#i used to go loiter there all day instead of having a birthday party as a teenager

[thingsifindonthegroundsometimes]

sculpy garden

[antidictaphobium]

i spend all my free time analyzing the people around me.

what makes them tick, what makes them crash, what i can say to make them laugh.

it's useful for survival, but it's terrifying from a sociological standpoint.

it all feels like one big trap.

i am firm in my beliefs, beliefs no one seems to share once i leave the house.

devout behavior made strange and unsettling to passerby.

it's lonely, more than anything. mutual aid and human rights petitions don't seem to mean much to the masses surviving on hope and tomorrow's lunch money.

i don't really have the energy, to keep explaining myself. to keep rationalizing to an audience why it is worth it to give up my own resources to benefit another. i donate when i can, boycott what i can, speak up when i can. i spend the rest of the life with ears pricked up, analyzing the nasty web that forms in my observation of others.

yesterday my coworker told me she had an interview with domino's for a possible weekend delivery position. it would take up all her free time but it would pay her more than food stamps does, and as a single parent with several kids she'll take what she can get. i didn't have the heart to tell her to boycott, she just seemed so excited. but they lied about the good pay on Indeed, so today she spent her lunch break on hold with the food stamps office, praying she can afford groceries after her car needed an emergency repair. our clients drive teslas to drop off their kids.

i went to a birthday party for a friend of a friend a few days ago. it was nice, but partway through she told me she got her whole fancy outfit off temu. i bit my tongue as we prepared to spend a lavish evening singing karaoke in her parents fully furnished basement, loitering between the all-inclusive AV system and the spotless, throughly stocked bar.

a few weeks ago, another coworker told me she was having some hard feelings about the election. she said she would never vote for trump but she had a hard time rooting for kamala. she likes the overall policy but just can't get behind legalizing abortions. but her husband is a teacher, and he says the left is much kinder to the lgbt, and she is willing to settle for that. i did nothing but listen, biding my time, but not holding my breath.

i've stopped complimenting coworkers on their smart blouses, they're always from Shein.

i have a mental spreadsheet of which people to say "my roommate" to, instead of "my girlfriend". it's just safer that way.

frequently, i ask someone how their week was and get met by a barrage of No money, No car, No freedom, No care, No hope, No fast food and absolutely No free time to cook. No words to say, because what could i do to soothe it all?

when i speak to my conservative father, i am amazed by how many beliefs we share. he wants the same things i do, but instead of rallying for change he wastes away on conspiracy forums, waiting for the truth to come out. because why would the world be so horrible if it wasn't a coverup for something bigger? why would we suffer if it wasn't for redemption later on?

needless to say, i don't go to my childhood church anymore.

i don't respond to the auntie telling me McDonalds has a special sale for National Burger Day.

i sit in silence, never engaging, changing the subject, losing my grip.

i, one of many, sit alone.

i wanted to conclude with something victorious, but i've no victory to sprinkle over my dead and say "it was worth it".

i know it is, and it should be. we are not cruel by nature, i tell myself this every night. the suffering deserve peace. the tortured deserve salvation.

but my hope is locked in the same safe as my upbringing's ashes.

humming, near silent. too volatile, too fragile to touch with my bare hands. making every decision from afar.

[hotliterati]

My night @ The Stranger

My introduction to The Stranger was weird and digital and probably similar to thousands — hundreds of thousands — who would bookmark a little video declaring that it was “Joe Jonas’s favorite place to go out.” And funny enough, a few days ago some friends and I saw Joe Jonas in Nolita, pushing a double stroller around furtively and stopping over at milk bar. My friends didn’t believe me — they needed to see for themselves so we ended up trailing him subtly, against my urging (I have this resistance to celebrity culture out of having met some of my heroes and them being rude and also some weird prideful resistance to socially bow down to anyone except for Michelle Obama or Bryan Cranston).

But it all worked out because on our trail, we ran into a lovely friend I haven’t seen in years who is now coming to my birthday party.

“We saw Joe Jonas” I said to the friend, as if it explained our magical run-in.

And as Joe Jonas left milk bar with the twins, he glanced over at our group. Maybe with malice, maybe with fear, maybe just having heard his voice uttered by the 5’4” woman across the street and co, clearly loitering.

But little does he know, I was at his “favorite club” about a month and a half earlier.

I went to The Stanger the night before my flight back to Kansas for a couple of weeks. If you’ve read any of my earlier stuff, or maybe some of my liminal fiction, then you know that I was extremely, extremely homesick. But the closer I got to leaving, the more brash and in search of excitement and people and life here I was. Like I wanted to gulp down a big swallow of New York serendipity before going back to the midwest to be rested, yes, but also still, for a while. So, instead of sleeping before my flight, I went out.

If you’re looking for tips or some sort of guide on where to go or how to get in, then I’m sorry, but this is not that. I just happen to have the privilege of having some of the most beautiful compassionate cool whimsy clubby friends. And they know how to get in. And sometimes I know how to get in. And we all know how to have a good time.

So The Stranger is in midtown. I am not. I had a full day before I went there. I went to my 9-5. Then I meandered around the West Village to go to that Pie Crust cookie place to bring some home for my family. I was wearing this shirt that says does he even read? The woman working commented on it. I told her that often I’ve found that the ones that do are worse than the ones that don’t. We laughed. Talked about dating apps. I showed her the interface of Raya, which I’ve since abandoned (#rayaretiree, remember?). And I got home. Ran into a coworker. Met a friend to get ready together. Under his instruction, I changed into a babydoll slip with some little shorts underneath. For some reason, implication is always more effective.

We stopped by my neighborhood spot to see my friends. To have a drink or two. And uptown we went. Not quite to The Stranger yet though. First to McDonalds for fries. And the midtown McDonalds is different than the one I pop by on a night out closer to home (one where I’ve been offered cocaine and immediately apologized to for the offer). My friend observed a wealthy man eating alone at the midtown one (look at the shoes) and we struck up the most bizarre conversation (I did no speaking, I just chewed my gum and blew my bubbles) and after an awkward goodbye, the type of goodbye you can only have with a drunken stranger who is alone, we finally went to The Stranger.

We got in the wrong line at first.

“You’re listed?” Asked someone by the door in a decorative, elaborate black outfit with wings.

“Yes” we said (the friends, remember!!!!).

And into another line we went, the listed line, which was ironically longer. But a friend of a friend was there, so we joined, and on the way in, a former classmate and their friend joined and by the time we got inside, past an awkward entryway with women in little outfits screaming at us (part of the experience I guess) we had a nice little group.

And we went upstairs to the bathroom. I nearly got lost. There were lots of mirrors. and I had had lots of candies. And then down, down, downstairs into a sea of bodies with our friend who was hosting, glowing like a beacon in the dark red light.

There was a beautiful woman dancing on a table. One next to her in roller skates. Performers, but not the gimmicky kind (They were ethereal. The blackjack corner and women screaming and corners and mirrors and prices felt gimmicky). I looked at them in awe. We all did. And the one in the roller skates popped a bottle of champagne. Started helping people to drive the boat. I wanted bubbles. Hers. I wanted to be the captain. I got closer. She poured champagne into my open mouth and it dried out my gum, made it a bit stiffer. But it felt good.

And my friends and I danced!!! And made eye contact and traded sunglasses. Mouthed inside jokes in the sea of bodies. And the classmate and friend danced with me and I giggled and giggled and giggled. You’re infectious one of them said to me. I felt bubbly. I felt like I could fly. And suddenly I was lifted up and up and onto the elevated surface where the performers were once dancing, and granted bubbles and the keys to something.

And I danced on an elevated surface. I danced on the friend of the classmate. In a non-sexual way (I was very very clearly not their type). In a trusting way, that reminds me distinctly of another trusting dance on another crazier night that I may write about someday. Baby steps.

After a bit, one of my tall friends helped me down from the surface and we all went downstairs to our table because Icona Pop wasn’t there yet and apparently that’s who we’d come to see. Tables are funny. These little spaces we section off. Pay to enter. Be hot to enter. Someone must want you but you must also want to be there (but not too much).

And I think that’s the secret to having fun on a night out for me. To not want. To be grateful. To open my eyes. To blow bubbles. So we were at the table and that’s when things got tense. A vibe shift. Something. And it stuck when we went upstairs, listened to Icona Pop DJ. And back down to the table.

And the night was a roaming of, in and out of, the table. In and out of the table. And then closer to the DJ on this floor, only to be bumped and shoved and surpassed by people with better tables. People who walk there without looking at you, but do so in a way like they’re actively reminding themselves not to look at you.

Nightlife is this weird scene where you’re not conscious or all too conscious. You’re moving your body in abandon or thinking about yours in relation to, in comparison to everyone else. And I fluctuate between these two states. Have to remind myself to get into the prior, but don’t like what it takes sometimes.

And toward the end of this night, I ended up with a friend of a friend, a glamorous one, in this alley outside. And people came in and out of the alley and gushed about outfits and the music and who’s who and who knows who and I lost my voice.

I forgot that I was someone worth talking ton(?) I felt small. I got lost in my own head and not in the fun way. So I decided to leave. Went upstairs to call a car. And in the entryway, the yelling girls in the little outfits were being recorded by someone, staff, for some promo.

