.

the idea is such anathema to her that it’s boggling her mind. poppy knows her life and who she’s going to grow up to be ever since she had a concept of herself. high school at chilton, college at harvard, then staying at harvard for med school, then making a career in cancer research. that’s it. path plotted.

“like,” lauren says, “at all. i mean, i like photography a lot! i really enjoy mel’s class. but do i like it enough to stake my entire college experience on it? to make a career in that? i really like to bake, too, but i don’t want to be a baker. same with chemistry. same with—everything. i don’t even know which colleges i’ll apply for yet.”

that’s insane. objectively, poppy thinks.

(it’s not.)

even if lauren wasn’t also a chilton student—who famously set their students rigorous exercises and standards for the collegiate application experience—she doesn’t even know where she wants to go?!

“like,” poppy echoes, lost for words. “...at all?”

“like at all,” lauren agrees miserably. “i’m seventeen, anyways! who the hell has their life figured out at seventeen?!”

she does not give poppy an opportunity to answer—probably good, because poppy would have said something like well, i’ve had it figured out since i was four—before she says “no one! no one does! why is society set up like this?!”

“...historical precedent,” poppy decides to say, because that feels safer than offering any emotional input.

“historical precedent is stupid,” lauren grumbles. “all i know i want to do is keep spending time with my boyfriend, take pictures, bake things to bring into class, and probably be editor in chief next year, because i really like the idea of spending more time with mel and molding the paper into the best it can be, not because i know for a fact that i want to be editor in chief someday and i want to put it on my resume.”

wow. poppy and lauren really are different.

“is that too much to ask?!”

“no,” poppy says because, objective wildness of not planning your future since you’ve had a concept of time aside, it isn’t a lot to ask.

“thank you,” lauren sighs, flopping back into her armchair, then meets poppy’s eyes for the first time since she’s started this little tirade.

“oh, god, i’m sorry,” lauren says. “sorry. it’s just—my parents were getting on me about it right before we got here, they want me to buckle down, like, four years ago, and it’s… sorry. i shouldn’t have put all that on you.”

“no, it’s okay,” poppy says, once again relying on that old faithful of Societal Norms.

“here i am, freaking out, and here you are, with—” lauren gestures vaguely. “a painstakingly organized agenda and a straightforward trajectory and a—a purpose. a future, a plan. i mean, cancer research, wow!��

it is pretty wow, but poppy thinks it’d be pretty insensitive to bring that up at the moment, as lauren is currently burying her face in her hands.

“i’m all—mess, and you’ve got everything figured out,” lauren finishes.

“not everything,” flies out of poppy’s mouth before she can even consider a response.

lauren peeks through her fingers, arching an eyebrow.

“i know it sounds—silly,” poppy says, haltingly. “but—you’ve got things figured out that i definitely don’t. i mean—my mom would kill for me to have a boyfriend and do social things like you do.”

“your mom has her priorities a bit skewed.”

“i know that,” poppy tries not to snap, “but that’s—what it is. people like you, you get involved in things, and i can’t even figure out which stupid secret society to join because, even though i have all the family connections, neither of them really like me enough to invite me before now.”

welp. there it is.

poppy knows she’s an acquired taste; the trouble is, she’s never met anyone particularly patient enough to actually acquire it. dee has come close, she guesses, but he’s so hard to read that it’s genuinely difficult to tell, and even then, it’s because they’re “of a like mind,” according to him.

which—considering dee’s reputation within the chilton social stratosphere—is not particularly comforting.

“oh, poppy, that’s not—”

“i’m going to have to suck up to francie jarvis all year if i want to get into the puffs, she all but told me that outright,” poppy snaps. “help her with her homework, secure her a prime spot in the parking lot, organize her locker, scrunch up the plastic strands on her pom-poms to make them fluffy. i’d have to do everything except give her a manicure, if I had any talent with an orange stick.”

“but there’s the—”

“—clairs, i know, but no one’s even approached me about the clairs, even though i have cousins who graduated from both sororities! my family's name and reputation, not to mention my entire future, all depend on me getting into that group—”

“okay, first of all,” lauren says, “the entirety of your family’s name, reputation, and your incredibly bright future do not all depend on which clique you’re in in high school.”

“—my mother was a proud puff,” poppy continues as if she hasn’t spoken, because really, what a ridiculous notion that the world was not pinned on the minutiae of decisions you make in high school, “and my cousin maddie. the connections maddie made with the puffs got her an internship with the supreme court. but my father’s sister was a clair, and so was my cousin ruth. the connections ruth made with the clairs got her an incredible job managing celebrity pr, which sounds like hell to me but she’s thrilled as anything—”

“poppy—poppy!” lauren’s holding up her hands in supplication, and poppy promptly shuts her mouth.

did that guy behind the barista bar screw up and give her full caffeine?! she surreptitiously looks at the sharpie markings on her cup—no, marked off as decaf. hmph.

“okay,” lauren says, speaking in a soft, quiet tone, the way one might talk to an easily startled bunny or something of that nature. which is ridiculous, even if poppy’s shoulder’s relax a little at the sound of it. “first of all: i don’t know about the puffs, but clairs don’t recruit until the last month of your freshman year.”

poppy blinks.

“which wouldn’t be for a minute, for you,” she adds helpfully. “second, you could probably report francie for hazing—”

“it was mostly implied,” poppy mumbles.

“—still,” lauren says. “francie’s…”

poppy waits for lauren to finish that sentence, taking a sip of her drink.

“...francie,” lauren finishes delicately, as if unable to come up with any singular term that would do the work to encapsulate francie. “look. you’re smart, and driven, and you’d succeed in either sorority you wanted, or no sorority, even—”

poppy’s already shaking her head at that notion.

“—but, hey, part of why i asked you to coffee is to tell you about the clairs,” lauren says, settling back in her armchair.

“that would be great, thank you,” poppy says politely, trying to pack away their mutual spinouts into the distant past of thirty seconds ago, never to be thought of again. “maddie tells me all about the puffs, but ruth’s pretty quiet about the clairs. what are meetings like?”

“i mean, it’s kind of secret,” lauren says, warmly enough that it’s not entirely discounting the question, “but, i mean—you know how chilton tends to try to keep everything about the secret societies hush-hush and fails at it completely?”

poppy nods. there are ten secret societies worth cracking at chilton, and the puffs have been commonly regarded as number one for the last fifty years. a supreme court justice was once a puff. the ship to keeping secret societies hush-hush had sailed long ago for that reason alone.

“i can tell you the stuff i knew was in the public eye before i got initiated,” lauren says, “which—you probably know, but it’ll probably be good to clear up rumor-rumors from rumors based a little more in fact.”

also accurate. the jefferson has famously implied that the clairosophic society are the closest a modern girl could get to going into the woods and slaughtering chickens and drinking each other’s blood to enact witchcraft, like fabled salem witches of old.

the jefferson has also implied certain things about the puffs and their… well, poppy thinks its not too far of a stretch to mention the comparison to a cultish honeybee hive, complete absolute obeisance to their designated queen—highly likely to be francie for the next few years.

“this is different for every society—and for fraternities and sororities in college—but i can generally tell you that it’s not too different from a lot of club meetings. we have an agenda, we have questions and discussion, we do an occasional activity, we make a plan for what we’ll do between this meeting and the next one.”

vague, but poppy can appreciate mentions of agendas and plans. valuable intel. poppy is notoriously good with agendas and plans—she might be able to finagle this into a boon, regardless of which sorority she joins—

“usually, we talk about things going on at chilton, philanthropy events, any tweaks to the bylaws, social events that we’re all planning, voting for some of the more niche aspects of running a sorority… formal meetings are a lot of bureaucracy.”

poppy can do bureaucracy! poppy is great at bureaucracy!

wait.

“and… informal meetings?” poppy says.

“also a bit secret,” lauren says sheepishly. “more like… friend hangouts. don’t stress about it.”

hilarious. as if poppy has experience with informal hangouts. poppy will absolutely be stressing about it.

“you mentioned philanthropy?” poppy prompts, and lauren brightens.

“yes! we vote on a cause each year, and this year—for the past couple years, actually—we’re focusing our efforts on a children’s research hospital.”

poppy must visibly perk up at this, because lauren grins.

“i thought that might be up your alley.”

“what kind of things do you do?” poppy says, practically vibrating. depending on the puffs’ philanthropic efforts, this could absolutely tilt the scales—establishing connections at a hospital this early! poppy had previously planned on beginning to do volunteer work as soon as she was legally old enough to do some work of import at the hospital, but this was huge, this could advance her plans by years—

“a lot of fundraising—i need to pin down what i’m going to bake for a bake sale in two weeks, actually—helping out with their phone bank, some occasional office administration stuff, supporting their fundraising events. some girls—ana does it, i can give her your number if you have questions—help out in the playroom. ana’s there basically every weekend, she’s there probably the most of anyone. some of the girls on the cross-country and track teams are finagling the rest of them to join in the national 5k.”

poppy nods, absorbing this.

“we partner with a lot of their official events, mostly volunteering to do some of the grunt work. actually, wait, let me find a pamphlet for you from the hospital, i know i’ve got it here somewhere…”

lauren begins rummaging around in her backpack, and poppy takes a moment to drink her coffee and absorb this; a man in a cardigan opens a door that poppy had thought for staff only. the barista looks up, smiling for the first time that she’s seen, and passes the man a prepped to-go cup. the man in the cardigan beams, takes it, and uses his other hand to pull the barista in for a quick kiss.

poppy finds herself staring as the barista leans against the counter; they speak in quiet undertones, cautious not to let any of their words float to the rest of the café—poppy thinks she might be the only one watching, though. the locals don’t seem to care, as if this is a common enough occurrence, and the lingering chilton students are either deep in conversation with each other or scrolling on their phones or laptops with their airpods in.

what a town, where these people can kiss and no one even thinks to comment upon it.

poppy wonders if that’s what life is like outside of the mcmaster household. to be free of a world where every little thing is commented upon.

“here you go,” lauren says cheerfully, passing it over. “even if you don’t join the clairs, i hope you look into this. it’s a really great cause.”

“sure,” poppy says automatically, taking it and tucking it carefully into her bag, then, “do you really not care if i join the clairs or not?”

lauren blinks. “how do you mean?”

“like,” poppy says, gesturing vaguely. “this. this wasn’t some recruitment tactic?”

“oh!” lauren says. “i mean—not formally. i just invited you because…”

“because?” poppy prompts, eyes narrowing.

“because i really do think that we need to stick together,” lauren says. “both in terms of being journalism girls, sure, but also because i think women in general should stick together. i do want you in the clairs, but not because of the fact that you’re a mcmaster or i think you’re going to be really successful some day—which you will—but because i like you.”

poppy blinks. “you like me?”

“sure, i like you!” lauren says. “i think you’re really good at journalism and design. i like that you decided you wanted a feature and went after it. i like that you’re teaming up with logan and dee, even though dee’s kind of out there, because you recognize everyone’s talent, instead of only yours, which i think is way too common in a place like chilton. and i think you’re funny.”

poppy absorbs this for a moment. funny is not a word typically used to describe her. like is not a word typically used to describe her. she sets this aside—the words sure i like you! echoing in her mind nonetheless—and progresses.

“do you think i’d be a good clair?”

“i think you’d be a great member of any sorority,” lauren says. “but, yes—i think you’d be a great clair. you’re driven, you’re smart, you’re so focused on your own goals that i don’t think you’d care that any other clairs’ life path is a little unorthodox.”

“is that common?” poppy says, setting aside the errant thought that unorthodox might have been an invitation to pun. poppy does not pun, but enough people at her synagogue do that it feels near-instinctual to recognize the opportunity and let it float away. “unorthodox life paths, i mean.”

“very,” lauren says honestly. “i mean—my indecision aside. i know that a lot of us don’t fit the chilton mold. girls who are religious outside of christianity, girls who aren’t religious at all, girls who don’t want what society sets out for the path of a “good”—” here she uses air quotes, “chilton girl. like—liv is already setting up to be a professional bridesmaid starting in college, and that’s all she’s ever professed a desire to do, professionally speaking. bella’s thinking about going off the grid entirely and living off the land. soph leads ghost tours on the weekends with the intent of landing a rich eccentric to spouse up with. scarlet doesn’t want to go to college at all, she thinks chilton is scamming her parents.“

yes. those are certainly all off the path of approved post-chilton career paths, which mostly seem to split between “corporate,” “lawyer,” “doctor,” “professor,” or “otherwise professionally or academically outstanding so that we may brag upon our alumni.”

“yeah, you’d be a good clair.”

“oh,” poppy says. “that’s… good. but. i mean. do you think i’d… fit in, as a clair?”

“i think that’s the beauty of the clairs,” lauren says thoughtfully. “none of us fit in. but we manage to fit in with each other. if that makes any sense?”

it does, poppy thinks, stirring her drink with her straw, thinking of hattie, thinking of the barista, thinking of a future where she won’t have to bow to someone’s every whim, but one where she is instead offered mentorship and volunteer opportunities to further her future, without ulterior motive.

“it really does.”

⁂

seline: ALERT.

francie: You know how much I hate it when you start a text message with a vague message instead of getting right to the point.

seline: right, sorry.

francie: And learn punctuation.

seline: anyway i stuck around in the middle of nowhere right after the gathering to get some coffee, and i saw mcmaster coming into the café

francie: Poppy McMaster?

seline: she’s that really intense freshman right

francie: WAY too intense.

seline: and loud. and also i think she might be a robot, she never just. STOPS. ykwim

francie: She comes from a long line of us, though.

seline: ugh. i hate nepotism.

francie: Rich of you to say. It makes the world go ‘round.

francie: Anway, I should care about this, beyond McMaster being insanely intense and coming from a long line of Puffs because…?

seline: right! so i stuck around in the middle of nowhere right after the gathering to get some coffee, and i saw mcmaster coming into the café

francie: Get to a point, please.

seline: and she sat with lauren whatever her name is. seline: …and asking her a lot about the clairosophic society.

francie: What?! francie: But her family’s fully puffed!!!

seline: except her cousin.

francie: Who cares about her freaky cousin? A voluntary defector!!! There hasn’t been one in at least ten years, and even then, that was forgiven when she got suspended for troublemaking!!!

seline: maybe i heard her wrong, bc i was listening to that stupid video mr. gardiner keeps saying i should listen to to “improve my understanding of calculus,” but that’s what i think i heard her say.

francie: We absolutely cannot have this.

⁂

“if katy fincher’s mom tries to butt in on coaching the cheer squad one more time, i’m going to scream,” sasha says, her face buried in her arms where they rest on the desk of their mutual english class.

they currently have quiet time to work on their papers, which means everyone is talking in quiet voices and absolutely not working on their papers. most are instead online shopping on their laptops or texting other people on the sly.

“mood, retweet, same,” roman says, sticking a post-it in the latest poetry compendium he’s reading. he thinks logan will like this one, even if it is a bit more avant-garde that logan’s usual tastes.

“like, we get it, you were a cheerleader here fifty years ago or whatever, that doesn’t mean you get to just steamroller over our actual coach,” sasha continues, scowling. “it’s enough that she has somehow managed to nepotize katy into a flyer position, now she wants to choreograph routines to bring them back to how they were? no, thank you.”

“she wants to do what,” roman says, looking up from his poetry book. “since when?”

“i don’t even know, but joanna posner texted me that mrs. fincher has some suggestions for practice tomorrow, apparently.”

“the routines are great the way they are! we’re nearly done with the basketball season already, what’s the point of doing it now? is coach actually going to hear her out?”

sasha looks up just enough to shrug and give roman a look at her excellent cut-crease eyeshadow look today—all silvery sparkles and stark, dramatic gunmetal gray—before dropping her forehead back onto her arms.

“this means she’s probably going to put herkies in it,” sasha whines. “i hate herkies.”

“i also hate herkies,” roman says. it’s true, it’s probably his least-favorite cheer-specific jump, which is something, because he usually loves leaps and jumps. it’s like someone ferociously messed up an attitude leap and decided to just rename it instead of facing up to the fact that they did it wrong.

“if any parent should come in to choreograph a new routine, it’s your mom,” sasha says, rolling so her cheek is resting on her arms now, not her forehead. “your mom rules at teaching routines.”

roman smiles. it’s true. his mom does rule at teaching and also at everything else.