“You can’t go this way,” said a man in all black. He verbally corraled me back downstairs. And I went back down, returning after a goodbye like an idiot. Walked toward one door, two, only to learn that the exit was that little alley where I had lost my voice. The one where people bummed cigs. Where they didn’t ask for names they didn’t already know, mine being one of them.

And I went out and up some stairs to the street and was prepared to call a car.

But out came my little group of friends and friends of friends and we had a moment of exhalation outside, together. And then I called a car. Mentioned where I was going.

The glamorous friend of a friend lit up, realizing we were going to the same neighborhood. So we got in together, leaving The Stranger behind.

And in the car, the friend mentioned that the night felt weird and it was like a balloon popped and out came our mutual observations of how stiff, how conscious the night felt at the end. How conscious we were of our heads by the end.

But then we moved beyond the subject of the night. Stood for an hour, maybe two, and began to talk about more. About heady stuff. About our lives, our demeanors. Realized how similar we are, that our demeanor was a shared one.

Titled ourselves people with fast minds and big hearts.

And I went upstairs after our long conversation, in reflection, in awe. Packed up my bag, slept a couple of hours and got in a car to the airport to go back to the midwest.

And in spite of being in my head, in spite of becoming conscious in the wrong way at the end, I’m extremely grateful for that night. Because I got to put on a pretty little slip to wear out. Got to blow and drink bubbles. Danced on the highest surface in a packed room when I once would not even dance in the gymnasium at a middle school dance.

I love partying because I get to try on different versions of myself in a way that’s freer than I ever got to in ballet or pageants (will elaborate more eventually). And I meet the craziest people but also the loveliest. Like my fellow friend with a fast mind and a big heart. Who happens to have the same name as the boy that broke my heart.

And that felt a little bit like fate. Like God was looking down and showing me that love can feel a lot better in friendship. With someone who doesn’t want your body. Doesn’t expect your heart to carve out a little room for them. And when you choose to create space, for friendship, there’s almost more love and trust in it. And this person is one of the loveliest, kindest people I’ve ever met, and I’m carving out a little platonic love-filled room for them, willingly. Happily.

And as far as The Stranger goes, it was cool. A little gimmicky. But the music was nice and they had the beautiful women who would help you drive the boat. Maybe all those gimmicks, all those hierarchical tables in the basement are conducive to getting in your head at the end of the night.

Maybe that’s why Joe Jonas looked so nervous in Nolita. Mabye he’s the type of guy who’s too conscious in the wrong way (but childhood fame probably does that to you. What do I know with my tiny little niche baby taste of it). Perhaps that’s why he likes The Stranger so much.

It was a nice place. Not my favorite, but it is the nexus of where I met someone really special, and I’m grateful to it for that. And I guess I’m grateful for Joe Jonas for putting it in my mind. Because maybe I wouldn’t have rallied the night before my flight if some woman in my phone hadn’t yelled that it was some celebrity in Nolita’s favorite club.

[anyoneseenadam]

Healing

pairing: Azriel x reader (acotar)

warnings: TW - sexual assault, rape, objectification and implications of abuse, smut, consensual sex, azriel is a sweetie and rhys is a good bestie

a/n: first of all PLEASE READ THE WARNINGS!!! i’m really proud of this fic but I don’t want to trigger or upset anyone, that being said it isn’t too graphic but still. Anyway I hope u enjoy, this took me three days lmao <333

based on: this and this

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You had your first less than savoury encounter with men when you had barely turned nine. Your body still hadn’t finished forming, but you were growing, and your body was gaining some semblance of shape as you did. It wasn’t much – just a whistle from across the street – but for a second your heart seized up with fear, and in the next you almost felt giddy. A man thought you were beautiful.

You felt like a princess that day – felt the way you had when the boy from your class had kissed your cheek, still too young to process the intentions behind that single whistle. But you didn’t care – someone wanted you.

When you got your first period at twelve – even more changed. Your body felt new, and you didn’t feel comfortable in the changes. Your old clothes didn’t fit and now your mother forced you into tighter corsets for those long, long dinners you had to attend. Your parents were respected Fae in the Hewn City – nobles who liked to drink and smoke and throw extravagant balls. And with your new body you could no longer simply hide in the corner or climb through secret passages with your friends – muddying your dresses.

Now you had to smile when men hugged you slightly too long, laugh when they commented on how much you had grown up, sit pretty and pristine with an old mans hand loitering to close to your rear for hours as you watched your parents drink away their troubles.

By the time you were fifteen you were used to the constant attention, your beauty not uncommon where you lived but still doted on often. Unaware of their desire for your youth, your naivety. The women never offering a helping hand but instead glaring down high skewed noses as their husbands slurred into your ears – still in shock that a pretty, young thing like you was all alone at this party.

When you were sixteen you decided to change that – kissing an alright looking boy at a party and telling him exactly what he wanted to hear so he would kiss you back. He stayed when you didn’t protest as he pulled you to the bathroom and pushed you to your knees. And for this small request, the greasy hands on your body at balls and dinners or any other social gathering halved – now only the truly self-righteous felt they could touch you still.

The only problem was you truly did love the boy you had chosen. He had faults yes, but he was kind – he brought you flowers and kissed your cheek. But he also spoke over you, forced you into silence and took what he wanted. And he always wanted the same thing.

If anything it was his father’s fault. The military commander never leaving room for debate when he argues with his wife – and sons only become what they see in their fathers.

Your father had left with a younger woman a few months after your fourteenth birthday, and you hadn’t seen him since – only heard stories of him galivanting around the autumn court from your classmates. You could see the distaste your mum held you in as she realised she would have to stick around to look after you, not yet old enough to be married. Then Amarantha had taken hold of the country and that possibility had been thrown out the window anyway.

Weirdly enough not that much changed in your life when she took power, the only major difference was that now you had to block out screams before going to sleep and even they had become like white noise. You still drank with your friends on Friday nights, went out with your boyfriend on Saturdays and slept the pain away on Sundays. Your weekdays consisted of school, dinners, balls and whatever more your mother could throw together to appease the high queen.

That and the high lord of the night court had started making appearances at the events your mother threw. He was a cruel man standing so proudly at the queen’s side – but you saw something flickering in his eyes whenever people spoke, complimenting his power and rule. You saw what you felt as you laughed at compliments and lingering touches – you saw pain, but more importantly you saw anger. And right now you could use anger.

During one ball you watched him leave, taking an odd route – not the one that would help him escape the loud music but instead a long winding corridor leading to a series of smaller rooms. Without thought you peeled away from your company, muttering excuses and went after him – grabbing a bottle of wine as you did.

You found him reclining in an empty room and knocked on the door gently. He cracked open an eye – slow like a cat – and beckoned you in. You moved to perch next to him, leaning back with a straight back and letting your head loll slightly as you took a swig of the dark red wine, before passing him the bottle.

“You looked like you could use a drink,” you smiled, eyes focused on his sharp jaw as he held the bottle to his mouth with a laugh.

“One way of putting it,” he smiled. The two of you sat in silence for several minutes as you took in his beauty, his looks plus mannerisms all made him seem like a wild cat - a panther trapped underground.

“Why are you here?” he finally asked, and you raised a hand to trace that sharp jaw. But instead of devouring you as any lesser man would’ve, he brushed your hand away and held it tightly in his larger one. “That’s not gonna happen, you’re what sixteen?”

“Almost seventeen,” you said, cheekily. He laughed but shook his head, squeezing your hand before releasing it.

“You’re still a child,” he said matter-of-factly, and you scoffed, stealing your wine back to drink again.

“Yeah well that’s usually a selling point,” your voice was sad, but you didn’t dare let your eyes stray from his – refusing to show fear, “And you’re so nice to me, I wouldn’t tell anyone.”

He laughed as you pouted, “You practice this in the mirror or something?”

“Usually works in three seconds,” you confess, and he whistles under his breath, “Men are rather easy to manipulate when they’ve been trying to get into your skirts since your first bleed.”

“And you wonder why I’m not about to take advantage of you,” he laughed, and you smiled – a real smile, or real enough. “Plus I don’t think your little boyfriend would be pleased.”

“Eh, he’s never pleased - I don’t think this could make him worse.” Rhysand took the wine back and frowned.

“Does he hurt you?” his voice was sincere but the laugh you let out was not.

“Don’t all men,” he swore, and you laughed again, “Yet you foil my plan to make you fall in love with me and whisk me away to the moon.”

He laughed, but his eyes darkened with deep sadness you were sure you would never understand, “I think we both no that even I could not do that, but I might be able to crush your fly.”

“Little boyfriend? Fly? You really don’t like him do you?” you laughed, head lighter already.

“I don’t like any man who thinks they can hurt women,” he said, frowning when he realised through your passing back and forth there was no wine left.

“Shit that took us like five minutes,” you complained, and he laughed, waving his hand lightly as several more bottles appeared before you – you grinned as you grabbed another.

“So any friends with weaker moral backbones that I could marry?” you asked with a laugh, and he smiled at you.

“I’m sure I could find someone,” he leaned back again. You smiled – finally happy that one night might pass in the company of a decent man.

Soon, you’d find it would be more than one night, a close friendship quickly blossoming between you and the high lord. All your friends were convinced you were sleeping together but true to his word he didn’t touch you, and by the time you surpassed the age of eighteen you didn’t want him to. But that didn’t stop other men.

After a particularly bad argument with your boyfriend that had left you with a handprint on your left cheek you had broken up with him – sending away his apologies and flowers, smart enough to see he didn’t hold the mental capacity to change.

Plus you were beautiful and young, you could certainly do better. And you soon did – rich men who liked to buy you jewellery, and fine clothes, men who enjoyed literature and art and spending time with you.

And at the start of each relationship, for a few blissful seconds you would believe in their pure intentions. But then a hand would drift from your lower back to your ass, or the gentle kiss that followed a necklace would shift from your mouth to your breasts. Not one of them wanted to wait until you were comfortable, so you made yourself comfortable.

You pictured pretty, strong men were holding you down and making you feel something, slipping your own hand between your legs and they penetrated you to try and replicate what you were sure a lover’s touch must feel like. And as always – after the first time- they stopped asking for permission, you were their toy, so you no longer had choice over that part of yourself.

But through nice guys and bad boys, for fifty years you had Rhysand who was a friend – who treated you with respect and finally let you talk, let you breathe.

In the end he was the one who found you, in the backroom of a party – drunk and undressed. You were weeping, curled in a ball with your attackers’ seed dripping out of you, bruises decorating your bare skin. When he turned you over with his comforting hands he found your nose dripping red and the vibrant lipstick you wore smudged.

He helped you sit up and redress, took you home and stood outside the bathroom while you scrubbed yourself clean in scalding water – still unsteady on your feet. You changed into a nightgown silently and neither of you said a word when you crawled into bed next to each other, crying in your best friends’ arms as he tried to console you.

When you woke up, he was gone with just a scribbled message about Amarantha and the name of a healer he trusted. But you just placed it back down, turning onto your back and staring at the ceiling as hot tears ran into your hairline.

You barely ate anything for the days following your assault – fighting with your mother more when you rarely saw her and subsequently breaking it off with your current boyfriend. You had thrown his hands off you when he tried to touch you and the screaming match that followed ended your relationship.

Your bond with Rhysand grew only closer however as you spent nights drinking in candlelight, talking about anything and everything until you were sure he knew every inch of your soul and you his.

“You know what I’m going to do as soon as she’s gone,” you whispered one night as you stared at the twinkling lights you had hung on your bedroom roof to imitate stars.

“What?” Rhys had asked, never letting his eyes leave the ‘stars’ which he had laughed at and then proceeded to rearrange to make them more accurate. To which you threw a pillow at his head.

“Find a hill, or a pier, or a large pit or anything and scream into it until my throat bleeds.” You said and he laughed, the bed beneath you rumbling.

“Consider me on board.” He joked as you sat up to perch at your vanity – smudging the sharp eyeliner you wore with a small brush and applying some red lipstick.

“Wanna go out?” you asked him, and he sat up to with a small, sad smile.

“Can’t.” you understood his implication and frowned.

“I’m honestly surprised she hasn’t gutted me yet,” you tried to lighten the mood, but his face darkened slightly when he joked back.

“Oh she wants to, I’m telling her any information you give me about citizens, so she doesn’t.” He said, ruffling your hair as he stood to leave.

“That’s fair, I’ll keep an ear out,” you smiled, squeezing his hand gently before he left.

Things changed when Feyre Archeron appeared, you saw the way your friend watched her and realised you might be competing for his attention soon, but you were happy for him. Until he brought her to that first party – drugged and barely dressed. You felt the bile rise in your throat as you pushed down memories of yourself in such a similar position, and while you knew he would never hurt her – he was still a man. And you were foolish to believe for all those years that he was a man who would realise this was wrong.

Making polite excuses you left the party, picking up the tails of your dress as you all but raced home – ditching the dress and closing the blinds tightly as you made yourself food in your underwear. The sick feeling in your throat spreading through your chest and stomach as you ate, abandoning your meal halfway for a book and large sweater. And when he knocked on your door that night, desperate to tell you all about her – all about the human girl who he was sure could be his mate, you pretended to be asleep.

You barely spoke to him the whole time she was there, unable to look him in the eyes when she was so clearly out of it – and the feeling only grew when the next morning she would have all eyes on her. You understood that feeling. You instead spent parties flirting with Tarquin, the young high lord who was only a few years your senior or warding off marriage invitations with laughs and carefully placed words.

Rhys would sometimes catch your eyes – furrowing his eyebrows at you when you avoided his gaze, the sick feeling never really leaving. But it wasn’t until you watched Tamlin slay Amarantha with a smile that he tried to speak to you again. Feyre was Fae and leaving with her betrothed and Rhysand had just confirmed they were mates – and never had he needed his best friend quiet like he did now.

You were sitting when he found you, head in your palms and blood dusting the skirts of your dress. You had been sitting near Amarantha when it happened. You looked up when he neared, smiling sadly as he sat next to you.

“Want to go home?” he asked you quietly and you scoffed, standing, and moving to leave quickly. He followed after you, grabbing your arm as you wrenched it out of his grip with more ferocity than he had ever seen from you.  

“Don’t touch me,” he held his hands up, backing away to give you space as you got your breathing under control.

“What did I do?” he asked – smart enough to not presume anything.

“How could you think it was okay, after what happened?” your voice was quiet again, and so sad.

“I don’t know what you mean,” he implored, stepping slightly closer again. You raised your eyes to meet his and he understood, the darkness you carried in your eyes shining through – the memories that resurfaced in those dark moments. “I’m sorry, let me explain please.”

You let him hold your arm softly as he winnowed the two of you to your house where you sat down heavy and tired.

“I did it because she needed out of that cell, but I saw what they did to you and you’re a fae woman, she’s… she was human. So it meant that no one else would touch her.” He tried to explain, “And she wouldn’t want to remember.”

“That’s a horrible thing to do Rhys.” You stated and he hung his head low, “How in anyway was that helping her, to get her out you could’ve snuck her here or just take her to a ball and let her dress normally.”

“I’m sorry, I just knew this would’ve been the safest option,” he grabbed your hand again and squeezed it like he did all those years ago, “It’s over, we can go home.”

“I am home,” you laughed bitterly, gesturing to your house.

“No, you’re coming out of this city – we’re putting it behind us.” He stood and held out a hand.

“I know you’re trying to be dramatic and all, but I have to pack – and think.” You said and he laughed.

“Take your time,” he said, sitting back to wait for you, “And I know it might take you a while to forgive me, but I’ll wait.”

You had left soon after, as he revealed his city to you. Winnowing to a house where two beautiful women stood at the door, strong winged men appearing next to them almost instantly – all sharing the same tear-eyed look. Well, all asides from a short, dark-haired woman who simply smiled.

The men you presumed were Azriel and Cassian barrelled towards Rhysand, attacking him in the most violent hug you had ever witnessed. Mor followed soon after and Amren simply offered him a curt nod, to which he bowed slightly with a cheeky smile.

Cassian turned to look at you and everyone followed suit, you straightened up – not wanting to cower under their gazes.

“And this, this is (y/n).” Rhysand said, placing a hand on your elbow, “She’s the only reason I survived under the mountain.”

You smiled at him, annoyed still – but you still held so much love for him in your heart. You looked away when Cassian approached and wrapped you in a tight hug, lifting you off the ground slightly.

When he released you he looked you dead in the eye, “I am forever in your service.”

“Cassian let go of the poor girl,” Mor exclaimed behind him, and you giggled, looking to Rhys for support.

“Forgot to tell you he’s a hugger,” he shrugged, and you shoved his shoulder.

“Oh did you!”  you laughed.

“Gotta get used to it, you’re part of the team now,” Cassian slung an arm around your shoulder as he guided you inside, “which means lots of hugs and long talks about emotions.”

“Don’t steal my best friend Cassian,” Rhys jabbed at his brother as you all moved to sit inside around a long table.

“He already had I’m afraid, can’t reverse love like ours,” you joined in, patting Cassian’s hand as he punched the air in victory, Rhysand feigning pain as he dramatically collapsed into his chair – a hand over his heart.

When you were finally seated you caught Azriel’s gaze, his eyes locked on you – having watched you interact with his family for less than five minutes and already completely enamoured. You smiled softly when you caught his gaze and he grinned at you, no words passing.

Later that evening – after too many drinks, you found yourself alone on a balcony you found, drinking in the fresh air greedily after all those years underground. You didn’t realise he was there until he was next to you – silent on his feet, his shadows a cool chill passing over your shoulders.

You tilted your head to look at him, in awe of his beauty. Not even Rhysand had awed you as much as this man was, his beauty unparalleled by anyone you had met before. He turned his gaze down to you as well, fighting the urge to reach out and touch you as he watched you move with such elegant curiosity.

“We haven’t had the pleasure of being formally introduced,” you smiled, lifting your hand delicately, “I’m (y/n).”

He met your hand halfway, lifting it to his mouth with perfectly poised and trained grace. “Azriel,” his voice was deep, gruff – and sent chills through you quickly. But when he moved your hand from his mouth you held on, the sparks flowing through you telling you all you needed to know. He similarly made no move to let go.