“it was really cool to see her teach and stuff last weekend,” sasha continues. “it makes me wish i actually went to a studio to do ballet instead of trying to teach myself from barbie movies.”

“barbie’s nutcracker and twelve dancing princesses are an integral part of my ballet dancer lore,” roman says, “but yeah, she’s the best. and you did, in fact, miss out on the best dance teacher of all time.”

“not that you’re biased.”

“of course not,” roman agrees, amused. “i’m the least biased in the world.”

the bell rings; there’s a great scraping of chairs and desks as everyone gets up to go to lunch, their teacher calling out reminders on the deadline for the paper maybe two of them were actually working on.

roman tucks his book into his backpack, slings it over his shoulder, and asks, “sit with me?”

“sure,” sasha says, and so they set off for the cafeteria, briefly interrupted by a conversation with brick davis about if either of them know anything about arranging carpool arrangements—they don’t, but roman gives brick logan’s phone number because he probably will know—before they find a decent table away from the herd of people who probably sprinted here to get to the microwaves first.

elliott finds them all not long after that, sitting down beside sasha.

“hi,” they say, before peeking curiously at the contents of sasha’s lunchbox. “that looks really good.”

“thanks!” sasha says brightly, already drizzling tzatziki over the innards of her wrap. “i’d heat it up if the lines weren’t so bad today, but souvlaki’s okay cold. even if might be blasphemous to my ancestors, whatever, they never had to deal with microwave lines.”

elliott sighs a little, glumly removing a ziplock bag with what looks like a very sad sandwich inside. they examine it for a minute.

“erm,” roman says, briefly glancing up from his chicken caesar salad. “what is that?”

“i… am not really sure,” elliott says. they open it, sniff a little, and hastily reseal it, but not before the scent of heavy mayonnaise reaches roman. “and i am not entirely sure i trust that this is vegetarian, so. what’s on the hot lunch menu today?”

“umm, i think it’s spaghetti? but don’t quote me on that.” sasha adds hastily.

“sold,” elliott says immediately, scooping up their sad, mayo-infused sandwich to dump in the nearest trash can. “be right back.”

sasha, likely reveling in the fact that one of her dad’s favorite hobbies is remaking and gently tweaking family recipes until they match his elusive childhood memories of summers spent in katerini, looks on sympathetically as elliott shuffles their way in line.

“i’d bring them a spare lunch if they ever asked,” she says with a shake of her head. “i think this is the third time in two weeks that elliott’s had to buy a hot lunch because they weren’t sure if their mom remembered to pack something vegetarian.”

“ditto,” roman says, unsuccessfully attempting to spear a crouton. “my mom’s pretty good about meal prep, and even then, i live, like, right next door to virgil. he’d pack them a lunch without a doubt.”

“it’s like they don’t know they’ve got prime food access just by virtue of us,” sasha says.

“we should hint that to them. delicately.”

“for sure,” sasha agrees. “if it’s not mayo, it’s ham. if it’s not ham, it’s, like, really sad pb&js that are half-smushed inside a ziploc bag.”

“you’d think it would get better once chad graduated,” he says, then, “right, right, you’re new. chad is elliott’s older brother.”

“mm,” sasha says, nose wrinkling. “is he, like, a nice chad, or—”

“no. quintessential chad. whatever you’re picturing, you’ve probably got it.”

sasha’s nose wrinkles further, and she and roman distract themselves with eating as much of their lunches as they can until elliott comes back.

lunch breaks aren’t exactly leisurely at sideshire high. ergo, the sprint to form lines at the microwave; the faster it’s warm, the faster you can eat, the faster you can get to talking to your friends, or visiting your favorite teacher, or stopping by your locker, or what have you.

roman’s pretty sure they aren’t leisurely at chilton, either, but roman bets the students there are a bit less social and a bit more studious with their spare time during lunch breaks.

after a few minutes, elliott drops down at their table and they, too, promptly begin inhaling their spaghetti with marinara sauce and garlic bread on the side.

“we ran into brick earlier, do you know anything about carpooling to the debutante ball?” sasha asks elliott.

they shake their head and make noise of denial.

“that’s a good idea, though,” they mumble.

“yeah, someone should get on that,” sasha says, then, “wait, duh, i know a quick way to get an answer on this.”

she pulls out her phone and sends a text; roman sees his phone screen light up from where he has it stashed in a backpack pocket, in the sideshire debutantes group chat.

“oh, obviously,” roman says. “why didn’t i think of that?”

“just say your brain’s fried from whatever amount of planning happened this weekend, we’d forgive you,” sasha advises. “it was a really big production, does your mom do that kind of thing a lot?”

“well, she hosts a lot of town meetings,” roman muses. “and, i mean, we teach a lot of classes, but—nothing like that.”

“no, this is a pretty unique situation,” elliott says between bites. “your mom’s still really scary, by the way, it did not get better just because i took a class with her like you said it would.”

“i know, isn’t she the best?” roman beams.

elliott makes a nervous mmmmm sound as sasha says “yes absolutely she is.”

“like, hey, look,” roman says, displaying his salad. “i said i was craving caesar, and look! caesar. with plenty to spare, if anyone ever asked me to bring any spare food to anywhere for any reason, plus, like, really close access to the best restaurant in town.”

“subtle,” sasha mouths at him, and roman just shrugs.

hey, he can be a lot of things—dramatic, ostentatious, confident—and none of those are exactly synonyms for subtle.

“yeah, speaking of virgil,” elliott says, digging out their phone. “look at my suit! dress? suit-dress?”

“swess,” sasha says, leaning over to peer at elliott’s phone screen.

“druit,” roman says, doing the same.

it looks, frankly, really cool; half perfect tux, half old-fashioned, regency-esque white dress.

“elliott, that’s gonna look so good,” sasha gushes happily.

roman says, delighted, “wow, elliott, it turned out great, i can’t wait to see it in person!”

“thanks,” elliott says, ducking their head. “i’m, um, i’m really happy with it, actually. i was really nervous.”

“what are you gonna do with shoes and stuff?” sasha says curiously. “oh, i could totally help you do a half-and-half look, just say the word!”

“would you really?” elliott says, looking surprised. “thanks, sasha, that would be really—really great, actually. i mostly just,” and gestures to their dark eyeshadow. “y’know. not exactly intricate stuff.”

sasha squeals happily, clapping her hands.

“i love having models to do makeup on!” she says. “my sisters are getting so tired of me bursting into their rooms when they’re trying to do homework, let me tell you. ooh, ellie, this is gonna be great! we should probably carpool then, right, if i’m your makeup artist?”

“sure!” elliott says. “we can text other people to see if there’s room in the car, or if you’ve got yours, or—”

“totally,” sasha says. “sorry, can i just take a picture of your face, real quick? i want to make sure i have a reference for foundation matching.”

“um, sure?” elliott says, and they try their best to offer a neutral expression to the camera.

quickly afterward, not even leaning over to peek at the picture sasha got, elliott turns to roman. “how about you? i don’t think i’ve seen your dress.”

roman grins. “it’s a surprise, darlings.”

“aw, not even one hint?” sasha teases.

roman, faux-thoughtfully, taps his finger against his chin.

“well,” he says with a smile at elliott, “you won’t be the only one doing an avant-garde makeup look, how about that?”

“oh, nice,” elliott says. “i mean—not that you won’t do a great job, sasha, it’s just also nice to know i won’t be the only one.”

“i don’t think you were ever going to be the only one,” sasha says cheerfully. “it’s a ton of people smashing gender norms, interesting fashion and makeup kind of goes hand-in-hand with all of that.”

“interesting fashion seems like a theme with those chilton kids for sure,” elliott says. “i mean, wasn’t that friend of logan’s wearing a cape?”

roman scowls, more out of instinct than anything.

“uh-oh,” sasha says. “we don’t like logan’s friend? what’s their name?”

“dee,” roman grumbles, “and no, we do not like him. he’s competing with logan too hard for valedictorian, which should be logan’s in any sane world, he lied to me for the sake of his own amusement, he pokes his nose in everyone’s business, he—”

“okay, we don’t like him,” sasha says, cutting him off. “got it.”

elliott makes another mm noise.

“what?” roman says, lowering his fork.

elliott jerks their shoulders up and down in a shrug.

“no, really, what?”

“wellll,” elliott says, drawing out the word, dragging their fork through the pasta. “does he… really suck?”

“yes, he sucks,” roman says fervently. “he, for sure, really, absolutely sucks.”

“do i detect jealousy?” sasha says, a hint of intrigue on her voice.

“you absolutely do not,” roman says fervently. “no. no way. i am not jealous of that—that jason vorhees wannabe!”

elliott’s head tilts, and their mouth pulls to one side.

“what was that face?” roman says. “i’m not!”

“weeeeellllll,” elliott says in a high-pitched voice.

“oh, go on, elliott, you know i’m new,” sasha urges. “you know all this history, i’m at a disadvantage.”

elliott shrugs, lifting a noodle on their fork, letting it drop back down into the tray. “i mean, you and logan have practically been together since kindergarten.”

“not true,” roman mutters petulantly. “if we had been together that long, i could have saved myself a lot of longing staring and yearning angst throughout the years.”

“not necessarily romantically,” elliott adds to sasha, as if roman isn’t even there. “just, like. it was always roman-and-logan, logan-and-roman, you know?”

they say it very quickly, like they’re used to saying their names as all one word; romanandlogan, loganandroman. roman fights the urge to be sappy about that.

“if one was there, the other wasn’t far behind. they’ve always been,” elliott says, and twines their fingers together, using the gesture to finish their sentence.

“ohhh,” sasha says, in a great gusting sigh of realization. “i see. logan moved, met this guy, and now this is a whole another person might be becoming important to the person who’s important to me thing.”

“it is not that thing, okay, first of all,” roman says, “he’s evil.”

“evil?!” sasha says, on the edge of a laugh. “he’s a prep wearing a cape, roman, i don’t know if it’s that serious.”

“it is that serious,” roman says vehemently, “he manipulated someone into punching logan, so—!”

“wait, what?” elliott says, and so roman has to catch them all up on the dastardy of dee slange.

this takes the rest of lunch break; they split off for their respective lockers and afternoon classes, roman slightly vindicated by the looks on their faces as they realize that dee slange is heinous.

“but if he did all that—” sasha begins, then breaks it off, her brow furrowing.

“what?” roman says, distracted by the sound of their class bell, putting his phone back into the perfectly sized pocket of his backpack.

elliott and sasha exchange another look.

“well,” sasha says. “i guess i don’t know him as well as either of you do, but… logan seems like a really smart guy. if dee really did all of that—then why is logan bothering to hang out with him?”

roman sets his jaw, slinging his backpack over his shoulder.

“that’s what i can’t figure out, either,” roman says, and he goes on his way to his next class before either of them can start brainstorming and come up answers that make dee even more abominable than he already is..

or, even worse—

answers that will make roman start to consider dee as logan’s misunderstood confidante.

⁂

“uh-huh. well, that’s good, at least.”

patton makes eye contact with virgil and nods as virgil speaks into the landline; virgil nods back with a little distracted smile on his face as he continues listening intently on the phone. patton contents himself with attempting to guess who’s on the phone based on the half of the conversation he’s walked into the middle of.

“yeah, it’s all going pretty well, we had a big get-together with a lot of the kids so they all know how it’s gonna go down… probably, yeah, i’m up to my armpits in tulle, but i think i’ve gotten all the last of the last-minute folks in, so i can at least narrow it down…”

okay, someone who is interested in how the debutante ball is going, which means not someone with a strict business relationship based mostly on virgil ordering ingredients and supplies.

“...bit longer, but shouldn’t be much. you know how things get with the seasons, i’ve got a bit more downtime here and there…”

hm. virgil’s tone makes it almost like he’s talking to his mom, which would fit, except virgil’s probably talked to meredith recently enough that she’d know about the timeline, and someone else who knows about how restaurant levels vary. which leaves…

“okay. yeah, see you soon… i will, i will, he’d probably like that… thanks. bye.”

virgil hangs up the landline; if there’s one thing about landlines patton misses, it’s probably that sense of concrete finality that comes from hanging up a phone. smartphones just mean pressing a screen. no theatricality of clicking buttons, no twirling the line around a finger.

lot more convenient to carry, though. and little smartphone games! patton loves little smartphone games.

“bud or maisie?” patton asks, as virgil, smiling, leans forward, elbows on the counter. “i’m guessing maisie.”

“maisie.”

“ha! i got it!” patton crows, before leaning forward; virgil, who he is maybe in the midst of accidentally pavlov’ing, leans the rest of the way to give patton a little greeting kiss.

“maisie wants me to bring my handsome young man back over pretty soon,” virgil says.

patton grins. he likes bud and maisie quite a bit; he’s pretty pleased that they like him back.

“she and bud say hello.”

“well, i say hello back,” patton declares, despite the fact that virgil would probably have to call them back to pass on this news. it’s in the spirit of the thing.

“how was work?”

“oh, same old, same old,” patton says vaguely, “except i think one of the kid guests is trying to smuggle one of our squirrels into the hotel so they can smuggle it back home in their luggage.”

virgil considers this. “i don’t know what to do with that.”

“yeah, me either,” patton agrees. “logan never really got into the let’s adopt this animal phase beyond, like, frogs.”

“ah, i remember reptile phase,” virgil says. “made it a lot easier that you lived by their natural habitat, though. i don’t think this girl can do that unless she convinces her parents to move here.”

“i don’t blame her, though. we’ve got a pretty good squirrel population. very fuzzy, very fat, very prone to posing for pictures.”

“true,” virgil says. “we have very handsome squirrels here. good representatives to stick on a wildlife brochure. i don’t know how taylor is behind this, but i think taylor is behind this.”

“you and logan think taylor’s behind everything.”

“he is, but continue.”

“well—i don’t think tipping off the parents that their child is planning to abduct the local wildlife is really in my job description, considering she’s been pretty vocal about our squirrels, but i told the landscapers to keep an eye out for it.”

“probably for the best,” virgil agrees.

“speaking of photogenic,” patton says, and he waggles his eyebrows. “do you have your fancy black tail outfit all sorted out?”

virgil groans—half joke, half real disdain for the stuffy uncomfortableness of it all—and rests his elbows on the counter, leaning forward. “do i have to?”

“probably not,” patton says, practical, “considering all the kids are flouting dress codes anyway.”

virgil freezes.

patton grins. “did i just now bring that to your attention?” this strikes patton as particularly ironic, considering virgil’s outfit today; a dark, silky purple button-down tucked into a breezy black maxi skirt, his eyes rimmed with black and his lips painted with burgundy to match.

virgil drops his forehead onto his arms, whining “i could have just not bought a fancy suit?!” into the counter.

“aw, poor virgil,” patton says, running his fingers through his impressively silky hair, then, “...how fancy?”

“very!” virgil grumbles, not moving. “i bought a tailored coat with and without tails because i couldn’t remember which i needed, patton! i have two fancy suit coats i don’t need now!”

“how many fancy suit coats did you have before?” patton says, curious; he thinks he’s only ever seen virgil in suits at weddings, exclusively. photographs of virgil’s siblings’ weddings—patton only ever attended one of the three, though wyatt’s triad is rapidly approaching common law marriage length of relationship had their home state allowed such—and weddings of the general townsfolk, who frequently invite him to fancy events like that since virgil’s the face and name of a town staple and all.

“one!” virgil wails. “i’ve tripled my fancy suit coat collection! how often am i going to be wearing fancy suits?!”

“well—”

“the dry cleaning is a nightmare, patton. i never remember to drop things off at dry cleaning, and then i never remember to pick them up.”

“that i know,” patton says, amused, carding his fingers this way and that through virgil’s hair. “i’m surprised you only had one suit.”

“you have to do business-y things more than me,” virgil says.

“that’s true,” patton says. in addition to weddings—the inn being a popular venue, and patton also being part of a town staple—patton also has much more frequent meetings, bank conferences, the occasional conference for inn owners that maria usually enthuses about, and general tasks that he has to do for his business degree (so close to finishing! patton really does not enjoy studying macro or microeconomics!)

virgil, on the other hand, usually only has bank meetings on the roster. suits in a diner kitchen kind of seemed like a nightmare waiting to happen.

“besides, you’ve got some fancy events coming up other than this, it’ll be nice to have spares,” patton points out—the boys’ graduation within the next couple of years, a fancy dinner or party that patton’s certain his parents will take them both to at one point or another, not to mention the Big Deal Life Events of virgil’s many nieces and nephews.

just off the top of his head, patton’s pretty sure both wes and mikey are approaching graduation from middle school, and little baby red has had murmurs of a formal christening (primarily moira’s side of the family; silas has never struck patton as particularly religious).

patton mentions this, and virgil only sighs.

“are we done sulking?” patton says, a little amused. “can i see that handsome face, partner of mine?”

“dunno,” virgil mumbles into his arms. “the scratching feels really nice. i could stay here all day.”

patton laughs, scratches a little firmer for emphasis, and says, “we could at least take this to a couch so that you can nod off while i’m doing this, i know you’ve been staying up late with dress alterations lately.”

virgil lets out a sigh of longing, which makes patton giggle, but virgil stands upright.

“there he is,” patton coos, and virgil ducks his head—not quite blushing, but certainly smiling in that shy, bashful way patton loves.

“do you have a suit?”

“oh, my mom referred me to a tailor way back when we first got the dress,” patton says with a little laugh. “i just have to pick it up.”

“probably should have guessed that,” virgil says. “of course your mom would have a tailor on speed dial.”

a tailor. with the way that his mother has her exacting specifications for anything and everything, but especially shopping and appearances in general, coupled with her tendency to immediately fire anyone who displeases her? virgil’s adorable.

“at least i only had to get the cummerbund and coat,” patton reasons, and virgil lets out a great big gust of air.

“can we revisit that whole i lay down on the couch while you scratch through my hair idea?” virgil says. “i’ll bring dinner and the hair. you’ve got couch and the hands.”

“well, how could anyone refuse that offer? it’s a date.” patton beams, and virgil leans over, pressing an imprint of burgundy lipstick into patton’s lips.

patton refuses to wipe it off.

⁂

From: [email protected]

To: [email protected]

Subject: Design edits for debutante spread

I appreciate your very prompt response in getting your designs on the flashdrive and down to the journalism lab! I’ve have a few minor edits notated on the PDF attached—mostly to switch from HEX to RGB color codes and adjustments to the margin width to best fit printing standards.

Very well done on the infographic design work—especially for a freshman! I think you may be able to progress to a more advanced course under my tutelage in your sophomore year, considering I anticipate you won’t need much help figuring out Adobe programs. I might need to ask you for pointers!

Best,

Mel Kramschissel, PhD.

From: [email protected]

To: [email protected]

Subject: Story edits for debutante spread

I’ve attached the story edits from myself and James for your convenience after our meeting earlier today. Very compelling throughline—I would like the transcripts of your interviews as soon as you can get them to me, so that we can work on ensuring it’s fact- and quality-checked before it goes to print. I appreciate your work—I’m unsure if your future goals involve journalism, but I think you have a very bright future in storycraft regardless, no matter which form it takes.

Best,

Mel Kramschissel, PhD.

From: [email protected]

To: [email protected]

Subject: Column edits for debutante spread

From: [email protected]

I’ve attached the column edits from myself and James for your convenience after our meeting earlier today. They’re mostly line edits, though I wonder if you can fit in a graph about your or Dee’s personal connections to this project, to give the story a personalized “human” element. I appreciate the citation section of the report—very thorough!—and, barring the transcript, can tell you that your work’s fact- and quality-checking is about finished. Is this how things are done at the Courant? I must commend whichever editor has instilled this habit within you, as it’s saved a great deal of time.

Lauren’s told me some about the things she’s seen as she’s been photographer of the project, and her review of the way yourself and Dee work together has been glowing. I’ll admit I was a little hesitant about the prospect of the pair of you teaming up, given the debacle last semester, but I’m pleased to see such talented minds find common ground.

I hope to see more works that you accomplish together, in whatever capacity (though I certainly would appreciate if they were for the Franklin!)

Best,

Mel Kramschissel, PhD.

From: [email protected]

To: [email protected]; [email protected]; [email protected]; [email protected]

Subject: Re: Debutante Spread

Hi all!

Attached is a rough draft of Poppy’s design layout with the pictures Kram and I picked included. Comments and notes appreciated. I wanted to thank you three again for having me tag along—really fun photography opportunity AND a really interesting story for the paper! Definitely sign me up if you’ve got any more ideas.

—Lauren

To: [email protected]; [email protected]; [email protected]; [email protected]

Subject: Potential meeting for spread tweaks

I think all the individual aspects of what the spread is so far are very promising. Would the four of you be free to meet before or after school in the coming week so that we can coordinate on reviewing final edits and the plan to cover the event itself?

Please let me know what works best on timing. Color me impressed by what you all have put together so far! The Franklin has a very bright future ahead of it with all of you taking turns manning the helm.

Best,

Mel Kramschissel, PhD.

⁂

the day starts off simply enough: wake up, brush his teeth and comb his hair, get dressed, go to the diner with dad and virgil, get ahead on some of his daily readings on the bus, walk to his locker to swap out some of his heavy textbooks to the other, then swing by mel’s desk to see if there’s anything else needed for their spread.

at least, he intends to swing by mel’s desk.

instead, logan enters the lab hallway to chaos.

it does not seem to be an exaggeration to state such a thing. francie, of puff fame, nearly knocks him off the stairs at the speed at which she’s storming past him; as he’s rounding the corner on the landing, someone is hastily shoving a copy of the jefferson into his chest then continuing their run to the nearest person with an empty hand; as he reaches the bottom of the stairs, hattie has an arm around summer, also of puff fame, murmuring to her in soft, comforting tones as she cries loudly into hattie’s shoulder.

in the midst of the lab hallway that logan was originally intending to traverse to swing by mel’s desk. there is a crowd the likes of which logan only sees at pep rallies or mandatory assemblies, many of them clutching matching copies of the jefferson, many of them elbowing each other and craning their necks to try and get a look at what lies within the great crush of people.

logan, despite his better judgment, cannot resist his own curiosity; he does not keep walking and ignoring it all. instead, he lingers, because he’s fairly certain nothing will get done in the journalism lab; the crowd’s chatter is slightly subdued, but that is because, logan thinks, in the middle of it all, there is a great deal of yelling.

“—oh, now he’s a CAVEMAN! What were you planning to do, knock me on the back of a head with a club then drag me back to your porsche—?!”

“—BROKEN UP, do you hear me—?!”

“NEVER—in all my years as headmaster—!”

logan blinks, startled, then shuffles vaguely, integrating himself into the great cloud of his navy-plaid-and-gray clad peers, so he can get some impression of what’s going on, then—

“shame,” janus says in a casual, flat tone, appearing suddenly at logan’s side as though summoned by logan’s sheer confusion. logan refuses to jump or startle.

“what is—?”

but then, as the trio shuffles forward, a parting in the crowd, and—

there’s a car.

there’s a car. blue. a honda accord, if he isn’t mistaken. sensible. reliable.

one he’s usually accustomed to seeing in the parking lot, not in the middle of the lab hallway.

in the basement of the school. granted, logan doesn’t know much about cars, but he is 100% certain that the doorways are not wide enough to allow this, let alone the presence of stairs.

logan turns to janus. “how—?”

“why do you assume i know?” janus scoffs, adjusting his cape. logan still isn’t certain how he isn’t getting daily uniform infringements; logan finds himself touching the knot of his own tie, just to ensure he’s in dress code.

“you’ve been here longer than i have, i just got here,” logan points out. “wait—doesn’t the jefferson usually publish on mondays…?”

“both true,” janus says, then, “shh, charleston might go full thermobaric. he’s been due to blow his top for ages.”

logan barely even has time to mentally recall the meaning of thermobaric—containing a charge of fuel designed to ignite and combine with oxygen present in the atmosphere to produce a prolonged explosion—before charleston resumes his rant.

“—that is IT, that’s IT! I’VE HAD IT! RIGHT TO MY OFFICE, YOU THREE, AND YOU’D BETTER PRAY THAT YOUR PARENTS ARRIVE WITH SUFFICIENT EXPLANATIONS TO KEEP YOU FROM BEING EXPELLED!”

a gasp doesn’t quite suffuse its way through the crowd, but certainly a few of the more excitable members of the student population do, and—

“OUT OF MY WAY!”

a column of students shuffles awkwardly to part the navy sea, lest they get bowled over by the headmaster (and likely given a detention for it, given the foul mood he’s in), and logan beholds

ah. unsurprising.

of course it’s tristan, duncan, and bowman at the scene of the crime.

“and that’s military school for dugray,” janus murmurs into his ear. not quietly enough; tristan’s eyes dart right to janus, glaring, clearly about to say something before charleston’s “MOVE!” gets him into motion.

“military school?” logan repeats.

“oh, sure,” janus says. “ever since the three of them got caught breaking into a locked safe of bowman senior’s, mr. dugray’s been dying for any excuse. i guess he wanted to go out with a bang.”

janus’ comment is caught by the crowd, but not by many. logan isn’t unique, it seems, for turning to the nearest familiar face to discuss the whole affair. logan hears words like cheater and plagiarism and the jefferson said flying around like a murmuration of starlings, the allegations shifting and shape-changing as easily as any flock.

logan is almost certain that, with the proliferation of gossip, the involvement of the jefferson, and the sheer number of witnesses that the number of new rumors that will crop up over the course of the school week will be dizzying in both number and any lack of logic.

mel clears her throat, loudly, from where she’s located at the end of the hallway.

“all right, everyone, show’s over!” she declares. “get to your first period, the bell’s going to ring in five minutes.”

the crowd, very slowly, begins to disperse, breaking off into duos and trios, all of them with their heads bent together, all of them talking very intently.

well-timed, logan supposes, for this meltdown to happen on the same day that the national honors society meets before school; well-timed for charleston to catch word right as the flood of early birds (most of the chilton population) were sure to hear the fallout and come along to see the fuss themselves; well-timed that this all imploded the day that tristan and his posse decided to do something stupid.

yes, logan thinks, his eyes drifting to where janus is standing, staring, at the crying girl and the one comforting her. hattie glances up from where she’s smoothing back summer’s hair, as if feeling janus’ stare.

it’s all very well-timed indeed.

hattie and janus lock eyes.

for a moment, just a moment, but logan can’t help but think—

perhaps, there’s something more than a last-minute debutante escort assignment there.

and then hattie is earnestly making a case to mel, asking for a late pass so she can escort summer to the nurse—”she can’t pay attention to class in this condition, doctor kramschissel, look at her—” and the moment almost fades.

almost.

even as he awkwardly tells mel that he’ll come back at study hall, rushes to his locker, stuffing his copy of the jefferson inside for later perusal, and makes it to his desk just in the nick of time, logan can’t quite shake the feeling that there was a bit more happening than an extremely ostentatious prank carried out with no thought to consequences.

(deep into the witching hour, janus drums his fingers idly against his desk, eyes roving over the password-protected folder hidden in the depths of his laptop, scrolling through a list of transgressions with a deeply bored expression on his face, drag-and-dropping attachments. he examines the note again, written in hattie’s elegant, sloping script.)

(“way past time i did this,” janus mutters, and resumes narrowing down his list of infractions to the most infuriating offenders, dropping each into folders labeled for summer, beth, jessica, kate, claire, kathy, mary, mr. dugray, mr. charleston, mrs. fischer, olivia who is “rumored” to be the current editor of the jefferson, and, just for the hell of it, tristan’s grandfather’s business email, scheduling them all to send should his plan a fail.)

(it does not fail. it’s embarrassingly easy to plant plots into bowman and duncan’s thick skulls.)

(janus sends a number of them from various burner accounts anyway, aided by a world-class vpn and a lack of presence in the hallways at school as he slips forgeries into their lockers, knowing that either bowman or duncan would be eager to claim credit for chaos.)

⁂

hattie: Splashy.

Dee: i’m sure i don’t know what you mean.

hattie: I guess I don’t either. hattie: It’s good that Summer found out in cold, hard proof. hattie: Even if she maybe hasn’t been iron-clad in monogamy either.

dee: scandal!

hattie: Maybe. hattie: Old news now, anyway. hattie: You might tell your new freshie friend that she’s about to have a redhead hot on her tail.

dee: oh?

hattie: Tradition. You know how it gets.

dee: that i do.

hattie: Do you have a ride to the ball? Mother’s insisting I get there early to stake out the best spot in the dressing room.

dee: yes, that’s handled. do they know?

hattie: My parents? They know some. I already had a formal debut last year, I think they’re just pleased I’m not pulling a Libby Dotie.

dee: debut number five this year, isn’t it?

hattie: Poor thing went right after Pukey last time. Shame that Eileen couldn’t hold her booze.

dee: a real shame indeed. midori sour is a real choice for her first blackout.

hattie: Her chances of living that down are absolutely nonexistent.

dee: you can say that again

hattie: Any chance you’ll send me some of that interesting info that didn’t make the cut for some fun reading right before the escorting…? Since we’re talking about nonexistent.

dee: i’m sure i don’t know what you’re implying about nonexistence dee: how IS dear “beau” anyway?

hattie: See you thereeee

⁂

“oh, wow!”

“i guess they paid a mechanic to do it,” logan says, “which makes a great deal of sense—none of them strike me as the sort to gain any sort of practical knowledge.”

“yeah, i’d bet,” patton says, then, shaking his head, “wow. never in all my days at chilton did someone pull a prank that elaborate. so—did it ever come out what the punishment is?!”

“tristan’s dad pulled him out of school and put him into military school, effective immediately.”

“wow.”

“—i think duncan and bowman got away with suspension, which makes sense. they’re not exactly mastermind sorts. if you passed by charleston’s office at any point that morning, though, you could definitely hear a lot of parental yelling, so i’m sure that it’ll be an extended punishment. maybe another entry for military school—apparently the three of them already broke into a safe of mr. bowman’s, so he was very loudly angry.”

“gosh, i couldn’t imagine,” patton tsks, shaking his head. he glances to make sure no one is waiting on them at this stop sign—they aren’t—and reaches over to squeeze logan’s arm. “have i told you how lucky i am to have you as a kid lately?”

“yes,” logan mutters.

“well, i am,” patton says, pressing on the gas pedal and trundling along. “never has the thought of military school ever had to cross my mind. at least i know that whenever you get up to trouble, it’s good trouble that i can be proud of, like this deal with helping out dee—”

“dad,” logan complains, looking quietly, shyly pleased nonetheless.

“oh, wait!” patton realizes, half-turning to look at him. “all three of them were in the debutante deal, are they—?”

“all kicked out,” logan says firmly. “if not by the society, then probably by their parents, and definitely by dee and i. we’re hunting for last-minute debutantes for some of the escorts—we’re going to have to see how that goes, or maybe just scrap their involvement.”

“it’s a shame that three of the girls won’t be able to join in because their classmates were knuckleheads,” patton says, then, quickly, “don’t tell anyone i called them that.”

“knuckleheads?” logan says, arching an eyebrow. “i think we’re safe from any scandal there. there are several demonstrably worse things you could have said—they’d know, they probably got a lot of them screamed at them from a combination of parents, teachers, and girls tristan has apparently wronged.”

“still,” patton says, as he pulls into the driveway of the elder sanders’ manor. “gosh. poor mr. mccaffey.”

“he’s taken next week for vacation, dee says.”

“he deserves to—his car just got stolen, practically!—grandma might ask you about it, she’s bridge buddies with bitty charleston.”

“i’m sure it was the cause of a great deal of conversation,” logan agrees, unbuckling his seatbelt. “it certainly has been for the student body.”

“a car,” patton repeats. “how long did it take them to, y’know—?”

patton mimes unscrewing a bolt in the air.

“parts of it are still there.”

patton stifles his laughter as they approach the front door and knock.

the first words out of his mother’s mouth are “you simply must tell me this business about the car, logan!”

“told you,” patton says in an undertone, then, “hi, mom, it’s great to see you too!”

“oh, hush,” emily says dismissively, stepping aside and waving them in. “you’ve had three days to hear all the sordid details secondhand.”

“firsthand,” logan says quietly.

“what was that?” emily says, already leading them to the drink cart.

“firsthand,” logan says, slightly louder. “i missed the beginning of it, but i was there.”

“oh, excellent,” emily says gleefully, then, “richard, put down the paper, logan’s here and he saw the car!”

“what car?” richard says mildly, folding down a corner of the paper, then, “ah, logan, patton! wonderful to see you, won’t you sit?”