“Are we? I don’t really know how any of this works,” you laughed nervously but he smiled so warmly and tugged you slightly closer to him with the hand you were still clutching.

“You’re my mate princess,” he said, voice rough from disuse. You smiled widely, eyes forming tears as your gaze never strayed from him – finally getting one person who would truly love you, not your body – but you. He tugged your hand gently and you followed him inside, smiling and love drunk.

“We should probably go to the house of wind,” his voice was quiet as you furrowed your eyebrows at him.

“Me and Cassian have to share a room here, the bed are singles.” You smiled and laughed – irrevocably happy.

“Yeah maybe not,” you said, and he held your hand softly as he walked you to the front door, passed his past out friends, Rhys cracking an eye open when you walked past him, and you turned when he tugged your skirt gently.

You okay? He asked in your mind, and you smiled at him.

I’m perfect, why? You replied as he closed his eyes again, clearly too tired to hold them open - Azriel moving to retrieve your coats.

Just don’t feel pressured into doing anything you’re not ready for, Azriel is understanding he won’t get angry. A sort of cold feeling settled on your shoulders when you realised why Azriel wanted that extra privacy.

Shit forgot I had to do that you joked but Rhysand felt the stress growing, however before he could reply Azriel was by your side again and you were waving him goodbye, your smile tight lipped.

Honestly, you trusted Rhysand when he said that Azriel would understand – but so far you had yet to meet a man who truly respected the boundaries you set, a man who would truly wait. Azriel met your eyes in silent questions before scooping you into his arms, flying high above the house as you squealed in his arms, clinging tightly to his neck, and shutting your eyes tightly as you soared above the vibrant city.

He felt you tense as you neared the house, swooping lower in order to land on the large balcony attached to his room. He placed you on shaky legs gently and looked down to smile at you again – heart so full of love and peace.

Not only was his brother returned to him in one piece, but along beside him came you. His mate. His mate.

You caught his gaze and gave him a tight-lipped smile, terrified for history to repeat itself. You wanted to talk to him and know him – you didn’t want him to learn to love your body instead of you. And you were truly afraid to be touched again, you hadn’t been with a man since you were raped – fear stopping you before they could get close and walls slamming up if they tried.

“Are you okay?” Azriel’s voice was dripping with concern – genuine concern, and the way he said it made tears well up in your eyes. His own instantly widened as he sensed the sadness and fear rolling of you in waves, wrapping his arms around your shoulders as you sobbed into his chest. “Oh sweetheart we don’t have to do anything, c’mon lets go sit down.”

He guided you through the glass doors and sat you down gently on the bed, holding you gently and coaxing you through your breakdown. Once your breathing had calmed slightly and you had pulled out of his embrace, wiping your tears harshly with the butt of your hand.

“I’m sorry,” you muttered quietly, terrified to anger your mate when you’ve only just found him.

“It’s okay darling, what’s wrong – did I do something? You’re not terrified of heights are you?” he asked, and you laughed softly, a smile growing on his face as his worries eased slightly.

“No, that was fun,” he grabbed your hand in his scarred ones and you gripped it tightly.

“Then what was it?” you looked into those beautiful, worried eyes and let out an exhale – bottom lip quivering.

“I just don’t think I can – I can’t do that tonight.” You whispered the words lowly, afraid of his reaction as you clung like a child to his hand.

“Hey, that’s okay – we don’t have to do anything until you’re ready,” he smiled, worries easing. You still wanted to be with him, just not in that way yet – and he could wait. He would wait a million years if you asked.

“Even if I’m not ready for a while?” You asked, and he held your face in his hands gently – looking into your tear-filled, defeated eyes.

“I would wait forever and then some – I have already waited so long to meet you, I’m sure I can last longer, especially if you’re next to me.” Your smile was so sad when you met his eyes.

“I’ve been told that before,” Azriel just pulled you closer to him with a cheeky grin.

“And were any of them your mate?”

“No,” you smiled at him again and he thought his heart was going to combust.

“Well then, I love to prove people wrong.” You buried your head into his chest as his arms came around you once more, “Would you like to sleep here, or would you like your own room?”

“Here is fine, I like the way you make me feel,” you said quietly, tugging on the bond experimentally. Azriel just smiled and tugged back.

“That works for me, I’ll get you a change of clothes.” He moved to stand but you stopped him – tugging on the dress shirt he wore.

“I want this,” you grinned cheekily up at him, and he laughed, but undid the buttons and pulled it off anyway – turning around to let you change in peace. When he turned back around you were looking up at him with wide eyes – looking impossibly cute in his shirt.

“It has holes in the back,” you complained, and he laughed, sitting down to tug off his trousers before sliding under the covers as you scrambled to lay in his arms.

“Well I do have wings,” he cemented his point by letting one drape over your shoulders as you sighed in content.

“Really, I hadn’t noticed,” you deadpanned quietly, burrowed deep under his arms and the covers. His chest rumbled with the silent laugh as he pressed a kiss into your hairline.

The next morning he awoke to you laying on his chest, tracing the scars on the backs of his hands with a delicately pointed finger. He stared in wonder, and you must have felt his gaze because you turned your head to meet his eyes, face still puffy from sleep. As you whispered to him that morning, your chin resting on his chest as you gazed up at him until he rose to get your morning drinks. Barely daring to leave for more than a few seconds. And when he returned he was so glad he did – welcoming the sight of you curled up under his sheets with a shy smile and tired eyes.

“Do we have to do anything today?” you asked as you sipped your drink slowly, Azriel’s’ arm tight and secure around your waist.

“Nope,” he said, delighted at the prospect, “I just want to be with you and my family.”

“Sounds heavenly.”

True to his word, for the next few weeks that past, you and Azriel didn’t progress past slow, occasional kisses and lingering touches. But before either of those he was always searching your eyes – asking permission. And you truly fell in love with him during those weeks.

He was caring and consistent – never promising anything he couldn’t bring. And he cared for you, he cared for you past your body and looks. He wanted to be with you for an eternity.

One night, while you lay together, speaking lowly and listening to the rain fall outside your room – a glass door cracked open, you decided you were ready. You pressed closer to him, your lips meeting his own in a kiss more passionate than you had previously shared.

He followed your lead with just as much passion, but when you crawled into his lap he pulled away slightly.

“Are you sure? I don’t want to rush you,” he asked quietly, hands coming to rest on your hips.

“I’m sure, I love you and I want to be with you.” You told him sincerely, “But I haven’t been with anyone in a few years so I’m a little out of practice.”

You giggled nervously but he furrowed his eyebrows, “But you told me about your boyfriends?”

“Yeah but I – stopped dating about five years ago.” You tried to explain quickly, old nerves being brought up, but Azriel pulled you closer and as always his touch calmed you.

“Can I ask why?” he watched you drop your head a little as you breathed slowly – determined to not let your fear rise, you would probably end up telling him anyway so you might as well get it over with.

“I was raped.” You stated and his grip on your hips tightened slightly as he swore.

“Darling, I’m so sorry,” he started but you stopped him with a sharp glaze.

“You don’t need to apologise, it happened and it’s over now.” He could practically feel you pull away, so he loosened his grip on your hips and instead brought his arms up to hold you against his chest.

“Who did it?” he asked, voice dark and dangerous. You muttered a name lowly – under your breath – and he pocketed in the darkest corners of his mind for later. His shadows itching to tear the man apart.

“Look (y/n), if you’re ready I am more than happy to oblige but I need to know you’re really ready, I will wait as long as you need.” You pulled away from his chest and kissed him gently.

“I’m ready, I trust you,” he smiled up at you from where you perched on his lap and you giggled and he flipped you over, laying between your legs with a feral grin.

He made you cum three times with his mouth and those beautiful, beautiful hands alone – more than you had ever experienced with a man and he hadn’t even received any pleasure yet. Except from the pleasure of watching his perfect mate fall apart on his sheets, over and over.

And when he lay over you, your legs pushed up and wrapped around his waist, and his forearms on either side of your head – he would later swear he had never felt more complete.

“I’m here with you remember, will be the whole time.” He assured you, voice soft as he lined himself up and you smiled.

“I love you so much,” you whispered, and he pushed in slowly, filling every part of you and pushing against every spot you didn’t know you had. You swore under your breath when he bottomed out, the slight pain quickly being reduced to please as he dropped his head into the crook of your neck.

“Fuck baby, you feel so good,” you felt shivers run through your body at his gruff voice and smiled, moaning when he began to move.

He pulled his head from where it hid in your neck and watched as you closed your eyes – head thrown back with a smile – and his hips bucked, desperately trying to control himself as he watched you arch your back.

“Shit Az, you’re so big,” you moaned loudly, unaware of the trance you had pulled your mate into.

“You’re so pretty,” he whispered with a harsh thrust, a hand coming to stroke down your face as you opened your eyes to meet his, “So perfect.”

You felt as if your heart was going to burst from the love that filled it as you reached up to kiss him softly – conveying every word, every thought, through that kiss. When you pulled away you were nearing your end, the sensations building in you without the need of a fantasy or your own hand.

You moaned his name, gripping his shoulders tightly as one hand instinctively moved to stroke down his wing. He shuddered above you with a loud groan – his thrusts speeding up as he to neared release, yours hips surely bruising from the force of his own.