“hi, dad,” patton says, settling onto his usual spot on the couch. “how was frankfurt? any sightseeing?”

“i stayed in a conference room a mile from the airport the whole time,” richard says ruefully. “i could have been in new york or shanghai, and i wouldn't have known the difference.”

“wine, soda,” emily says, pushing a glass into patton’s hands (“oh!”) and then logan’s with a sort of fervor typically reserved for new collections from her favorite fashion designers, rushing to sit at her typical place and eagerly smoothing her skirt over her knees.

she leans forward, eyes bright with gossip she could use to lord over fellow chilton grandmothers. “now, logan, tell me everything, bitty was being quite coy with the details.”

“what details?” richard says, and emily scoffs.

“oh, richard, i told you this earlier! the situation with bertram’s boy—?”

“oh—a transfer to military school in north carolina, wasn’t it?” richard says with a general air of puzzlement.

“men,” emily tuts. “none of you remember the most pressing details. that trait’s certainly skipped a couple generations for our resident journalist—from the beginning now, logan, if you please.”

logan’s straightened up slightly at the mention of our resident journalist, and he clears his throat.

“i missed the beginning, of course,” he says, “though i’d imagine everyone except for bowman, duncan, tristan, and the mechanic they’d hired did too, considering they did most of it under the cover of night…”

even if patton didn’t have the general sense of this logan’s entire life since he’d learn to read and write, he reflects, it’s always wonderful to receive a reminder that logan was, first and foremost, a gifted storyteller, and two, that he was wholeheartedly chasing after a career that he loved—and three, that those things overlapped.

patton had gotten the general rundown over the past couple days, it was true, but it was one thing to hear the ebb and flow of various reports (procured primarily from dee, who had quite an ear for that kind of thing, it seemed) and another to hear it as one smooth, cohesive narrative with a rapt audience.

though patton and his parents have, obviously, had some difficulties, he can never find fault with how much they adore and treasure logan. this is all the more apparent in how they handle listening to logan’s tale: they gasp in all the right places; they come in with “no!”s and “well, i never!” at all the points that call for it; richard even digs for a pen and paper so he can jot down questions he has as logan talks, ticking them off as logan continues the story.

it carries them all the way through the salad course, logan seeming to enjoy his enthralled audience, painstakingly accurate, citing sources where he can, and even dipping into what is, perhaps, a real-life journalistic no-no but something patton has seen in countless tv shows and movies: “now, this is off the record, of course, and unconfirmed at that, but dee heard…”

this also means that some of the details that logan had either glazed over or patton must have missed take place in a new sort of limelight; the car, the breakups, the expulsion, all of it painted in lurid, scandalous detail (much to the delight of his mother who will, patton knows, be gossiping about this with her bridge group next week.)

and—though patton’s pretty sure most chilton parents aren’t supposed to know about its existence unless they, like him, are alums—logan doesn’t mention the coincidental social explosion ignited by the special edition of the jefferson’s publication to his grandparents, but he had mentioned it to patton.

coincidentally, all of this on the same day.

“wow,” patton says, casual, as he stabs at the endives with a fork. “seems like a pretty big blowout to happen all on coincidence, huh?”

logan glances up at him. patton twists his mouth to one side: you don’t think it’s a coincidence, do you? he tries to impart.

“no one knows for sure,” logan says, noncommittal in tone, but meeting patton’s eyes.

“seems like those boys weren’t very careful with not getting caught,” patton says, a lift of the shoulder, an even more significant look: unless someone tipped the scales against them?

“it seems like it, but. no one knows for sure,” logan repeats, with a slight twitch of his eyebrow that reads, to patton, as but i sure have my suspicions.

“huh,” patton says lightly, arching his eyebrows at logan in a way that he hopes imparts i certainly have some guesses too.

“regardless,” logan says swiftly, “rest assured, grandma, that if the dar doesn’t have them taken out of the debutante ball for their behavior, the rest of us will.”

“as you should,” his grandmother says with a firm nod in logan’s direction. “no room for hooliganism in the dar.”

patton hides a laugh as a cough into his napkin.

“the dar?” richard says mildly. “logan, what’s all this about the debutante ball? are you escorting a young lady?”

patton swivels to look at emily.

“oh, goodness, i did forget to tell you in all the excitement,” emily says. “richard, logan and dee slange have taken it upon themselves to do a demonstration at the debutante ball this year.”

“a young lady is escorting me,” logan clarifies, then, glancing between his grandparents, “i don’t suppose you know the mcmasters? their daughter poppy is my escort.”

“poppy, poppy…” richard says, frowning.

“coppelia,” logan elaborates.

“is it really?” emily says, blinking. “that’s… unique.”

“you see why she goes by poppy,” logan says. “she’s a freshman this year.”

“oh, yes,” emily says. “we certainly know the mcmasters. richard, you remember…”

“oh?” he says, then eyes widening, “oh. yes, i remember the mcmasters. their daughter is… ah…”

he looks to emily for help.

“poppy is very driven,” logan says diplomatically. “she’s already gunning for an editorial position at the paper. we’re all doing a feature spread in the franklin together for the event, as a matter of fact—myself, dee, and poppy, i mean, along with the help of a junior.”

“are you really!” emily says.

“dr. kramschissel said the franklin has a very bright future ahead of it with the three of them manning the helm,” patton says proudly, then, leaning forward, “you know, she’s implied that logan’s first in line for editor in chief senior year.”

“dad,” logan complains, a little smile on the face nonetheless.

“well, of course he is!” emily declares. “a very fine show of initiative. she’d be a fool not to pick you, given your long history. you probably have the most experience in a newsroom of anyone your age who’s gone through the chilton journalism system.”

“you’ll make sure we get a copy or two of that edition,” richard says firmly.

“of course,” logan says, smiling. “we put in final edits just today—i’ll bring it next week.”

“a demonstration, you said?” richard says.

“oh, sure,” logan says, in a very casual tone. “grandma’s very generously given me what was to be dad’s debutante dress. a great deal of us boys are going to be debuted into society.”

richard puts his fork down. patton waits with bated breath.

“debuted?”

“yes,” logan says.

“how many of you?” richard says.

“current count—well, it was 46 before the car debacle, but it might be 43 now. or 40, depending.”

“40 young men in fluffy white dresses are to descend on the dar?”

“well,” logan says, frankly, “about twenty young men. there are some nonbinary people too. and roughly the other half of them are girls in suits.”

richard stares. and stares.

logan tilts up his chin.

and then richard breaks into chuckles.

“a hostile takeover of the debutante!” he hoots. “oh, i wondered if a crop of mischief would pop up in you, young man! some of my fondest memories of my time at yale are banding together with my friends to cause some trouble. well, that and performing with the whiffenpoofs, of course. these things make your high school and collegiate experience, you know.”

“they do?” logan says blankly.

“you’re young and full of energy!” richard exclaims. “this is your time—it certainly was for me. every day was at yale an adventure, no challenge was too great. we wanted to change the world. i have some experience with clothes-based protest too, you know.”

patton’s never heard about this. “you have?”

“certainly,” richard says. “i, and a group of like-minded young men decided to protest the new dress code—oh, it was my sophomore year at yale. we wore silk ties and nothing else.”

patton squeaks, trying not to cover his ears with his hands like a child.

“we were written up by the dean of admissions and threatened with expulsion. we were also suddenly very popular with the ladies.”

patton has the sudden and horrifying realization that one of those ladies might have been either his almost-mother, pennilyn lott, or had an equal chance of being his actual mother.

“ah, yes.” emily huffs. “this is exactly the kind of conversation I had hoped we would have with our son and grandson. what a pleasant family dinner conversation!”

“i was naked for an entire month,” richard says to logan. “a night full of men in dresses does not come near as close, of course, but i’d argue the amount of red tape you had to cut and the number of participants might push you over the top of that particular stunt!”

“wow,” logan says, blinking.

patton understands how he feels. his business-loving father, whose grand excitements seemed to be traveling for work, reading the newspaper, and undertaking new deals, a prankster. would wonders never cease.

(there is a small part of him that wonders if maybe—just maybe—if he had been born a boy, if richard would have been much more forgiving for patton’s own wild teenaged transgressions.)

“this roommate of mine in sophomore year at yale—we absolutely hated him,” richard says, leaning back in his chair, clearly lost in memory. “he was a complete nincompoop. so one night, we tied him between two mattresses and threw him out the window.”

“dad!” patton says, horrified.

“oh, he was fine,” richard says dismissively. “he went to sleep, woke up in the morning, and picked up right where he left off.”

patton puts his face in his hands.

“we wound up throwing him out the window every night for a month, and then he transferred.”

“well, do you think you guys tossing him out the window on a regular basis had something to do with that decision?” patton says, incredulous.

“well, it crossed our minds, yes.”

“so you guys have tickets for entry to the event, yes?” logan intercedes, looking to emily.

“it’s one way to see my descendants debut,” emily says.

patton shrugs, not rising to any bait. “it’ll be nice to escort him.”

“not christopher?” emily asks, but she’s cut off as richard says “ah! you’re in on it?” at the same time.

“a lot of the parents are,” patton says, “then, well, a lot of the sideshire parents are. i’m not quite as close with the chilton parents, of course.”

“we wouldn’t miss it for the world,” richard declares, then, with a big, goofy smile, “my grandson, the mastermind!”

“co-mastermind, really,” logan says. “dee slange was involved too.”

richard blinks, this time setting down his fork. “julian is in on this?”

“well,” logan hedges, higher-pitched. “define ‘in on this.’”

“he fully knows what’s going on, and he agreed?” richard says.

“oh,” logan says. “erm—no.”

“definitely not as much as me, at the very least,” patton says.

“gutsy,” richard comments.

“maybe you could help talk him over,” patton says delicately. “from what i remember of julian, he wasn’t exactly… jokey.”

“no.”

“certainly not,” emily says, almost overlapping her husband.

“maybe you could intercede?” patton says. “point out all the good a bit of trouble does for a boy their age. uh—after the event, of course. don’t want to ruin the surprise.”

“yes,” richard says thoughtfully. “yes, perhaps i will. it’s about time julian cut loose.”

that’s one way to put it, patton thinks.

“i can’t wait to see the looks on everyone’s faces,” richard says, perhaps the most excited that patton’s ever seen him for an event put on by the daughters of the american revolution.

well, patton thinks. this is probably the best way that richard could have taken it.

even if it does mean that logan, patton, and emily spend the rest of dinner hearing richard monologue about The Good Old Days back at yale, and patton learns a bit more about his father’s particular brand of young-adult mischief that he, perhaps, shouldn’t have ever heard in the first place.

⁂

roman’s elbow-deep into rearranging his travel makeup bag. it is, generally speaking, where he keeps a lot of his makeup storage, so it’s kind of a mess after spending a lot of time simply dumping the products back in there because he’s running late, only sparing time to remove and wash his brushes and sponges.

it is very much a mess.

he hears a gentle tap against the door.

he glances up; though it’s barely past eight, his mother is already dressed for bed. her hair is damp, still drying from the post-lessons shower she’d taken, free from its typical bun. she’s in an old, too-big t-shirt advertising the ballets russes (from dimitri, probably) and a pair of sweatpants cut into shorts. she completes the ensemble with a pair of fuzzy socks and her feet in a pair of orthopedic-friendly slippers (his mother is, understandably, very conscious of foot health).

his mother is deeply devoted to her rituals and routines; he knows what she’ll ask even before she says it.

“tea?”

“yes, please,” roman decides, setting aside two different bottles of foundation to be decided later, picking up a few press-on nails, his own pair of fuzzy socks, and a tub of aquaphor, and plods after his mother, heading for the kitchen.

his mother goes about filling up the kettle (an old-style bright red one, the kind you set on a stove, not like the sleek black electric one that virgil has) and turning the stove on as roman pulls out two mugs. he decides on a large, maroon stoneware mug for her, speckled with white, and an equally gigantic ceramic red mug for himself.

“which would you like?” his mother asks, accepting the mug that he hands to her. she’s already pulled out her favored loose leaf herbal chamomile, beginning to scoop it into a infuser; roman notes that it’s the one he got her for mother’s day a couple years ago. he scoots around her to peruse his options.

his mother’s tea supply surpasses remy’s café in terms of selection and variety; roman thinks tea might be the only thing he’s ever seen his mother spontaneously shop for in the same way roman shops for clothes, or makeup, or jewelry, or little treats, or—

“this one,” he decides, pulling out a blend that promotes good sleep—spearmint, lemongrass, chamomile.

roman hops onto one of the barstools, opening up his tub of aquaphor and doing as his mother almost certainly has: absolutely slathering his feet in healing ointment. he’s aggressively earned these dancer’s calluses, but dang it, he can lessen some of the effects; therefore, absorbing aquaphor overnight, with the aid of fuzzy socks.

“how are your hamstrings?” she asks. “less tight?”

“definitely,” roman says, shifting his barstool so he’s able to more easily multitask between keeping eye contact with his mother and caring for his feet. “typical cure—”

“stretch and hydrate,” they say simultaneously.

“very good,” his mother continues. “hot and cold therapy?”

“i used the heated blanket a little bit,” roman says. roman and his mother love those things; roman simply plugs it in and becomes the warmest burrito of his dreams. bigger than a traditional heating pad and more flexible, which means he can just wrap it around whatever body part that needs heat. roman’s pretty sure they have six between them. he could probably just mummify himself on a day where he was really achy.

“be sure to rest this weekend after the ball,” his mother says. “i don’t want you straining anything.”

“i will,” roman promises, pulling on one sock and setting about massaging ointment into the other foot. he should probably start making a dent in that english essay anyway; even though he’d definitely prefer to spend the rest of his weekend reading something that he’s interested in, not something assigned to him.

his mother nods.

“a lot of your classmates are going too,” she notes.

roman smiles a bit, despite himself. on the whole, his gaggle of classmates at the prince family studio were what he imagined it to be like to have a flock of sisters: chatty, hogging the bathroom, annoying and endearing in equal measure, occasionally awkward, but fierce and funny and beautiful, all of them clever in their own ways, all of them deeply capable dancers.

not that he’d know what it was like to have a sister, of course. roman had contented himself with being an only child long ago.

“it’ll be fun,” roman says. “at the very least, we know who’ll be hogging the dance floor all night.”

they share a smile. his mother had chaperoned the sideshire homecoming in the fall, and she’d spent a 33% of the night fielding hi, ms. prince!s from her students, 33% watching in vague bemusement as they danced to trends she’d lost track of long ago, 33% feeling proud as all of them had monopolized the innermost circle of the dance floor with the confidence she strove to teach them, and 1% fighting the urge to go over and correct their form.

roman gestures with his chin toward the three packs of press-on nails: a classic french manicure, white nails with a red floral design, and a bright blue chrome.

“help me pick? i’ve been driving myself nuts over it. all of them would work, but i just need to decide and go for it.”

his mother hums, examining them. “remind me of the makeup you settled on?”

“classic eighties, to match the dress,” he says. “bright blue eyeshadow, red lip, generally very sparkly and,” he makes a pow! i’m here! hand gesture.

“well, french manicures are very classic,” his mother says thoughtfully, “but—” the kettle begins to whistle. roman, hastily, pulls on his other sock and goes to wash the excess aquaphor off of his hands before he does anything else.

they are waylaid by the pouring of boiling, steaming water, the distribution of milk and/or honey, the procurement of snacks (his mother favors savory foods more often than not, so she puts together a plate of crackers, cheese, and deli meats; roman slices a couple apples with a ramekin of peanut butter for himself, with the intent to steal a bite or two from her plate) and relocating to the living room.

roman sits himself on the ground, setting his snacks on the coffee table; his mother does the same, folding her legs to butterfly position, pressing her hands down onto her knees to stretch.

he considers his options before he just decides to mimic his mother, feeling the familiar stretch through his hips. he settles his elbows on his knees, bending slightly forward and blowing on his tea.

his mother examines the nails again. “can you match these?” she asks, touching the blue chrome.

roman tilts his head, mentally calling up the exact shades of blue in his several eyeshadow palettes. “if not exactly, then close enough to look intentional.”

“i know red is your signature,” she says. roman looks at his fuzzy socks—cherry red—and hers—wine red. in the prince family, red is a neutral that goes with everything.

“but,” she continues, “they fit a certain level of garishness that matches your dress.”

roman nods, setting them aside; he’ll glue them on in the morning. honestly, he’s a bit pleased he can keep the floral red for another occasion. a fancy date with logan, maybe?

“is that the last detail handled?” his mother says.

“it should be,” he says. “well—i was sorting through my makeup bag, but it’s more of an organization thing than anything else.”

“dress packed?” his mother checks. “shoes, accessories, wig and hair supplies?”

“yes, yes, yes,” roman says dutifully.

“then—that’s your last of prep for tomorrow?”

“just about,” roman says.

“good,” she says. “i suppose many of the last-minute details shall be left to logan and dee.”

roman’s lip curls reflexively. the thought of logan and dee, working together, agreeing on things, brainstorming together and coordinating any last minute hiccups. as if they were a team.

“what was that face,” his mother says. her voice is flat, with no edge of scolding or reproach. just genuine curiosity.

roman’s lips twist as he removes the infuser out of his tea, deeming it well-enough steeped. he stirs his cup absently.

“i just…” roman gesticulates vaguely. “what did you think of dee?”

if his mother thinks that’s an odd response, she doesn’t let on. she stacks her makeshift charcuterie—club cracker, slice of cheddar, sliced chicken from the deli—and sets it aside before she goes about formulating other sandwiches. club cracker, mozzarella, turkey breast.

“i didn’t have much opportunity to speak to him,” she says. cracker, cheddar, turkey.

“yeah, but you guys had a look,” roman says. “i saw it.”

“i suppose he seemed… a touch stand-offish,” his mother says. cracker, mozzarella, chicken.

“yes,” roman says, his and??? going unspoken.

“and, perhaps,” his mother says, then, frowning, “well, i didn’t know. that’s the troubling part.”

“dee’s very good at that,” roman mutters resentfully. “presenting himself one way, when he’s really actually the other. the thing is, logan has seen that he’s really actually the other, and yet—here they are!”

“that’s very unlike him,” his mother says, frowning. “logan has a very sound sense of judgment.”

“he does.”

“but if logan’s deemed him appropriate to plan alongside—”

roman drops his forehead to the floor, groaning.

“oh,” his mother says, awkward. roman hears crunching.

“i don’t know why!” bursts out of him.

“why… what?”

“why logan’s teaming up with him!” roman says. he looks up in time to see his mother washing down her snack with a swallow of tea.

“...roman,” she begins. “it’s entirely understandable to… feel a certain way if your boyfriend is spending time with another—”

“oh my god, i’m not jealous!” roman snaps. “why does everyone think that?!”

his mother doesn’t lecture him about volume, which is nice.

“well,” his mother says, “what is it, then?”

this is also nice—his mother, ever straightforward, ever blunt.

roman rubs his hand wearily across his forehead. “did i tell you, last fall, about logan getting punched in the face?”

“yes,” his mother says, her expression darkening; some of that remnant of anger of someone laying hands on his boyfriend roars to life in his chest again.

“i know,” roman says.

“was it that boy?”

his mother isn’t a particularly expressive person, but even any given passerby would categorize that look on her face as thunderous. his mother is very fond of logan—she’d actually told logan so—and roman knows that, over the years, logan’s courtesy and good grades and general support of roman had endeared him to her time and time and time again.

which—obviously. roman’s of the opinion that his boyfriend is one of the best people in the world. of course everyone should recognize that—feel that same protective fire pop up in their chests at any sign of anything going wrong for him, because logan deserves the world.

roman scowls, looking away. “not—technically. but!” he says hastily, “but, he’s the one who started it all. he got a detention for it and everything! louise probably never would have hit logan if he hadn’t been there urging her on!”

“why on earth…?” his mother says, sounding baffled.

“i don’t know!” roman wails. “that’s what’s getting me—i don’t get it! one second, logan’s telling me all about this terrible boy at school, and then his grandmother invites him and his grandma to lunch and apparently that’s super awkward, and then there’s the punching, and then he’s at the stuffed up birthday party logan’s grandparents threw for him, and then logan’s confronting dee and making sure he doesn’t rain on our parade at the winter dance, the next, they’re teaming up together to say ‘screw you’ to the patriarchy! i don’t know why on earth!”

his mother considers this, then pushes the plate of apples toward him, then piles the empty space on the plate with three of the charcuterie sandwiches she’s concocted. roman, grumpily, dips an apple slice in peanut butter and crunches a bit more loudly than he would in any other circumstance.

mother—much like virgil—believed very heartily in proper nutrients fueling every activity. outbursts took energy, which meant that roman should eat carbs, fats, and proteins to replenish that energy, with bonus points for foods that were particularly vitamin- or fiber-rich. roman has been told this for most of his life, only with things like dance lessons or exams or being a pain, this does not mean you’re getting a second soda, pick something substantial swapped in for outbursts as applicable.

“that makes very little sense.”

“exactly!” roman says, gesticulating at her. “thank you!”

“chew your food with your mouth closed,” she says, some automatic motherly impulse, then, “well, what’s changed?”

before roman can answer, she says, “i know you don’t know. but something must have. logan’s a very intelligent young man, and he isn’t fickle—not him, not any of his parental figures that could have persuaded him.”

patton, virgil, and probably her, roman figures. he doesn’t know much about christopher, but his reasoning definitely wouldn’t override those three.

“do you think it could be on a needs-must basis?”

roman’s mouth twists as he swallows. “maybe,” he hedges.

“but you don’t think so.”

“no,” roman says. “if it was just unavoidable, some sort of grudging alliance, he would have complained about it.” to me, he thinks.

and logan hasn’t.

“could there have been some kind of change?”

roman narrows his eyes, setting aside his honey-sweet tea. “i’m not following.”

“logan’s always struck me as very pragmatic,” she says. “ergo, there could have been some kind of event that would put more weight in dee’s favor.”

“it would have to be a pretty big change,” roman says, mind churning. as it is, that’s the likeliest of answers outside of forced partnership.

“you could ask him.”

roman sighs. “i think the fact that he hasn’t mentioned it to me already…”

“could mean nothing,” his mother says, with a shrug of a shoulder.

“big change,” he reminds her. “big.”

they both consider this, sipping their tea and eating, silent in rumination.

“have you ever dealt with something like this?” roman says, despairing. “like—some dancing partner of yours teaming up with a rival? or—?”

dad, he almost says, but he discards it as soon as the idea comes to mind. no. all he’s heard of his father is that he could be prone to his own flights of whimsy, true, but he’d always been achingly steadfast in partnership with his mother and, to a slightly lesser extent, with virgil.

she seems to see the thought flash across his face, though. her eyes flit—almost unconsciously—to an old photo of the pair of them on the wall behind him.

roman knows the one without having to look: his mother, stunning and sharp in tutu and pointe-shoed glory, clearly in the middle of telling him off about something; his father, muddy for some reason and in ripped clothes, arm thrown around her shoulder, grinning and giving a thumbs up to the camera, a slight wince on his face the only sign of whatever lecture she’d given.

but, roman thinks. but. people hadn’t necessarily liked his father. even virgil had cautioned him at how strange his father had been, that he’d done things full of mischief and occasional rebellious wrong-doing, that he’d been acquired taste. a bit like…

no. roman shakes the thought without finishing it. no way.

his mother detects it anyway.

“how have you been sleeping?” she asks delicately.

“fine,” roman mutters. he knows what she’s about to ask without her asking it, too.

whatever mental illness his father had had, the only sign of odd or strange thoughts that has ever remotely recurred in roman have been odd, vivid dreams, veering into the occasional night terror.

he has been sleeping fine, though. fitful, sure, and maybe a bit less than his mother would like, but he’s been sleeping fine. no dreams at all to speak of.

“all right,” she says placatingly.

roman stirs his tea a bit more vigorously than necessary, the spoon clanking against his mug. his mother smiles a bit.

“you didn’t answer,” roman says. “have you had a situation like this?”

“you know i haven’t,” his mother says.

“well—i know, not exactly like this,” roman says. he’s known his mother’s aromantic and asexual since he was old enough to learn the words and absorb that that’s what those little flag barrettes she wore during pride meant. no significant romantic partner of his mother’s has ever caused her strife, because she’s never had a significant romantic partner. “but—dimitri teaming up with someone and he didn’t tell you why. or something.”

his mother pauses to think. then:

“no.”

roman sighs, perhaps a bit more loudly than necessary, and dips another apple slice.

“virgil might’ve,” she says thoughtfully.

roman pauses from where he’s trying to scoop extra peanut butter onto his apple.

“yeah?”

“yes,” his mother says. “you remember silas.”

ugh.

“don’t make that face,” she scolds gently. “but—as it happens, i wouldn’t be surprised if either of them didn’t have a moment exactly like this. virgil with some friends of his, silas with your father.”

“how did that go?” roman asks.

his mother smiles. “i believe they talked about it.”

“traitor,” roman grumbles, half-joking. “i can’t believe either of you invented mind-reading technology for me to use in this specific moment.”

“you could just ask.”

“you’ve said that already.” roman says. “does no one in this apartment appreciate the fine-tuning of the delicate art that is teenaged angst and overthinking?”

“you live here,” his mother points out. “you have sufficient appreciation for the both of us.”

roman huffs. his mother tilts his head.

roman scratches his thumb against the mug.

“dee’s very charming,” he mumbles. “i mean—he managed to charm me at logan’s fancy birthday party before i knew who he was. if he’d just started off with that, instead of leading straight into villainy then pulling a 180, then i guess i’d get it a bit more. but as it is—why him? why that guy? logan likes rule-following. he likes that kind of thing. is it a ‘keep your enemies close’ thing? no,” he answers himself, “logan wouldn’t do that, he has no patience for duplicity. which makes it even more confusing, because dee seems to love duplicity, exhibit a, him being charming at emily and richard’s party—erm, mr. and mrs. sanders’ party, i mean.”

his mother hums.

“and—i don’t know. he’s off at chilton, doing great, and i’m happy he’s making friends, i seriously am, i’m not jealous, but it just. suddenly, both of us in different schools means we spend less time together, and that’s making me think about college, and, unless miracle of miracles happens and i find the perfect ivy league that has a combo of the perfect dance program and the perfect journalism program that will accept both of us that’s close to new york, we’re going to spend even less time together, and that sucks.”

his mother nods sagely, placing her right foot against her left knee, stretching to grasp her own socked foot.

“and it’s, like. why that guy? if you’re going to hang out with someone outside of school out of preference and not obligation, why the one i’ve heard the most negative things about? why the one who’s in direct competition with you? why the one that would probably have sabotaged him, given the chance? why?”

his mother remains quiet.

“say something,” roman requests desperately. “i’m asking questions here, they’re not hypotheticals.”

his mother blinks. “you were doing a good job of talking it out to yourself.”

“well, sure, but,” he gestures between them, “input. it’s mother-son time.”

there’s a pause.

“this isn’t like you,” she decides.

“what?”

“this,” she gestures at him. “indecision about what to do. it’s unlike you.”

“it’s unlike logan to consort with ne’er-do-wells,” roman sniffs.

his mother simply arches an eyebrow. roman sighs, picking up his mug, savoring the warmth it seeps against his palms.

“i don’t know,” roman says quietly. “it just—it is different for logan, to… consort with someone like this. there’s some big reason why, and i don’t know what it is, and it’s just… it’s driving me a little crazy.”

his mother politely does not say anything along the lines of i can see that or obviously.

instead, she says, “does the concept of talking to logan about this make you nervous or anxious?”

“what? no.” roman scoffs.

“it’s all right if it does,” his mother says. “i won’t think less of you or logan. it’s very normal to be a bit worried about having a big conversation in any relationship, much less one that’s been weighing heavily on your mind.”

“i’m not—”

his mother arches her eyebrows at him, and yeah, okay, roman can see how saying i’m not worried when he’s dominated the conversation obsessing over why that guy would probably come off… not great.

roman sighs, slumping his shoulders.

“fine,” he mutters. “yeah, i’m worried.”

“perfectly natural,” she says. she switches positions, placing her left foot against right knee, stretching.

“i know,” he grumbles. “i just—i don’t want to come off as that kind of boyfriend, you know what i mean?”

“no.”

fair.

“like,” roman says, drawing himself up. “why are you hanging out with that guy? hang out with this person instead, not that guy. you’re not allowed to see him. you know? like—jealous. possessive. whatever. i mean—logan was so understanding with jess. so understanding! they didn’t have a ton in common, but logan was still polite and everything.

“and i don’t want to turn right around and be like, hey, i don’t like that guy, what’s up with that? or insult his intelligence—’cause he’s way book-smarter than me—by being like, i think that guy might be manipulating his way into your life. thoughts?”

“do you think—?”

“what other explanation is there?!” roman whines, drawing there into, like, five syllables.

“and we’re back to square one,” his mother says. “all right. i see.”

roman goes about polishing off the last of the snacks.

“i still think you should talk to him,” she says. “i know you’re worried—that’s understandable. but logan isn’t going to go into this thinking the worst of you. he ought to know that you only have his best interests at heart.”

roman sighs after swallowing a mouthful of charcuterie. “i guess.”

his mother smiles slightly.

“you’re so very much our son,” she says, and roman ducks his head, trying not to flush.

“remus got any sense of propriety or caution surgically removed, to hear some tell it. and i probably wouldn’t have figured out such a careful way to put it: i probably wouldn’t have said anything at all until it got pressing. it’s difficult, i know, but i’m proud of the middle ground that you walk.”

“yeah, yeah,” roman mumbles, still pleased. our son. he felt so divided, sometimes: the face of his father, the skill of his mother, the rest of anything else him, from nowhere at all.

“you don’t have to go into it unplanned, of course,” his mother says. “text him your thoughts if that’s easier. put a pen to paper to figure out what to say and how to say it.”

“true,” roman admits.

his mother drains the last of her tea and stands.

“well,” she says. “it’s probably best for you to talk to him tonight. or early tomorrow morning, if you care to sleep on it. may as well clear the air before the ball. i’ll leave you to your thoughts?”

“sure,” he says, slowly drinks the rest of his tea, thinking. then, quietly, “thanks, mom.”

he hears his mother placing the dishes in the dishwasher, shutting off the lights in the kitchen, ensuring everything is in its proper place, before she journeys back to the main room and shuts off all the lights except for the one closest to his room—he’ll turn that off when he goes to bed.

he watches her achieve the rest of the good night routine: she plugs her phone in to charge, she nudges her shoes so they’re in line with his at the door, and then…

she detours. she walks back to him, where he still sits on their rug.

she leans over to smooth her hand over his hair.

“goodnight, mijo. dulces sueños.”

“dulces sueños, mami,” he says.

and then she just… goes to her room.

she’s left the front door unlocked. she’d simply nodded to him, went to her room, and closed the door, almost like…

wait.

does she…?

no. there’s no way.

his curfew-issuing, sleep-adoring, routine-oriented-to-a-fault mother? roman would have gotten grounded, like, ten years ago for ten years if she actually knew how often he snuck out to the gazebo to talk to logan.

yeah. no way she knows that he sneaks out.

⁂

“hey.”

“hey! sorry if i responded late—we were squaring away escorts for the ladies. turns out some sideshire kids decided to join last-minute, so we should be all even. no idea what they’re doing for dresses, but it’s in their hands now, i suppose.”

“no, that’s all good—c’mere, it’s still a bit chilly out.”

“of course.”

…

“so, what did you want to talk about?”

“oh, right. um—may as well just come out and say it, i guess.”

“...sure?”

“what’s up with teaming up with dee?”

“...ah.”

“i mean—i guess i just don’t really get it? i’ve been trying to figure it out, and i can’t. like—one second, he’s getting someone to punch you in the face, the next, you guys are architecting this plot to go after the daughters of the american revolution.”

“no, i—i understand. it must seem jarring from the outside.”

“...so?”

“...”

“um. admittedly, i find your renewed and increased friendship with dee very confusing. the things i’ve heard about him have, generally, been pretty bad—for example, the punching incident, your birthday party at your grandparents’, and the winter formal. ”

“...are those notes…?”

“shh. you’ve never particularly struck me as the kind of person to simply be friends with someone for the sake of making life easier: my mom says you’ve always struck her as very pragmatic, and i agree. it makes me think that something in your relationship with dee has changed, because otherwise, i find myself… well, deeply confused and honestly a little worried that dee might be up to something again.”

“you talked about this with your mom?”