“C’mon baby, need to feel you, need to know you’re mine.” His words ignited something in your stomach, and you clung tighter to him, kissing his sharp jaw as you smiled.

“I’m yours Azriel, now and forever.” Your gentle words pushed him over the edge and his skilful fingers dipping between your thighs brought you down with him. The two of you crying out at the sensations you shared as a growing need to never let him go consumed you.

He collapsed on top of you soon after and he intertwined your fingers with his own as your breathing evened out. He slipped out of you, and you smiled up at him as he sat up, rolling off your body and laying to the side while you came to rest your head on his firm chest. He brought his spare hand upwards – twirling strands of your hair slightly as you rested in silence. After a few minutes, you clambered into his lap and kissed him firmly as he pulled you impossibly close.

“Thank you,” you whispered against his lips, and he felt his heart swell with gratitude to the world for giving him an angel that would willingly hold his hand and guide him out of the darkness.

“I am so in love with you,” he whispered back, and you giggled, a hand moving slowly to stroke him as you felt him harden beneath you again.

“Hmm, is that so?” you whispered.

Azriel, who had started pressing light kisses into your neck, nipped you gently, making you squeal, “What were you saying darling?”

“That I am also deeply, and unequivocally in love with you.” You replied and he rolled his eyes.

“Just putting me to shame with your big words.” He muttered and you giggled – crawling down his body.

“I’m sure I could make it up to you.”

[coffee-and-quill]

Birthday Wishes Pt. 2

Stucky x Reader: You have been feeling neglected lately, but Bucky and Steve promised they would be there for your birthday. When they don’t show up, you are left feeling broken, and they are left wondering how they will every make it up to you

Authors Note: It took a long time to figure out how I wanted to end this. Relationships are hard, they are constant work and give/take. It takes communication and understanding for all parties to feel heard and loved. I hope y’all enjoy, and please let me know if there’s anything else you would like to see from me!

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It had been three weeks since Steve had seen you, talked to you, held you in his arms. Three weeks of radio silence, and it was killing him. He and Bucky had gone to your parent’s house the morning after they discovered you were missing. As if they weren’t feeling awful enough, the icy look your mother had given them so different from the warm, caring smile they were used to, sent shockwaves through their chests. Steve had begged to talk to you, but your mother had told them that you had left early that morning. You were going somewhere they couldn’t find you or bother you. When Bucky had tried to get more information, she had slammed the door in their faces.

              It took two more days of searching and desperation to figure out that Tony had helped you go completely off grid. “It’s not my place to tell you where she is, you shouldn’t have fucked up this bad,” the billionaire had told them when they tried to force your location out of him. He wasn’t wrong, and that set a heavy weight on their chests like nothing they had never felt before.

              Steve tried to go back to work, but every time he tried to buckle down and focus, or to accept a mission, he thought of your face. What if you wanted to talk to them? What if you came back and he was so caught up in his work again that he lost you for good? He might have already lost you, and the thought alone was enough to bring him to his knees gasping for breath. He felt small, smaller than he’d ever felt in his life. He would take being a sickly, scrawny kid in the 40s over these feelings any day. It got to the point where Fury told him to go home and not come back until his head was in the game again. “At this rate,” the director had grumbled, “You’re likely to get yourself or someone else seriously hurt if you continue as you are.” Steve didn’t argue. Instead, he slumped home, collapsed on the couch, and sobbed. Pain and heartbreak were the only things he knew anymore.

              Bucky was no better. After the acceptance that there was no finding you until you wanted to be found, the former assassin completely shut down. He barely ate and never slept anymore. How could he when there was the constant reminder that you were no longer in his life, no longer snuggled safely between Steve and him. The nightmares came back full force. He had almost forgotten what it was like to wake up screaming in a cold sweat. Now, instead of visuals of Hydra and the chair, and the blood and death that followed him like a storm, he had nightmare of you telling him you were done with him. You told him with a stone face that you’d never loved him, that you could never love a murderer, and you left with him begging and screaming on the floor. During the day he stayed in bed. He felt useless and weak, so, so weak. He was used to suffering, used to the constant weight of guilt on his chest. But this, this feeling, this guilt was far worse. People are constantly telling him that his actions as the Winter Soldier were not his fault, but this was all on him. There was no scapegoat, no evil organizations pulling the strings, no excuses, no one else to blame but himself. He was the reason you were gone, and it was destroying him.

 ()()()()()()()()()

                Three weeks, and you were feeling like absolute shit. You barely slept, ate only what you could unwrap in seconds, and you’re pretty sure you haven’t showered in at least a week. You couldn’t tell what day it was; time seemed to slip and slide together in a meaningless fuzz in your mind. Most days found you on the small couch of the cabin Tony had so graciously offered you, the TV on a low hum in the background playing some sort of celebrity reality program. Not that you really cared. Nothing really held your interest for long anyway. Your thoughts were stuck back in your apartment with your boys. You kept replaying the better times over and over, trying to figure out where you went wrong.

Back when you first got together, Steve and Bucky had been so sweet, so shy when bringing up the idea, so afraid that you would turn them away and they would lose the best thing that had happened to them since they were reunited. When you told them you wanted to give it a try, they had been ecstatic. Their excitement was infectious, buzzing around you like two overenergized puppies who had just been given the best treats of their lives. Those first few months had been blissful, none of you willing to be parted from the other longer than a day or so. You went on dates, ate crappy Chinese food together, snuggled up to each other on the cold nights.

You were crying again thinking about those times. You missed being with your boys more than ever, missed the connection and the feeling of safety and security. You missed the two people who knew you better than you could ever know yourself. You had been stuck on a loop for the past three weeks. Where did it go wrong? When did it happen and how did you not notice? Was it you? God, if you could only talk to them. You had so many questions, so many concerns. Mostly, however, you just wanted a hug. You just wanted to be held between your Stevie and your Bucky and you wanted to feel loved.

It had been around midday, after shoving down a lukewarm hot pocket, that you heard the front door of the cabin click open.

“Damn,” came the snarky voice of Tony Stark, “You look worse than I did after that one Easter party I threw.” Even through the fog in your brain, you couldn’t help but smile.

“That was your own fault, Stark,” you sassed, “Who the hell takes that many tequila shots at a brunch party?”

The billionaire scoffed. “Obviously you have no sense of danger, babe.” You flipped him the finger. “So,” he said, lifting your feet up so he could make himself comfortable on the cushy couch, “It’s obvious to me and to literally everyone else that something went on between you and the two super stooges back home. And by the way they have been moping around the tower and by the grease buildup in Barnes’ hair, they are fairing about as well as you.”

Your ears perked up at the information. You should feel satisfied that Steve and Bucky were feeling miserable for what they did. You should feel relieved that they are getting a taste of what they put you through. Instead, you just felt your heart sink into your stomach. No matter how angry you were at them, you could never stand the thought of them in pain.

“I’m not saying the two don’t deserve it,” Tony continued, “I’m just saying that if your going to make them suffer, at least do it in a way that you aren’t suffering as well.”

“I don’t want to make them suffer,” came you soft reply.

“No?”

“I was hurt.” The tears that had been gathering in your eye dripped down your face at your watery tone. “I was hurt, and angry, and I just felt like I had to run to escape those feelings, so I came here. But the longer I stayed, the less hurt and angry I felt. And then the sadness and loneliness came and I felt like I was drowning, and all I wanted was to be back with them. But I had already stayed away for so long. What if they don’t want me anymore? Or they think we can fix things? What if they realize they aren’t willing to try, Tony? I don’t think I could handle that.”

Tony scrubbed his hand over his face and let out a huge breath. “I can’t answer those questions for you, sweetheart. Lord knows if I could take the pain away, I would. But nothing is going to happen with you sitting here and refusing to talk to them.” You nodded, knowing that what he was saying was logical. You couldn’t solve anything by sitting around and moping, and lord knows you won’t solve anything by running away.

You took a deep breath “Ok. I’m ready to come home.”

“Good.” Tony stood up and adjusted his suit. “Because honestly, the boys have start loitering outside my lab looking like a couple of drowned kittens, and it’s depressing everyone.” He held out his hand for you, which you graciously took, standing and hissing out your cramped muscles. Tony took one step towards the door before stopping suddenly and turning back. “Maybe you should shower first. You stink like that casserole Clint tried to make for dinner that one time.”

Tony barely dodged the chipped mug thrown at his head.

 ()()()()()()()()()

                When you showed up to the apartment you shared with Bucky and Steve, your nerves had been on fire. Steve had opened the door looking he hadn’t slept since you had seen him last. His eyes widened and his arms twitched towards you instinctively, wanting to wrap you in in them and never let go. He held himself back, though it left a deep ache in his chest to do so. You wanted nothing more to go to him, to card you fingers through his hair and reassure him that everything was fine, that you were here and you would never leave again. You had to clutch the straps of your bag until your knuckles were white to stop yourself.

              “We need to talk.” Your voice was small, fragile. You wanted to run and hide all over again, but you knew this needed to be done. Steve nodded jerkily, widening the door to allow you to enter. Visually, everything looked the same; the couch was in the living room, blankets thrown haphazardly across the back, and the table sat in the kitchen with its three mismatched chairs and well-loved surface. However, as you moved further into the space, you noticed a staleness to the air that hadn’t been there before. It wasn’t a home anymore, and the thought made you frown deeply.

              Steve closed the door softly behind you. “I’ll go get Bucky,” he murmured, and you shivered. God help you, you were so in love with these men. Even tired and beat down, Steve’s voice still had an effect on you. It reminded you of soft kisses over bare skin in the early morning hours before the rest of the world was awake, of tender love and honey sweet words spoken between breathy moans.

              You pushed the memory to the back of your mind as Steve reentered, Bucky following close behind. You felt your breath catch at his appearance. He looked broken. Dark circles fell under lightless eyes, the grief and despair that sat heavy on his shoulders was visible in the hunch he wore, as if he was being physically crushed by its weight. You could have honestly cried if it were a different situation.

              At the sight of you standing in the living room, he cracked a smile that looked almost painful. “Hey, Doll. I missed you,” he rasped. Hi voice was scratchy and rough from crying. Despite the somber tension that hung in the room like mist, you felt a sense of peace wash over you at the presence of your boys. Despite your nerves, despite your fears and reservations, you smiled at them. The tension melted from Bucky and Steve’s shoulders, and you knew everything would be okay. You could do this.

 ()()()()()()()()()

                The three of you spent hours talking. You told them everything: your fear of being left behind and forgotten, your frustrations with always feeling second place to the duties as avengers, the anger of that night and the emotions of the last three weeks. In turn, they shared their guilt and frustration at their own actions. They told you how they felt that being avengers was the only thing they could do to help people, it was the only thing they knew, and they had been scared to deviate from that routine, even when it had started pushing you away. They shared the fear they felt at finding you gone, and the terror and grief that had set in when they realized you might not come back and that was it for the three of you. Finally, they shared their confession that nothing they had done or would ever do as avengers would be more important than you. They wanted to change, to get better. They wanted to do it for you.

              What started as you sitting across from them quickly transitioned into the three of you cuddled together on the couch, seemingly one entity. Weeks of no contact had starved the boys of your touch, and they couldn’t remove themselves from you if they wanted to. Bucky lay across you legs with his head in your lap, his arms wrapped around your waist. You hand was tangled in his hair, massaging the base of his skull. Your other hand was gripped tightly in Steve’s as you leaned back into his broad chest. His blond head rested comfortably on your shoulder, turned inward to whisper his apologies into the exposed skin of your neck. Every once and a while he would leave a lingering kiss there, the skin tingling nonstop from the feel of his lips. You felt more relaxed than you had in weeks. That night you fell asleep in your bed, bracketed by the two most important people in your life. You would be okay.

[claybefree]

Seeing as it's the twentieth anniversary, I guess I should post this again

September Third, Two Thousand and Nine

For years whenever anyone asked me when my son Henry was born I’d start to say September instead of August 25, 2001. Sunday he had his eighth birthday party at his mother’s house, and I stayed here. Most of his mother’s friends don’t care for me much. The feeling is mutual. Tonight coming home from work I started stitching what I’m about to write together in my mind and suddenly got very afraid. I thought for a moment that I was about to go get drunk, which might very likely be death for somebody like me. I was sure I was going to change direction of the truck, that I’d drive the same route I always did back then, that I would stand by the register and stare at the bottle in my hand without really knowing I where I was. I think it has to do with the weather finally changing and perhaps that Henry’s mom and I are no longer together. I sat on the porch of my little house and called a friend and told him all this. He listened and after a while I felt better, which is exactly how these things should go. When we decided we were done he told me I should go in and write all this down.

I worked on through that whole day. Most everybody else on the job had stopped and listened to each of the radios on the different floors or cried. The asshole Turks I was framing a bathroom for wouldn’t let me quit. They had tile to run. I found it made me feel better to keep going anyway. The laborers cussed me when I asked them to move so that I could use the table saw, a natural gathering spot on any job. They seemed to think I was calloused or hard-hearted and it was because I was from Tennessee. It just now occurred to me that maybe they were right.

That afternoon, when it was determined safe to walk across the bridges, most of the job, the other carpenters and trades-people, wandered home to Brooklyn or Queens. Me and the two left to close everything up had it different as we lived in Jersey. Anthony, the boss, was big and red-haired, red faced and lived in Hoboken. Duane was in charge of demolition and waste, was a little shorter and darker, and lived in Secaucus or maybe somewhere west of that I think. They squared off on each other frequently. It always reminded me of two walruses going at it on a beach.

Whenever we went out to the bar afterwards Anthony would have a Bud tall boy in each hand at all times, the waitress would come up with four for him whenever we sat down. On the job we liked to yell at each other, I once told him I was doing him a favor by giving him such an easy target, and he never missed an occasion to oblige me. Duane was a single dad, dark haired with deep sunken yet kind eyes that always seemed to have bags under them. One of the black laborers told him once he was the most Uncle Fester looking motherfucker he had ever seen. I tended to agree.

We locked the job up at four I think, humped it across the park through the smoke to the A-train. There was smoke forming a mist around the trees of central park that day. There were no flower children loitering at Yoko’s “Imagine” monument to barge through. Our thinking was to get downtown to the Path train. We had no idea that two of the stations had been destroyed. It didn’t matter, we were underground fifteen minutes before Anthony vetoed the idea. People were running wild through the stations, on the trains, everything was panic and Oh Fuck and Anthony had no intention of being underground. He had a funny look on his face that I couldn’t figure out. It wouldn't occur to me until later that the big man was very afraid.

In the years since I have always wondered why people have reacted so strongly from that day. Later we would go to war because of a something that happened one day in New York City and this has always seemed really strange to me. I guess what I mean is that I was there and never wanted to kill anybody because of it. Most of the time I just thought it was very strange and sad and mostly just very interesting. I only remember ever crying about it twice. The first time was a few months afterward, I had quit Anthony to stay home with Henry. Part of our routine was to watch Sesame Street. One day in the winter there was a skit where Elmo got very scared because of some smoke and noise that was never identified. I suppose in this case it was a nameless fear. A New York City fireman came on screen and hugged him, told him it was okay to be scared, Elmo, and that everything would be alright. I remember little red furry Elmo hugged the fireman tight. I held Henry in my lap and cried into his fine blonde hair.

It was the fireman that did it. I still get upset when I think about the firemen. I have had a lot of trouble with cops in different times in my life, but I never had a problem with any fireman I ever encountered, drunk or otherwise. They seem to me to be a different animal entirely.

Anthony, Duane and me ran into two firemen on the deck of the cruise boat that carried us across to Weehawken. They came in and collapsed on the painted metal floor, shedding boots and letting their helmets roll away. Some people applauded weakly, others asked questions, they just stared at us and said nothing. It didn’t occur to me until much later they were probably the only ones from their station who lived. Other men that for years they worked with, ate and fought with, got drunk with were dead. There was a bar I frequented in Jersey City a few blocks from our house where a couple of weeks later I saw three firemen in dress uniforms. One was between his partner on a stool and the third who was older and may have been a captain. The captain was clearly upset, swaggering and poking the other two in the chest. Everybody else was trying hard not to pay attention to what seemed about to develop into a fight. I think later I saw the old man leaning against the bar and weeping openly, he must have been sixty at least.

I got drunk in this bar Sept. 10th while my wife and kid slept back home. She’d start nursing and pass out with him and I’d head out to roam. The thing I liked about this place was the Sinatra on the jukebox, so that night I loaded it up and sat at the bar listening. I think it was the first time I’d ever heard “Summer Wind.” The tattooed brunette tending bar must have thought it was cute because she serenaded me, singing along with a couple of the songs. There was another man with a mustache further down the line who was putting the blast on her and didn’t seem to like me much so I got the fuck out early. By “early” I mean I didn’t close the place.

I won’t tell you what we saw on the boat ride across the Hudson, you’ve seen it already. We unloaded at Weehawken and everyone, thousands of high end refugees really, started walking south towards Hoboken where we had been told there were buses waiting to take us home. I noticed that even wearing boots, the three of us walked faster than the others. We were construction workers living and working around Manhattan and we were very good at walking. I remember being comforted by walking with them. Hundreds of buses lined the streets of Hoboken and the three of us walked the length of that town. Anthony broke off about halfway to head home. A couple of weeks later I showed up having laid out drunk for two days and told him I had come for my tools. He looked at me and didn’t say a word. He mailed me my check. I haven’t seen the man since.

Duane and me trudged the rest of Hoboken together. I heard that not soon after I left he was let go to cut costs and that not long after that he got into a bad time with a prostitute on rt. 1 & 9. The smoke in Hoboken was thicker than in the city and the fumes from streets filled with idling buses finally got my hangover to officially kick in. I told Duane about how I’d had “Summer Wind” playing as background music in my head all day. He laughed and began singing the song, each line perfectly. We got through the crowd easily, after hours of walking together we had finally hit a stride together. We were marching, really. There was the giant blue sky of the day broken intermittently by smoke and there was the roar of diesel noise and Hoboken and Duane singing Summer Wind to me; some punk kid from Tennessee who had no business being there.