“well—i didn’t, like, set out to do that, but yeah. she suggested that i just talk to you about it, since you’d know that i have your best interests at heart, and that you have your reasons ‘cause you’re so smart, and also maybe write down what i wanted to say so i didn’t come off like a huge controlling jackass.”

“she said that?”

“not that last bit—i’m editorializing.”

“that’s—huh. okay… um. how do i phrase this.”

“…”

“i’m sorry, i’m walking an awkward line of secrecy here.”

“how secret? secret, like, jo posner’s first kiss, or secret, like, secret-secret.”

“secret-secret.”

“...oh.”

“but i still want to—communicate.”

“right. um… is there a little loophole you can thread here?”

“like what?”

“like… i dunno. i know they aren’t your strong suit, but a metaphor? or a comparison to something else that’s happened in our general lives?”

“like what?”

“well, i don’t know, logan. that’s kind of why we’re here.”

“right. yes. um… let me think.”

“sure. take your time. if it’s secret-secret, i promise i’ll keep it, but even then, i get not wanting to say anything. like—”

“oh! oh, i remember!”

“...remember…?”

“back in eighth grade, when you had elliott over to that sleepover, and elliott told you about how they were feeling regarding their identity, but to keep it secret double-pinky-promise even from me?”

“yeah, of course.”

“and they didn’t come out until the middle of last year?”

“right.”

“...i find a lot of parallels to then.”

“oh.”

“yeah.”

“oh—okay. i see.”

“it’s not one-to-one. as a matter of fact, there’s more to it. this is the part i feel most comfortable disclosing, since that part is generally a jo posner’s first kiss level of open secret at chilton.”

“sure.”

“but—”

“i get it. there’s more. okay. that… huh. okay.”

“right.”

“i guess i can see it. the cape should have tipped me off. have you told… anyone else? about the things outside the parallels?”

“no—no one. not even dad.”

“really?”

“really. well—he might know part of it, so maybe that doesn’t count, or dee might have told him more, but. really. not even dad.”

“...you said…. even more?”

“i’m very glad no one in our lives has parallelism to this that i can apply here.”

“...me too, i guess?”

“trust me—you are.”

“okay. i will. i do trust you. you know that, right?”

“of course i do. i trust you too.”

“okay. good. good. i didn’t want it to come off like i didn’t trust your judgment or something. you were so understanding with jess, i wanted to extend the same thing—”

“—we’re not—”

“—i know it’s not a one-to-one. trust me, we’d have a lot more to talk about if it was any kind of romantic scenario. there’d be yelling. i know it’s not. i’m just saying: you and jess didn’t have a lot in common, but you were still decent to him because you knew i wanted to… associate with him. i want to do the same for you.”

“right. of course. i—well, frankly, i hadn’t really considered your point of view. i can see how it would be strange from the outside perspective. i’m sorry i didn’t think of it.”

“you’ve had a lot going on.”

“sure, but still. i should have looped you in as much as i could.”

“well, i appreciate that. thank you.”

“and thank you for bringing it up.”

“this is very mature of us.”

“i know.”

“for teenagers, and all.”

“and for my first romantic relationship.”

“i’m more used to bickering. this is weird.”

“definitely.”

“...wanna make out?”

“say no more.”

find the next half of this chapter here!

#my fic #sanders sides fanfic #sanders sides fanfiction #debutante #wyliwf!verse #the sideshire files

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icewindandboringhorror · 11 months ago

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Some (late) holiday photos of the boye~!

#cats #holiday #OUGHH....... barely could even get these edited and posted... my mysterious sickness flare up has been sooo bad the past few #days.. I didn't even go to the usual obligatory family christmas I was supposed to attend (!!! health issue/medical mention in tags below)#My stomach issues basically put me in a constant state of uncontrollable shivering/body shaking + nausea + sometimes rapid heart #rate. and when it happens at night that makes it like.. nearly impossible to sleep when you're violently shaking + you can feel your heart #so strong + you keep having to run to the bathroom every 5 minute to cough and gag #and throw up and so on and so forth. etc. So I went like 40 hours without any sleep almost for christmas eve and all of christmas day #last night I finally got maybe 2 hours of sleep in between the nausea and shaking and stuff. and then today I was able to get a few #hours of sleep in the afternoon. Today I tried taking an anxiety mediciation a doctor gave me in case it was anxiety related (it's apparent #ly used to relax people and works in the moment. rather than like Anxiety Mediciation that you have to take for weeks to see any effect #because I think this isn't actually acting on your brain chemistry it's judt like..a mild sedative or something.) but all that did was make #me dizzy and sweaty lol. I;m glad I slept a little but I'm just still frustrated that I don't feel normal. I started having these #'episodes' (with the stomach issues + shaking + heartrate + nausea etc.) like at the end of october. And usually it will happen for like a #few hours at a time. or i'll lose sleep one day and then be fine the next. but this has been like nearly 3 days of feeling weird. so is #getting kind of annoying... It's funny too because I was so so productive like.. literally the few days before. I was feeling much better #and I was working on my game and blah blah. But then.. random issue flare up out of nowhere of course.. yaayy.... happy holidays to meee lo #I did at least see two random ducks outside of my window in the yard area for christmas. and havent seen them since. So it's like.. hrmm..#pacing around my room nauseous and shakings and etc. but at least... hello.. two little ducks placed there just for me :3c #Now I get anxiety every night which I'm sure doesn't help/could exacerbate whatever underlying genuinely physical issues exist. But after #like 2 nights of 'I spend the night sleepless and incredibly uncomfortable just sitting in the dark sick' then bedtime is like.. dread...#I even was trying slapping myself in the face in desperation to see if somehow that could shock my body out of whatever the hell it was #doing lol.. up at 3am holding ice cubes in my hand and hitting myself in the head and crying from exhaustion and thowing up.. literally #ridiculous cartoon character feeling... AAANYWAY!!! At least I have baby boy pictures. and I have lots of doctors appointments so hopefully #whatever the issue is can be sorted out at some point. I don't know much about ibs but hopefully maybe something like that that I could pos #ibly take medication for and not something more seirous or anything. Maybe there's a food I'm secretly intolerant to or whatever.#And I did at least post a sims holday video actually timed for the holidays so that's something. I havent been productive really latrely #though obviously.. I can't even play games or small tasks when in that state since I'm just SO physically uncomfortable. Nausea and heart #stuff are THE hardest physical sensations to ignore.. BUT yeah... hoping I shall sleep at all tonight. hopeing to get like 3 productive #things done.. at some point... at least SOMETHING... lol..... *** *** ***

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coquelicoq · 7 months ago

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one important thing about work emails is that whoever you send them to can forward them to anyone else, or reply to you and copy other people. so if you're going to talk about a third party in your email, only say things you would be okay with the third party reading. because people can and will just suddenly CC brand new people on a long email chain, who will then be able to backread anything you've ever said in any of your previous responses that you were sending to only one person. word to the wise.

#i mention this because this just happened to me today BUT it was fine because i already do this #i was writing to client A and mentioned client B who has been making both of our lives harder #but because it's my policy never to trash talk one client to another client (they all know each other btw)#(and some of them are contractors for others of them)#the thing that i said about client B was not something i had to then regret a few days later #when client A for some fucking reason CC'd client B in her response to me #i worded it like 'i'm sorry this has been so hectic and last-minute. it took me a while to understand what client B wanted.'#which has the virtue of being true and also not denigrating client B in any way even though what i meant was #'client B has been so confusing in everything he has said to me that i couldn't give you any advance warning'#but i didn't SAY that. so we're golden #the thing is you will be SO tempted SO often to tell someone that something is a third party's fault #because it will often be a third party's fault!!!!! but you must resist every time. especially in writing #<-this is not universal advice bc sometimes you need to stand up for yourself or whatever. i just mean in venting situations #no venting to clients about other clients. sometimes you need to vent with them in order to build rapport and get them to see you as #an ally rather than an obstacle but you cannot vent ABOUT other people. they can do it but you can't. you have to find other things #to vent about #my posts

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janiedean · 11 months ago

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will get to all your lovely replies asap but for now let me get down the mood with my usual

fuck but i really do hate this month and everything it represents or better the fact that each single year it gets just more miserable

#i’m sorry fuck i wish i liked christmas i do #but i haven’t felt anything close to enjoyment of the period since what was it right ten exact years #every single fucking one of them it just got MORE fucking depressing #we dont talk about covid times because god i wish i could delete them from my existence #two years ago it was just depressing af #last year for a miracle it was halfway okay and hey managed to spend one with the grandmother for once #except she died three months later and this one it will be….. meh but the rest of the month has been a total nervewreck already #but of course EVERYWHERE around you is like JOYOUS TIME EVERYONE IS HAPPY SEASON OF MAGIC #as it is i’mma have to do half of the presents in january ffs #ah right forgot today was the anniversary of the other grandmother dying #and the entire first week is anniversary of 2020 nervous wreck of doom so hey that’s all fine #yeah that happened no i had no plans to mention it good luck to me wanting to move over that specific instance ig #i just wanna stop feeling stuck in being miserable until december 26th arrives and i can hope to get my shit under control the year after #yeah sorry for the pity party i’m just not feeling great whatsoever add feeling totally useless to the list and here we are #i’mma just go catch up on replies now just god now i feel like crap bc the moment i opened the app i just vomited out negativity g r e a t #personal for ts #janie rants

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the-jam-to-the-unicorn · 1 year ago

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I'm sure these too things are a total coincidence and have nooothing to do with each other. 🙄🙄🙄

Btw, Ze wanted to visit together with Blinken.

So ... WTF, ISRAEL?!?!? Really? You not only miss out on such great, awesome opportunity (Ze and Blinken visiting together would have been a hell of a message) ... you also treat Ze like that after everything?!

Yeah, no. That's a bad look. There was no need to say it like that, too. That's just a very, very dumb decision.

#and yes of course im also kinda glad that ze didnt get into any danger #maks probably almost got a heart attack when he heard about zes plans #but its probanly not a coincidence either that ze wanted to travel with blinken #he literally couldn't be more safe #so here is me hoping that maybe the extremly earlier video today and biden visiting on wednesday means israel changed their mind #and ze is accompanying biden #because honestly wtf #olena was fine for a visit but they ditch ze now like that?!?!?#maybe just maybe give a fuck about putin for once #and be happy about zes support and accept it #its also probably very bitter for ze if you remember he wanted to study in israel #and I think part of his family lives or lived there??? something like that???#not to mention all the antisemitism against him...#yeah this was a pretty shitty move israel #at least come up with a better wording for not allowing him to come #not the right time ... and when for the fuck is the right time?!?!?!#also really israel?! calling putin who is responsible for what happened?!? really?!?!?!?!?

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sororygilmore · 7 months ago

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i feel like the warm weather is making me feel worse because it’s like. lorde is right every perfect summer is eating me alive.

#and fuck this all because this time last year i was so close to the day my best friend mentioned his name #and i became like so obsessed with him #and fuck it’s almost his 17th birthday and what the hell am i going to do.#i wish it hadn’t happened but i’m also glad it did and idk what to feel except stupid #and he fucking looked at me today and then he looked away and he used to look at me with such adoration and today it was just like #so blatantly different and the way he looks at me will never be the way it was then #it hurts like hell and i thought it was over jt #but as mitski said i always want you when im finally fine #if you read this essay of a tag collection i love you to death don’t mind me and my heartbreak over a 4 (ish?) month relationship #kaela.txt #lorde

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fingertipsmp3 · 9 months ago

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I feel like I’ve lived through at least a month just in the past 3 days. I checked the date just now and damn near had an out of body experience when I realised Monday was only two days ago

#bro the absolute sodding emotional rollercoaster i have been through this past week should be studied by scientists #thursday: unsuccessful job interview. friday: found out that the job interview was unsuccessful. but one of the interviewers (actually a #former colleague of mine lol) gave me a piece of feedback that made me feel like i’d cracked the code for all future interviews #it was this: keep. talking. give as many details as humanly fucking possible. talk about policy. drop in words like safeguarding #list as many examples of stuff as you can. tell stories. bamboozle them #OH i forgot to even fucking mention we had builders at our house until friday. friday was the last day they woke me up with a cacophony #so the weekend was uneventful aside from there was a skip in the driveway and scaffolding all down the side of the house but zero men #monday: successful interview. found out it was successful 5 hours later. got off the phone having accepted the job…… and found a text from #my old boss (the boss i had at the job i really enjoyed. that old boss) inviting me to come back this summer #i had a bit of a mental breakdown but eventually decided to stick with the job i’d just got because it’s a permanent contract and they will #let me sit down #yesterday: found out that the foster doggy i applied for and really wanted is going to her forever home on thursday (which is now tomorrow)#obviously i love this for her but i was like ‘damn. okay’#today: the foster co-ordinator was like ‘hey do you want to foster this rambunctious 3 year old unneutered terrier?’#i was like ‘sure yeah what the fuck. that might as well happen’#(they are neutering him beforehand. and he looks really cute. he’s not aggressive he’s just a young terrier with like 3 brain cells)#unless something finally kills me in the meantime i’m picking him up on monday. i cancelled therapy in order to do this. yes i’m well aware #that there’s a metaphor somewhere in there but it’s fine. i rescheduled therapy #i also have realised i do not know how and when i’m going to get my ssri prescription renewed… i know the pharmacy will call me in a couple #of weeks to make sure i haven’t died. but i think i was supposed to get a prescription renewal at therapy #the therapy i won’t be going to until like 5 days after my prescription runs out. that therapy. foook #honestly withdrawal symptoms would probably just spice up the situation at this point. they’d just make things interesting #i swear to god everything always gets crazy and stupid right before my birthday… remember when i turned 26 and couldn’t drink because i #was on antibiotics for a kidney infection. and when i turned 27 and one of my wisdom teeth tried to emerge #this is like that except with dogs and jobs. at least the skip and the scaffolding are gone now #i AM trying to sell a sofa on facebook marketplace so wish me luck with that ig #personal

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munch-mumbles · 1 year ago

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GRR a lot of my paranoia about my heart health has been coming back lately

#it used to be pretty bad a few years ago and im starting to get there again #its hard for me not to pay attention to my pulse to check that its still working fine because i honestly have a pretty big fear of dying #from a heart attack stroke etc #i can literally remember the day that it became a phobia of mine because in bio class we were reading an exerpt about a womans symptoms #as she was experiencing a stroke and like. i literally freaked myself out about it AS i was reading it i starting panicking #specifically the mention of your left art losing sensation sticks in my mind #a few days ago i read a few comments on a post about people who knew someone who died at their job #and a lot of them were about people who literally just. up and died for no reason. sitting at their desk. THAT freaked me out #cause that seems like a way id die is just out of fucking nowhere thats my luck #anyways im writing this because ive had like 2 borderline panic attacks about it today and i could feel myself freaking out a third time #a minute ago so i startd writing. thumbs up #i know im thinking irrationally but no one who dies of a heart attack expects to die. right. im probably not going to expect #it its going to Happen To me #ive read too many stories about people who either had one themself and survived or talking about someone they knew #where they say they could feel the doom and that something was wrong and etc. so when i start getting nervous it keeps snowballing #immediately into FUCK ITS THE DOOM THIS IS THE BIG ONE #when its literally not

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sluttyten · 2 years ago

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😠.