The only other incident I remember having to cry because of some assholes who decided to fly planes into tall buildings was coming across the Manhattan bridge one night after carrying my sister-in-law home to Park Slope. She would come over most nights to hang out with the baby, and around eleven or so and in various states of sobriety I’d be asked to drive her back home. I never hated the terrorists for invoking a War of Terror, I hated them for causing enough terror that it fucked the roads up. Shit got closed for what seemed no fucking reason whatsoever. One day coming back from the pediatrician’s office, Henry got stuck howling in his car seat for four hours because the Holland Tunnel was handling too much traffic and we were too afraid to take him out of it because of the cops everywhere. My sister-in-law and I spent a lot of time in the Saturn together on the nights I drove her home. I can’t remember what we talked about, probably everything. I haven't spoken to my sister-in-law since I moved out last summer.

This particular night the Brooklyn Bridge was only operating east-bound into Brooklyn so after I dropped her off I was diverted back across the Manhattan Bridge in order to get back into the city and eventually home. The Manhattan Bridge back then was still under renovation and I guess has always been the ugly, cross-eyed cousin of the Brooklyn Bridge. I got stuck on it, moving slower than shit, and staring at trash and old faded plywood encasing the little bit of wrought iron and Neo-Classical elements that were left up by the arch. Off to the left t seemed as though the entirety of Downtown was illuminated from the work lights that were set up down by Ground Zero. Downtown glowed with lights that were set up to look for people that weren’t there anymore. The DJ on WFMU that night was playing a super slowed down cover of the B-52’s Song for a Future Generation. If you’ve heard it, you’ve probably laughed, it’s a ridiculously chirpy pop song. I’ve always loved it. The lyrics go a little like this:

Wanna be the ruler of the galaxy

Wanna be the king of the universe

Let`s meet and have a baby now

In between each stanza, the different members give spoken-word tidbits of information about themselves. For example Ricky, the original guitarist, was a Pisces and “loved computers and hot tamales.“ Ricky also died from AIDS back in 1985 when people still had no idea what the disease was.

The version I heard that night had slowed the tempo to that of a blues song. The dip-shit ironic hipster that sang it reflected this. Stuck on the bridge it felt as though I was listening to a lament. What reduced me to tears, smoking Winstons in my little Saturn station wagon, was the feeling that whatever was left of innocence had recently been or was about to be brutally murdered by pig-face, ignorant men. Wanna be the first lady of infinity. Wanna be the nicest guy on earth. Let's meet and have a baby now.

[marlahey]

(and I'm feeling like) it was only ever you

a little voice fic pairings/characters: bess/samuel, general ensemble, ella the pupper being loved the most warnings: language, excessive sexual tension episode tags: fills in some of many gaps between 1.08 sea change and 1.09 sing what I can’t say cause I got wine drunk instead of finishing this before the finale as planned. +post-finale rating/warnings: explicit. read: resolved sexual tension aka les sexy times.  lyrical title courtesy of: part of me – by the coast (watch their fanvid set to this song and prepare to cry)  notes: so @brilligbraelig told me there was no fluffy fic in the tag, which– sorry. we’ve been in sad time hours for WEEKS and I blame the writers for never giving bess a moment’s peace. I’ve never really been one for cavity-inducing sweetness, not because I don’t love some pure joy, but as a writer I’m always a little more interested in the messier moments that just enough longing brings. if the question is ‘how many times do bess and samuel need to share a bed?’ the answer is yes.   this is for the samuel and bess protection squad on twitter (join us!) for being the coolest group of people ever throughout this wild ride, and also for @missgoalie75 and her love of colton’s bedroom eyes.  p.s: sometimes I ignore capitalization rules at will because of the vibe. 

*

bess is tired.