#so I had tentative plans to go get my nose pierced tonight #but then the other day my parents were like hey let’s go visit your brother this weekend #so I told the people I was gonna go get pierced with that I can’t do it today #which was fine and good and one of them is still going today but the rest of us are probably going like next week #but then it stormed today and knocked out the power at my grandparents’ house so my parents have been over there for damn near 2 hours #trying to prevent my grandparents basement from flooding and my mom just came home to grab something and told me that we might not be going #so you’re telling me that I could have actually gone and gotten my nose pierced #and like five minutes ago the guy who was still going tonight to get pierced sent me a snap of him there at the piercing studio and like 😭😭#I definitely could’ve gone 😭 but also idk if my parents get this problem solved at my grandparents then we could still maybe go #but if not and they decide we can go like next weekend I’m gonna be upset because I’ve already canceled these plans plus my best friend want #wanted* me to house sit with her and I told her I couldn’t #and if we go next weekend then I’m going to have to cancel theee nose piercing plans again and they’ll just think I’m not being serious #about wanting it but I’ve literally been talking about it for like 2 weeks straight now #also not to mention I’m sitting here in my house fully packed and we were completely ready to go when my aunt called to tell my mom about #the power being out and their parents freaking out that the basement was going to flood which apparently it kinda is #anyway this is stupid but I just wanted to complain about it #because I feel like if I decide just to like settle in and start watching something or actually writing more for the new unholy chp then my #parents are gonna get home and be ready to go #but if not then I’m really just sitting here wasting time like I was ready to go #not fair that I had multiple avenues of plans tonight and now none of them are probably happening

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sysig · 2 years ago

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:D ♪

#I have had a good day today #It was a shopping day! And I bought things that were helpful and fun and that I wanted! And I am happy about it!#They're an odd arrangement of items but I like them :)#I got a new version of an old pen that I love because I use it so often that it's running out lol #A year and change of use has worn it to the pen-bone lol #So now I have the next one when that one really goes yayay #I also found a hand drill! Which I wanted! Because previous my earbuds broke and I fixed them but Too Well #They were falling apart so I superglued them back together and created a perfect seal that caused a vacuum in my ear #Painful :/ Unwearable :// Defeats the purpose of having a ''fixed'' earbud in the first place :///#I requested a hole drilled in the back which was done but apparently the seal was further forward lol so still unwearable!#So I wanted a hand drill - y'know the kind the non-electronic kind that you have to twist until a hole happens #Have I mentioned I'm a Luddite lately lol but really it's just 'cause it's My Thing so if anyone is allowed to break it it's me #Then I can't be mad at anyone else #So I got one! A jeweler's bead reamer to be specific :0 But to me it's just a hand drill lol it's a cute little four-piece set ♪#It's a little rough on the hands but I have wet paper for skin so it's fine probably lol #And I did end up break-fixing my earbuds! I can use both again! I'm so happy that's been like two weeks ah #Percussive maintenance #I also bought some vanilla merengues :3 Those will be important later :3c The set is already queued but it's for Research Purposes lol #They are So Sweet like /so/ sweet - very similar to my sugar cubes but like?? richer??? more intense somehow and large #And finally some fidget toys! :D A blind bag for funsies of mini fidgets and they are so cute omgsh they're so small ah #I got a little ducky squishy aw <3 Perfect addition to my duck collection haha - and a tiny fidget cube! Too cute very satisfying clicks #And finally a 2x2 puzzle cube - it had a brand but I've already forgotten it 'cause it's not Rubix lol #I've been wanting a puzzle cube as a stim toy for a while I just really like how they look and sound but I didn't expect much #And since the 2x2 is smaller it's like the budget/easier option so perfect but like- I genuinely did not expect it to Actually stim my brain #It does! :0 It focuses me! I mean on the puzzle itself lol but like I feel focused and interested and rewarded! It's wild!#Don't feel the need for music or stories or any other background noise just puzzle puzzle puzzle #I still haven't solved it lol I think the closest I've gotten is 4/6 sides and again this is a 2x2 but like!#I wasn't planning on solving even one side but it caught me! :0 That quickly! I've only had it since earlier today!!#And I didn't cheat and look anything up I haven't really had the chance to between fixing/breaking and being out lol #Fun :D Fun!! :D

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friendfromdsmp · 2 years ago

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Guys my intrusive thoughts are playing show and tell with topics that I’m squeamish about and now I feel faint how the fuck do I turn these off

#I am in bed so if I do pass out I’ll be fine but it’s still irritating #part of me wants to do the whole ‘talk about it’ thing but I know that’s a little counter-productive #this happens a lot how do I unsubscribe #istg I need to start taking autism meds because this isn’t even an uncommon occurrence #autism #autistic #intrusive thinking #intrusive thoughts #help #funny maybe #ironic #at least #also unrelated but I finished another chapter of my book today so I’m very proud of myself and I just wanted to mention that

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l-cereta · 3 months ago

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#this is a vent post I just want to… have it written down somewhere #I’m doing better now btw I’m also writing all this out to try and create a buffer so you have to put in effort to see the rest #but also no one should feel obligated to read anything this is just for me to expurgate it #anyways. um. hoping that’s long enough #so after a largely shitty and fucking unpleasant week (computer failed… lost all my data… lost all my stickers… headaches w senior year…)#i get my wisdom teeth out today. which id known abt for a while it wasn’t a surprise but I was getting a little antsy #abt how my mom had pushed for me to not be sedated and instead get nitrous . so I’d be conscious for the whole procedure #right after breakfast i call about other options but it turns out the other options require you to fast beforehand sooooo nitrous it is #I’ll also mention that I drank the night before and had a slight hangover so maybe that interfered somewhat #but maybe six or so minutes into the surgery I start tearing up and eventually fully sobbing forcing them to stop #because the idea that these people are taking apart my body is so distressing to me #and like… it really did feel like this intimate violation #reaching in and taking something that was mine #idk i felt and feel so bad for just letting that happen… like. it was my body. they didn’t have any right to do that #that’s the first time I’ve ever had surgery and it’s weird — i feel like most things i can manage pretty easily #for example going to the dentist or orthodontist #even if I don’t love it it’s fine I manage. i get my blood drawn semi regularly. It’s Fine.#but for some reason something about this experience… like it was genuinely such a traumatic moment which feels really silly and stupid #considering the stuff other people go through. but really it felt so bad the whole time i was laying back knowing i couldn’t do anything #but mentally over and over going ‘this is my body THIS IS MY BODY’#and I just had to let that happen. genuinely one of the worst experiences of my life and i was suicidal in high school

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earthtooz · 1 year ago

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x : NOT JEALOUS ! :*+ﾟ

in which: alhaitham isn't jealous, he doesn't get jealous, so what is this suffocating feeling in his chest that only happens when you're talking to another man that isn't him?

warnings: 5.4k words, jealous!alhaitham x gn!reader who has loads of rizz, university!au, fluff with angst but happy ending, pining!alhaitham who doesn't realise that he loves you, kaveh is there, mention of cyno, ooc at some bits?, swearing, alhaitham is a little bit of an asshole at some parts sawry. he's bad with feelings.

a/n: inspired by @danijaci's jealous jealous boy comic with alhaitham! hi dani if you're reading this pls don't perceive me... hides... but i hope you all like it :,)

Alhaitham isn’t jealous.

The uncomfortable feeling obstructing itself in his throat is just because he’s beginning to develop a sore throat- that’s all. It is flu season after all, who knows what kind of bacteria are in the air? Ones capable of lathing an uncomfortable oil that burns inside his chest, the smog crowding its way into his heart, sickening him to his core as Alhaitham can’t help but eavesdrop on the conversation happening beside him.

“I’m free friday,” a voice besides you confirms.

“Okay!” you cheer, sounding a little too happy for Alhaitham’s liking. After all, it’s 9 am, who has this much energy in the morning? “lets do Friday then!”

“Sounds good, I’ll see you then. Bye Y/n.”

“Bye, see you!” Alhaitham watches from the corner of his eye as you wave to the random stranger you’ve decided to associate yourself with before finally taking the seat beside him with a sigh.

He doesn’t say anything to you, feeling your eyes glance at him expectantly as he stares stubbornly at the lecture board instead of acknowledging you or the jumble of feelings clogging up his diaphragm.

“Hello, you,” You lean over slightly, careful to not invade his personal space whilst waving at him, hoping to catch his attention. He glances at you, nodding in greeting before returning to his book, the pages and rows of words only fuelling his unease he suddenly felt. He doesn’t even know where he left off, the book’s events a blur in Alhaitham’s mind.

How bothersome. What’s happening to him?

“Talkative today, aren’t you?” Your tone is playful despite his cold attitude and Alhaitham sneaks another look in your direction, noting the way your lips curve upwards. “So, how are you?”

“I’m fine,” he murmurs, inserting a bookmark between the pages before slamming it shut, an indicator that you could keep conversing with him.

“Cool.” You tap your nails on the desks of the lecture hall. “Oh, I finished my essay the other day.”

“The one for your elective?”

You hum in agreement, “I hope I never get it back. Submitted it ten minutes before the due date.”

“You know you wouldn’t have been stressed over it if you just started it earlier-”

“I know, I know,” you huff, “spare your productivity lectures for another time, I’ll be needing them later in the semester.” The grey-haired shakes his head as you laugh, but his gaze returns to the front cover of his book as he solemnly thinks about the interaction you had with another man, right in front of him.

(What right did he have to see you smiling so earnestly like that?)

“Who was that?” Alhaitham coughs out, barely choking down his pride in time to make space for the question.

You murmur some guy’s name that he doesn’t bother to remember. “He’s a friend of mine in the same discussion group for this course and we decided to do the assignment together. He bumped into me on the way in so we were just planning when to meet to do the research.”

“Oh.” Your answer doesn’t calm the churning in Alhaitham’s gut. Not even one bit, in fact, it makes it worse.

But it’s not jealousy, Alhaitham doesn’t get jealous because he’s above petty feelings of inadequacy. He’s merely concerned for you, worried for your brainpower by the end of the project because your partner seems less-than-incompetent. If you’d picked someone like Alhaitham (or better yet, just picked Alhaitham), you would’ve aced the class without even blinking an eye.

(The two of you are friends, so why didn’t you pick him? It’s literally been proven that the two of you are compatible working together since you were both executives of Sumeru’s Cultural Society, and amidst all of the activities the club has run, you’ve collaborated many times to make each event run flawlessly. So why not him? Why would you pick another man over him?)

“You know you could have picked me, I wouldn’t mind working on the assignment with you,” he grumbles, words soft but very clear.

Alhaitham misses the way your eyes widen in shock as apologies scramble out of your mouth. “I’m sorry! I automatically assumed that you wanted to work on it by yourself. Next time I’ll ask you.”

The lecture begins before he could say anything in return and like a robot, he sets his thoughts aside and begins listening, notes document up and cursor blinking at the ready.

A mundane two hours pass by, one powerpoint slide after powerpoint slide before the lecture is finally over, much to your pleasure. Alhaitham notices the way you eagerly jump out of your seat to stretch, grabbing your bag. On the other hand, your grey-haired accomplice takes his time in packing up, forcing you to wait for him.

“Would you like to get some coffee before the meeting?” You ask.

“Sure, we can find a seat there and join it together,” he adds and you beam at him, expression bright and so enchanting that it makes him forget about all the perplexities he felt before the lecture.

The two of you make your way to one of the many campus cafés where you practically wrestled Alhaitham to stop him from paying for both your orders (losing in the end) before sitting at a booth, your laptop set up with a pair of Alhaitham’s earphones shared between you. The meeting begins to fill up with almost all committee members, even Kaveh, who resides in his room of his and Alhaitham’s shared flat. Upon noticing him, you go to text him, with the grey-haired peeking over your shoulder from time to time to see your conversation- not that he cares that much.

(Perhaps if Kaveh glanced up from his phone, then he’d see how close Alhaitham had gotten with you, breaching the distance that he prefers to keep around others. He’d also notice the headphone sharing despite how he generally tends to keep them out of anyone else’s hands.)

You’re tasked with the role of taking notes for the meeting since Alhaitham, in your opinion, is not at all a reliable scribe. His notes tend to just include vital information and never what everyone else needs to know, yet each time you scold him for it, his unbothered expression never falters, waving your complaints off with a shrug.

“Hey, Kaveh and I are going to go for lunch tomorrow after our classes. Care to join?” You ask, smiling at him hopefully as your messages with Kaveh sit open on your screen. Alhaitham doesn’t think twice before agreeing.

── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

“It looks like it’s about to rain,” you murmur, pulling out a chair as Alhaitham and Kaveh take their seats opposite you.

“So it does,” Alhaitham notes, not caring to look too long out the window before returning his gaze to you. “You have an umbrella, right?”

“I, uh, didn’t think I needed one today.”

“Do you not check the weather before you leave?”

“Not everyone’s like you, Alhaitham.” Kaveh teases. “It’s no problem, Y/n, if it rains I can walk you back to your dorm.”

“Only if you are okay with it,” you insist, “I have no problem walking home in the rain. I love the rain.”

Alhaitham intervenes with a raise of his hand. “Nonsense, you’ll catch a cold. We’ll walk you home.”

A soft but genuine ‘thank you’ slips from your lips, neither of you wiser to the way Kaveh eyes his roommate suspiciously, not missing the use of ‘we’ in his sentence and the implications the collective pronoun has. For it meant that Alhaitham is willing to take precious time out of his day to perform an act for someone that he is not indebted to do. Not that Alhaitham is inherently selfish, per se, but he is a man of routine. He wakes up every morning and takes five minutes to scribble on his stupid whiteboard in the kitchen what he has to do for the day and strictly abides by it, not even straying two minutes off schedule.

Willingly volunteering his minutes? Kaveh finds that suspicious.

“So, how’s your architecture assignment, Kaveh?” You ask, breaking the blond from his daze whilst Alhaitham pours glasses of water for the table, starting with your cup.

“A nightmare,” he sighs, sinking into his chair. “I still have so much to do, you know my professor didn’t like my blueprint? How ridiculous! I hope that man steps in a puddle and wets his sock.”

The grey-haired pipes up with a remark. “I can’t wait for it to be done, our living room is a mess right now.”

“Hey, I am the one that cleans that living room, thank you very much. Your bookshelf is still a mess even though I’ve asked you to clean it five times.”

“If it bothers you so much then why don’t you do it yourself?”

“I’m the only one who-”

“-I’m going to go to the bathroom,” you murmur, cutting the conversation before shuffling out of your chair, seemingly eager to do so.

Kaveh turns to the grey-haired again, “and you just scared away Y/n.”

“Sorry no one wants to hear about your architecture project.”

“Y/n literally asked, asshole.”

A rebuttal sits on the tip of Alhaitham’s tongue- as it always does when it comes to bickering with his roommate, but it dies out when an intruder comes to the table. “Excuse me, I hate to interrupt,” he begins, “but the person who just got up, is that your friend?”

“Yeah, why do you ask?”

“Oh, I just wanted to drop this off, mind passing it over for me?” The piece of paper he was holding lands in Kaveh’s hand. “Thanks, bro.” Is all he says before strolling away, out of sight but definitely not out of mind.

The blond does not hesitate to open it up, chuckling in amusement when reading the content. “’Hey you’re cute, here’s my number’ it says. What a bitch! You didn’t like his vibes either, right, Alhaitham?”

“Hold on, what does the note say?”

Grabbing (snatching) it from Kaveh, the grey-haired has half a mind to rip the note apart, a certain sense of distaste washing over him that intensifies the long he stares at the guy’s handwriting. His eye is twitching. Why is his eye twitching?

“Hey!” He hears Kaveh call. “Don’t scrunch it, that’s Y/n’s-“

Alhaitham stuffs the ball of paper into his bag where he’ll recycle it later even though something irrational within him tells him to burn it. “Y/n won’t miss it. You said it yourself, he’s a bitch.”

“Sure, but why are you doing-“

“Hey!” You interrupt, sliding back into your chair with a grin on your face. “So, what did I miss?”

“Nothing,” the grey-haired murmurs, assuming his crossed-arm position. Kaveh side eyes his roommate before agreeing with a hum. “Let’s order something now. We want to beat the rain, right?”

── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

This meeting for the Sumeru Society might have been one of the most important ones of the year thus far, with almost every committee member expected to attend. After all, the annual ball was a big event that always had the largest turnout, and the amount of planning that goes into it to ensure its success is almost triple that of its other events.

So why weren’t you here?

“Why did you leave the meeting early on Friday?” Alhaitham asks as soon as he sees you.

You pause briefly, eyes widening and eyebrows raising. It must have been the way that Alhaitham’s voice raised a pitch towards the end of the question, demonstrating a nervous break in character that was not at all typical. Cool and collected would be the defining words to describe Alhaitham, as well as someone who does not care for the menial activities of others, so what is he doing asking you? And why does he care so much?

“I, uh, had dinner with someone,” you confess, continuing to grab your books and laptop, missing the way his features contort into something un-cool, and very un-Alhaitham.

“Whom?”

You murmur the name of some other guy, who he vaguely recalls to be your project partner.

“What?” Alhaitham snaps.

“I didn’t think missing out on some of the meeting would be a big deal! I got another committee member to explain what I missed,” you justified. “Besides, there’s no big events going on right now, so I thought-”

“-That you could abandon your tasks and go have fun with someone else?”

Alhaitham’s not really sure why he said that. He’s not angry that you skipped a meeting; there are larger things in the world to worry about, he’s angry because you spent time with another guy that wasn’t him.Why not go to dinner with him instead? He spends it every night with Kaveh, and you are far more favourable than Kaveh.

“Is it really something to get mad over? I already told you, I got the meeting notes and everything-”

“-You’re an executive of the society, Y/n, more is expected from you.”

“Seriously?” you ask, “how come you didn’t bat an eye when the vice president wasn’t there the other day?”

“Because she was sick.”

“Okay, fine! what about the subcommittee? they’re not always there either!”

“They’re subcom. Whether they miss a meeting or not is not crucial.”

“So, it’s just my business that you care about?” You ask, eyebrows furrowed, disbelief clouding over your expression like a mask.

Again, Alhaitham doesn’t know where these punches are coming from and why he’s throwing them against you so viciously, but his heart is tightening defensively with a burning emotion that he’s been feeling more and more recently, and his first instinct is to lash out, to protect himself from it.

Perhaps it’s because foreign things that he can’t understand terrify him and you, all you ever do is make him feel things that he’s never felt before and he can’t understand why.

“You’re not that special.”

A flash of hurt gleams in your eyes and Alhaitham knows now that he’s royally fucked up. “You’re an ass,” you grumble, about to walk away when he intercepts.

“Listen to me!”

“Fuck off!”

“Y/n-”

You’re gone before he can get another word out, retreating figure stomping away whilst his chest weaves into knots; something that no amount of deep breathing can calm. It doesn’t help that the minute he returns home, Kaveh is onto him like some sort of parasite, curious over the tense air surrounding his normally-composed roommate.

“Hey, welcome home- whoa, what’s gotten into you?” The blond asks.

“None of your business,” Alhaitham grumbles through gritted teeth, taking his shoes off and throwing them aside haphazardly. Kaveh doesn’t miss the way Alhaitham’s jaw is clenched, or the strain in his hand when he brings up a hand to run through his hair, or the very subtle and minute twitch in his cheek.

The blond ignores all signs that he wants to be left alone, and instead, follows the grey-haired to his room after he swung the door open.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, hold on, let’s talk about this-”

“Talk about what?” Alhaitham growls.

“Who pissed in your black coffee today?”

“No one. Now get lost.”

“Aw, come on, you know what they say. Getting things off your chest is always beneficial.”

“There’s nothing on my chest, go away.”

“You sure? no stress, no deadlines, no love interest making you tear your hair out-”

“-No, no, none of those!”

“Then what?”

Alhaitham steadies himself by resting his elbows on his thighs, hands clasped together as he exhales loudly. “I got pissed and took it out on Y/n, who’s mad at me now.”

“Huh? Why so annoyed?”

“Because Y/n went to dinner with another man.”

It’s silent for a while. The sassy quip that he expects from Kaveh does not happen. Instead, the blond merely smiles, a satisfied, knowing grin that slightly irks him. “You know, I’ve been waiting for the day you realise you have feelings for Y/n.”

“What? Where did you get that conclusion from?” Alhaitham sits up straighter. There are a lot of things he knows, and he knows for sure that he does not like you in any way beyond platonic. He doesn’t have any time to spare for love. There are scholarships he still needs to apply for, internships to be interviewed for, research projects to submit- nowhere amongst the minute hand of the clock is there space for love.

“Oh come on,” Kaveh sits down on the bed beside his roommate, leaning back on his hands. “You’re not as smooth as you hope to be sometimes.”

“I’m serious, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Y’know the sooner you accept you have feelings for Y/n, the easier life will be.”

“Life is already easy and there is no sooner because I don’t like Y/n like that. Now get lost. I have stuff I need to finish.”

Kaveh shrugs, standing up with a soft ‘suit yourself’, taking seven steps before he’s out of the room. Alhaitham lets out a sigh that has lodged itself in his throat for too long, and the feeling of reprieve he gets is short-lived before he’s flooded with a certain tightness again. Maybe he did have a weight on his chest after all, not that he’d ever admit it to himself or Kaveh.

He gets up from his made bed with a grunt and decides to push aside all distractions. Time is unforgiving, and if doesn’t finish his assignment by this Friday then he’ll be a little less than pleased.

── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

Alhaitham feels like he can’t breathe.

You’re sitting alone at a library desk, all focused and concentrated on your laptop screen with your headphones on, blocking out any outside voice as you type away. He wonders if he should say hi, maybe try apologising for the way he acted last Monday- who is this guy that’s approaching you and why does he look so familiar?

And why are you smiling so happily?

You beckon to the seat beside you and the guy readily complies, taking the chair beside you like he belonged there, like there weren’t other candidates that should be there instead (he’s not talking about himself. definitely not).

He hands you one of two coffee cups he’s holding. What kind of right does this guy have to give you a coffee? Does he even know your order?

He feels like a bit of creep keenly watching you interact with someone else from a balcony of the library, but the book and laptop in front of him lies forgotten, and in a rare moment of weakness, Alhaitham can’t find it in himself to return to his tasks, pursuit of knowledge momentarily forgotten. He can’t push aside the bile that threatens to rise, he can’t loosen his grip on the couch’s armrest, and he can’t blink for a second in fear of losing you from his sight.

(You’re laughing. Why are you laughing? How can you look so pretty laughing and why doesn’t he ever get to make you laugh like this?)

Alhaitham is losing his damn mind. So much so that the first thing he does when he sees you again is corner you.

“You shouldn’t talk to that guy anymore.”

You’re backed against the brick walls of the time-worn building that your shared lecture always takes place in, and Alhaitham, spotting you like a hawk, put you in this precarious position as soon as the two hours were over.

He can’t breathe. It’s been almost three weeks since you last spoke to him and you’re staring up at him like you’ve done nothing wrong, blinking once and twice at his uncharacteristic display of subtle aggression.

“Who?” you mutter, shaking your head to try and grasp reality once again. you hug your laptop closer to your body. “What’s this about?”

“I said you shouldn’t talk to that guy anymore.”

“What guy?”

“Your project partner.”

“Really?” you mutter in disbelief.

He nods, teal eyes shining at you firmly. “Really. The project’s over, you don’t need to talk to him anymore.”

“I don’t recall ever giving you the right to dictate who gets to be in my life or not, just like how you can’t tell me what to do with my time.”

“I’m looking out for you, so stop trying to make me sound tyrannical.”

Your mouth hangs open as you furrow your eyebrows, growing more and more frustrated with each second. So much for thinking that he wanted to resolve the awkwardness between the two of you. “I’m not even going to argue with you,” you murmur a quick ‘jerk’ under your breath before brushing past him.

Alhaitham, however, is not willing to let you go as easily as you wish, quick to chase after you. Not that you go far anyways, turning around to face him again in the spaciousness of the vacant hallway. “Why do you care?” You ask, exasperated. “You’re Alhaitham, you don’t let trivial things like who I hangout with bother you, you’re cool and collected and rational, and I just don’t understand why you’re acting like this.”

He doesn’t understand either, not the erratic beating of his heart, the stubbornness of his mind, nor this undisputable urge to keep you all to himself. Is it normal to want to hide someone for selfish reasons?

Trailing off, Alhaitham is slightly humiliated that for the first time in his life, someone has witnessed him coming short of an answer. No logical conclusion, no explanation, not even a satisfying quip, just plain, suffocating silence.

“Right. When you do have an answer, let me know.” You walk away.

── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

Your last rebuttal still weighs heavily on Alhaitham’s mind, even two days later as he and Kaveh are seated for a lecture in a shared course. His thoughts are scrambled like never before, the messiness of it all making him feel uneasy because for once, he doesn’t have an appropriate answer to a question.

Why was he acting like a temperamental teenager? What you did with your life was up to you, and indeed he has no right trying to change that. More importantly, why was it so hard to apologise for the stuff he said-

“So, how’s everything between you and Y/n?”

Kaveh turns to him with widened eyes whilst Alhaitham’s poker face doesn’t move an inch, deceivingly apathetic.

“Good, we’ve been hanging out a lot more recently,” the other guy says, who Alhaitham quickly recognises to be your project partner and distaste rises in his stomach like bile.

“Aye, good for you, man! So when are you going to ask Y/n out?”

“No way, bro, not yet. I’m such a wimp, but I hope I grow the balls to ask soon because I really like-”

“-looks like you got some competition!” The blond nudges Alhaitham, and if it were anyone else, they would not have glanced twice at the grey-haired who seemed unmoving and uninterested. However, Kaveh is not anyone else because he noticed the darkened look in Alhaitham’s eyes instantly, anger seeping into his composed gaze as his nose scrunches in disgust.

── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

“So, you and Alhaitham still aren’t talking?” Kaveh asks, leaning on the table of the restaurant with curious ears, hoping that he can grab some answers out of you as to why there was a stalemate between you and his roommate.

“Nope,” you sigh.

“Why not?”

“I’m just-” you pinch the bridge of your nose, “I’m just waiting on an apology from him.”

“An apology? Why? What did he say?”

“He didn’t tell you?”

“You know how he is. Always insufferably secretive, so no, I don’t know anything that happened.”

“Alhaitham just said some hurtful things to me, and he was being weird when I told him I was going to dinner with a friend of mine. Just kept being in my business.”

“Really?” The architecture student quirks a brow, confusion plastered on his face. “That’s not like Alhaitham at all.”

“I know, right? He kept trying to be like ‘don’t hang out with him’ and ridiculed me for not playing my part as an executive of the Sumeru society,” you complained, “like sorry I have other things I want to do.”

Kaveh nods in understanding as the conversation briefly stops when the waiter comes to drop off utensils at your table. As soon as they were gone, however, you begin again.

“And even though he was all up in my business, trying to tell me what not to do, he then said that I wasn’t special, which is so confusing because like-”

“-hold on. Alhaitham said that you weren’t special?” You nod at his parroted claim. “To him?”

“Yeah. Stung like shit when he said that, especially since I thought we were friends but guess not,” you murmur sadly, fiddling with the fork.

Later that night, almost immediately after meeting you over dinner, Kaveh barges into his roommate’s room, not even changing out of his outside clothes. The sudden intrusion shocks Alhaitham who was busy typing on a document, textbook splayed open beneath him but momentarily forgotten as the blond takes a seat on the bed.

“What the- not even a hello?” The grey-haired asks, confused by this uncharacteristic silence of Kaveh’s. It’s pretty normal for the blond to barge into his room without notice, but it was not normal for him to be so quiet, practically brooding on the mattress. “Whatever. Where have you been? Have you eaten yet, because I made-”

“When will you just confess to Y/n?”

The mention of your name causes a spike in Alhaitham’s heartbeat and he swivels around instantly, attention fully directed towards his roommate. “Where is this coming from?”

“Y/n told me everything that happened between you two by the way-”

“-what, when?”

“Tonight, we just met for dinner.”

“And you didn’t tell me?”

“What would you have done if you knew? Showed up and made things worse?” He doesn’t say anything in retaliation, merely shutting his mouth and furrowing his eyebrows. “Why did you say that Y/n wasn’t special to you?”

“I didn’t,” Alhaitham sighs, very loud and very perplexed. “I didn’t mean for it to come out the way it did.”

“Don’t you miss Y/n? You two used to hangout so often.”

“I do, of course I do!” He exclaims, burrowing his face in his hands.

“So why aren’t you apologising?”

“Because whenever I’m around Y/n, I’m not who I normally am,” he mutters, “especially everything whenever that project partner is around-”

“Jealous, much?”

“I’m not jealous.”

“Oh come on, you’re ridiculous. Stop pushing away your feelings and just be honest with yourself, Alhaitham! Y/n is not just a friend to you and you know it.”

“But, we are just friends-”

“So you mean to tell me that if I hung out with someone else- like if I hung out with Cyno, you would be pissed?”

“What? No, of course not.”

“Then why is it different with Y/n?” Once again, Alhaitham doesn’t have an answer to the question, sitting as still as a statue hunched over his desk. “Fine, I’ll spell it out to you. You like Y/n, more than just a friend!”

The silence leftover from Kaveh’s outburst is tense and full as the grey-haired lets the words sink in.

“I’ll let you think about it,” the blond murmurs, voice softening dramatically as he stalks out of the room. Before he closes the door, however, he leaves a few final words. “Just- be honest with yourself, Alhaitham, and I wouldn’t delay trying to talk to Y/n.”

A sharp click rings through the room.

Alhaitham is no stranger to being alone, for who needs the company of others when you are happiest by yourself? Yet, in the weeks that you have not been speaking to him, a cardinal urge as been growing each and each day, wanting him to do something so atypical of him: to reach out and make the first move. Every passing day doesn’t lessen the thoughts that plague his mind, rather, they make him more and more impatient, because what if you get swept away by your project partner?

(What if he’ll be too late? What if you won’t know of these powerful emotions that are steering through the storm in his heart? What if you won’t know just how badly he was been wanting you- wanting to see you, wanting to apologise, wanting to see you beam at him like you always would.

What if you won’t know that he adores you, especially now that he’s figured it out?).

── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

A rain droplet falls and lands on your nose, another lands on your forehead, then another lands on your lip then more and more keep falling from the cloudy sky, falling through the leaves and landing on the bench you were currently sitting on. Goodness, you should have checked the weather before leaving your dorm. Why was it now out of all times that it had to rain, what would Alhaitham think after he finally decided to reach out to talk?

Taking your phone out to message the grey-haired about relocating, an umbrella is suddenly held over you, stopping the gentle drizzle from falling onto you. Looking up, you’re greeted by a familiar face that you have been missing too much recently.

“Hello, you,” you breathe, voice gentle and quiet and Alhaitham feels like he can finally breathe after so long, the scent of rain washing away all perplexion.

He nods at you in greeting before offering you the bouquet of flowers he was holding. A gorgeous arrangement of pink of white stare prettily at you and a man even more gorgeous expects you to accept it.

“For me?” You ask.

“For you.”

“Thank you, they’re so beautiful,” you take his gift with gentle hands, holding it close to your chest.

“I want to apologise,” he firmly states, getting straight to the point; very Alhaitham of him. “For treating you the way I have been recently.”

You beam at him, so bright and so gorgeous that it renders him speechless, a feat pretty difficult when it comes to someone like Alhaitham who has a whole dictionary of words, in multiple languages too. Somehow, they all flock out of his mind the second you smile at him.

“I accept your apology, thank you for reaching out, must have been hard for someone like you, huh?” You tease, standing up from the bench.

“Well, I had do for someone as special as you.” The grey-haired’s voice is deceivingly confident and assured, but you know better, especially when he looks away to hide his expression with his neatly styled bangs.

“No need for the flattery, you know, I’ve already forgiven you.” There’s a moment of silence that occupies the air, caused by Alhaitham’s hesitation as he fishes his brain for the courage to ask you out. You speak before he can get a word out, however. “I got asked out the other day.”

“By your groupmate?”

“He has a name, you know, but, yeah. I rejected him, though,” you laugh awkwardly, almost like you were trying to cope with it by playing it off. “Did you know that he would do that?”

“Yes. I did.”

“Is that why you were so adamant on me not hanging out with him?”

“I guess you could say that. We can talk more about it another time,” he tells you, voice gentle and caring to mask the subtle hit of jealousy he feels in his chest, scolding himself for letting someone else confess to you before him. However, it’s a minute sensation in comparison to the triumph Alhaitham feels knowing that you rejected the other party.

“We have a lot to talk about, don’t we?”

“We do, but I want to ask you something first.”

You nod, hugging the bouquet closer to your chest, anticipation heavy in the air as you spur him to continue.

“If I asked you out, would you reject me too?”

A mere second passes by where you don’t respond, yet the second stretches out to what feels like eternity as Alhaitham’s stomach churns. Patience is something he doesn’t lack, but how can he be patient when his heart wants you so bad?

Then, you take his hand, and the heavens sing at the feeling of your hand in his. “I wouldn’t, but are you asking me out?”

“Are you free right now?”

“I am. Why?”

“Let’s go out then. On a date.”

“I'd love to.” You rise up to place a lingering kiss on his cheek, one that has his heart racing with joy rather than frustration.

The smile you earn is gentle, shy, but says more than Alhaitham's words ever can.

#i didn't edit this btw don't judge #alhaitham x reader #al-haitham x reader #alhaitham x you #al haitham x reader #genshin impact x reader #fluff #alhaitham fluff #al-haitham fluff #genshin fluff #genshin x reader #alhaitham fic #genshin fic

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