saint c’s is quiet tonight; al shoos her away from the bar with a stern, surprisingly fatherly firmness and hands her a tray of shots. she blinks at him. there aren’t any parties of four left. he points at samuel, prisha, and benny loitering at the back of the club until she finishes. bess doesn’t follow. al sighs. “go have one with your friends on me, okay kid? i swear, watching you stress out sometimes is gonna give me an ulcer before my next birthday.”  bess stammers a thank you and walks off with the alcohol before he can change his mind. she should apologize, she thinks. he’s been nothing but kind to her despite all the ways in which bess is hardly employee of the month right now. she should start an apology tour at the table, where prisha’s head is thrown back with laughter at something benny is saying, his hands outspread. these people are too good to her and she doesn’t deserve it, sometimes.  samuel notices her first (like always it seems), tracking her progress across the room. he tilts his head, a silent okay? and she moves her mouth in an approximation of a smile. his own lips quirk, like he’s trying to smother a laugh. she should be annoyed; she’s just grateful they aren’t fighting anymore— or worse yet, that it’s weird.  they still haven’t talked about that night. samuel seems perfectly content to pretend it never happened, except for the way he touches her with so much more ease than before— like he no longer has to hesitate before he’s pulling her in, taking her hand, squeezing her shoulder or the bend of her elbow in a way that’s more reassuring than bess can really describe.  maybe there’s a song in there somewhere.  “special delivery,” she announces at the approach. “drink fast, before al regrets giving us these.”  “my man, my man,” benny croons. “we love you boss!” he calls, twisting to find al rolling his eyes from behind the register. the shots clink on the tabletop. bess hesitates, just a second, before leaning in to toast prisha. samuel’s eyes meet hers again over the rim of his glass. she tosses her head back before she can overthink any of it. “anyone want another?”  benny and prisha grin; samuel shakes his head. bess does the mental math back to her last meal. one more certainly wouldn’t tip her over, but she’d be a fool not to recognize her own unsettledness. she springs for second shelf tequila; al smacks her hand away from the limes she’d cut herself not two hours ago.  “no reaching over, you know that.” the closing porter pours and dishes lime and salt with disinterested, immaculate practice. bess presses an extra five into his hand and gets a silent tap on the inside of her wrist in thanks. she’s not normally into the whole process of tequila, but benny enjoys it. something silly in bess hopes that the bursting sting of lime will just wash all her chaos away. by the time she’s tilted her head back down a second time, samuel’s eyes are sliding away. her throat is curiously warmer than liquor normally manages. it feels like she’s caught him at something.  “earth to bess!”  “hmm?”  prisha looks amused, damn her. “you up for it?” “up for what?” benny’s smile is equally conspiratory.  “dancing?” her first instinct is god, no. she and prisha haven’t gone dancing in what feels like years— bess still has a fake ID from the one and only time they snuck into a club at 19 years old, skipping the bar entirely for the pulsing beat of the dance floor. but she deserves this, doesn’t she? after everything? everyone’s looking at her now, probably expecting her to say no (samuel’s definitely expecting her to say no), and maybe bess needs another shot after all because, “sure.” tumbles out of her mouth before she can stop it. prisha and benny high five. samuel’s muted surprise is oddly delightful; bess wants to keep pulling it out of him, suddenly. “you coming too?” she asks. it’s not supposed to be a challenge but he raises one eyebrow as though bess had just asked him to duel. “well i’d be lame if I said no now, wouldn’t i?” that settled, bess excuses herself to grab her things from the back room. when she returns, benny is chatting with their night porter as he divides tips. she has to swallow an anxious lump before she can walk over.  “hey.” “hey.” he returns her tentative smile and she hates herself. “ready to go?” “i’m sorry,” bess blurts. “about the other night. i was so awful to you and you were just—” “bess, hey.” benny’s hands land on her shoulders. “don’t worry about it, okay? i know you have a lot going on right now.” “that’s not an excuse,” she insists. “you’re just being a good friend and a great manager and i shouldn’t have bit your head off for...” for not letting me give up. shame locks the words in her throat. how is it that she was the first person to let go of her own dream? bess has to take a deep breath. “i’m just really sorry.” he just looks at her for a long moment.  “if i forgive you,” benny begins gently, “will you forgive yourself?” the question feels like a sucker punch.  “cause i do, bess.” she can’t remember the last time one of her dearest friends was so serious. “i forgive you, and you gotta forgive yourself now cause we got work to do, yeah?” good god, do not cry. “okay.”  “okay.” benny pulls her into a hug, squeezing tight. “we got you girl, alright? i told you, we’re in this together.” those are familiar words. bess lets them wash over her. how had she forgotten? where had she let herself fall that her friends couldn’t pull her back into the light?  “c’mon.” bess accepts her saint c’s envelope with a grateful smile and benny steers her out of the club, his arm around her shoulders. “there’s fun to be had tonight.” “let’s go, bess!”  she lets prisha drag her forward, laughing despite herself and looping her arm through her best friend’s as they head out into the warm night air.  “where the heck are those boys?” prisha asks at the next corner. benny and samuel of course, are following at a more sedated pace to her one track mind. bess catches samuel’s eye and he smiles in that crooked, amused sort of way she hasn’t seen in ages— not since they shot more love, it feels like. relief is such a strange feeling for the moment, but there it is.  * bess isn’t tired anymore. she has no idea when she became such a homebody (though louie’s social worker may thoughts) but her exhaustion from the day seems to disappear the moment the bass finds a home behind her ribs. prisha presses a tiny glass into her hand and bess doesn’t think.  the vodka sears on the way down. it makes her gasp a little, like a livewire shock to the system. bess can only look up to see samuel wave from the bar before benny’s dragging her onto the floor; she loses sight of him in the crush of bodies and the pulse of the music carries her away.  samuel’s still there, some two or three songs later. just before they lock eyes, bess notices something very serious in his expression, something she can’t put into words fast enough, that draws a strange shiver from the base of her spine.  then he smiles, familiar laugh lines and narrowed eyes, and it’s gone.  bess remembers the way he’d so easily coaxed her into a silly dance set to their own music. have things gotten so strange between them that they could never go back there? not if she has anything to say about it. “I’m not drunk enough yet,” he objects, but his fingers close around hers even as he says it and she knows she’s won. samuel follows her so easily back to benny and prisha– like he’d follow her anywhere maybe, if she asked, and then suddenly bess is the one not quite drunk enough—  and then the beat pulls them in again.  it’s silly at first, just like before. at one point samuel and benny do the chicken dance to a hip-hop song and bess thinks she might die with laughter. she presses against prisha, hips and shoulders. her best friend spins her out; bess nearly stumbles but samuel is there, catching her by the elbows, drawing her in with that same teasing smile that had eased her nerves on that warm summer afternoon. she can see the memory of it reflected in his eyes. bess wants to fall into it headfirst. she steps closer just as samuel pulls her in; her hand lands on the back of his neck; his fingertips slip under the hem of her top and brush the shy skin of her hip.  samuel pauses, like a silent question, until bess coaxes his body back into the swaying rhythm with her own. her head feels heady, her body overwarm almost, but bess doesn’t want to stop because there it is again, that serious look— bess wants— “dance, dance, dance is my lung—”  “fuck no!” the moment—or whatever that was—grinds to a halt. samuel laughs so hard that she can feel his shoulders shaking. for several seconds they just look at each other, then over at benny who’s having the time of his life, and then bess is doubling over too.  samuel leans close to be heard over the din. “drink?” his breath brushes her ear and bess tries not to shiver, nodding enthusiastically in a vain attempt to cover for herself. they’ve lost prisha and benny to the worst song ever, so samuel keeps a firm grip on her hand as they snake their way back to the bar.  there must be some kind of special on shots tonight. bess can only stare at a bartender pouring no less than twelve in a perfect row for a huge group of women. one is wearing a tiara and white sash. that trying not to laugh smile tilts samuel’s mouth while they wait their turn. the sardine pack of people presses them together from hip to shoulder but he doesn’t seem to mind. the bar curves around in a skinny oval, drinks being served on either side. as servers slide back and forth, bess notices a guy looking at her from across the way. staring, more like it. the glint in his eyes makes her stomach turn. before bess can glare, turn away, or even shudder, samuel’s arm slides around her. his fingertips trace the curves of her rings on the bartop— affectionate, possessive almost. bess turns her head and samuel winks before leaning forward to touch their foreheads together. “pretend i just told you something hilarious.” his mouth hovering over hers is almost too distracting— his free hand pinches her side to help her along and giggles jump out. bess doesn’t resist when samuel tightens his grip and pulls her closer against him. he presses his mouth to her temple just above her ear. “he’s gone.” bess does shudder now, though for a different reason altogether. “thanks.” samuel just squeezes her once before releasing her. their shots arrive finally, amber liquid glowing strangely in the light.  “still good?” he asks, and bess nods firmly. “still good.” she meets his eyes as she brings the shot to her mouth. samuel is still looking at her when she puts the glass back down. inside her, it seems. “c’mon.” he says. samuel looks almost fond now. bess blinks; a trick of the light? is she that tipsy already? “we’d better go find those two.” she just takes his hand and follows.  * bess is... well. she’s not sober.  benny had waved goodbye from an uber outside the club. they’d made it three quarters of the way to the subway station before ananya had called, quickly devolving into an impassioned conversation and prish too, vanished into a cab and promising to call when she got to her— girlfriend’s? house.  “have fun you two!”  and now: “i’m fine, sam.”  his mouth twitches. “don’t think so, b.”  yikes, she hates that. bess rolls her eyes, pointing at her station stairway. “you’re literally going in the opposite direction. it’s like...” she has to look at their cross streets and do the math. “eight stops. at the most.” samuel nods. “all about figure eights. love an even number. let’s go.”  bess knows she should just let this go and stop being so stubborn. but something in her just can’t be stopped. samuel sighs, dragging her by the elbow across the sidewalk, out of the way of a clearly aggrieved businessman who disappears down the steps.  “bess. just tell me something.” it’s hard to meet his eyes, intent as they are. “would you let prisha take the train home by herself tonight? if you were going... I dunno, home with me?”  her stomach flips, surprising, terrifying, thrillingly pleasant. it’s all the shots.  samuel’s ears go pink under the glow of the streetlight. “you know what i mean.” she’s stubbornly quiet; he ducks his head, refusing to be deterred. “bess.” “ugh, no. of course not!” “because you think she can’t take care of herself?” bess rolls her eyes. “she’s my best friend, you know that. it’s just what you do.” “right.” she hates the way samuel’s looking at her now, the way he had when he’d laid all her fears out bare in the close space of his apartment: so certain and so kind. “so why do you think i’d let you take the train home alone?” for a moment, she can only stare. maybe it’s the alcohol, but samuel has never quite looked so vulnerable. bess doesn’t have the right words (maybe there aren’t any) so she just drags him forward by the shoulders. samuel exhales sharply, a faint laugh in her ear, but he wraps both his arms tight around her— an embrace that somehow feels more intimate than their pretence from hours before. bess endeavours not to think about it too much. “c’mon bestie,” she says when she pulls back. samuel does laugh fully this time, wide enough to show his teeth. bess thinks back to the night of their first gig, the sound of his valerie chasing hers in echoes. it’s a wonder anyone’s more stubborn that she is.  samuel ushers her down the stairs with a sweep of his arm and bess laughs too. *   bess loves her dog. she’d convinced samuel he should probably come in for water, or tea, maybe an advil. ella had poked her head out from bess’ room and when she turns around from her perusal of the fridge, bess finds samuel fully sitting on the floor, ella laying between his legs, stroking her head. “who’s my sweetest girl?” he coos.  her heart something funny inside her chest. samuel looks up, his obvious joy so bright in the dim light of the kitchen and bess is nearly choked with the possibility that she’d nearly pushed him too far away to ever see it again.  “bess,” he says, his cheeks dimpling, “her ears are so soft. like, they’re the softest thing i’ve maybe ever felt in my life?”  wonder of wonders.  she can only nod in emphatic agreement. how many shots have they had?  “you’re lucky,” samuel continues, still making ella’s night by never stopping in his affection. bess’ eyes get stuck on his hands, the motion of his fingertips and the turns of his wrists. “my parents never let us have pets and my building doesn’t allow them either.”  “you know ella would love if you came over and pet her all the time.” she gets that muted surprise again, which melts into something bess isn’t sure how to name.  “would you like that, el? hmm?” he leans down to kiss the top of the dog’s head. “wanna spend more time with uncle samuel?” how is it that her most loyal companion is somehow more intimate with samuel than bess is? and why on earth would she ever have a thought like that? “so,” she says, maybe a bit too high-pitched for her own liking (ella looks up at her and bess wants to glare), “we have water, tea, popsicles, half a bottle of jack.” samuel laughs and shakes his head. “i thought we were sobering up?” bess shrugs. “so, popsicle?” he laughs again and it warms her inexplicably all the way to her toes.  they have water, following ella into bess’ room, toeing out of their shoes when she jumps onto the bed. the dog puts her head on samuel’s lap and stares balefully up at him until he resumes his gentle stroking. bess leans back against her wall. she’s looking at ella and pretending she can’t feel the heat of samuel’s gaze on her face. if she thinks too hard about it, bess remembers wishing she could share a moment like this with someone else. she doesn’t regret anything that lead her here, but something in her is too afraid to meet samuel’s eye, like he’d be able to read the truth of that in her face and that she’d have somehow ruined tonight, this quiet moment of warmth and contentment. she leans her head on his shoulder and he turns his cheek into her hair. when bess finally looks up, samuel’s face is vey close.  is he looking at her mouth? is she leaning?  “are you drunk, bess?” he asks softly. she stops. considers. “yes. you?” samuel’s smile is a little rueful. he nods. “i should go.” bess understands. it’s late. they’re tired and inebriated. he has to go all the way back to his. they almost... and yet she says, “stay.”  he blinks. “what?”  this might be a terrible idea. “stay.” “but—” she rolls her eyes. “what makes you think i’d let you go home alone either?” the surprise is plain now. he looks that almost-vulnerable again. bess is oddly satisfied. “are you sure?” it’s strangely hard to keep his eye even as she points out, “we’re fine, right?” he nods again, a little slower. “and it’s not like we’ve never shared a bed.” when bess finally manages it, samuel’s gaze is very soft. “true.” and just when she thinks he’s going to refuse her still, he says, “okay. thanks.” how do you tell someone out that you just don’t want to be alone out loud?  thankfully samuel doesn’t make her voice it. he just smiles as bess gathers something approximating pyjamas and crosses the room. “sorry i don’t have anything that would fit you,” (he snorts and she’s warmed) “but you know, make yourself comfortable however. come get a toothbrush from under the sink.” and so that’s how they end up side-by-side in the cramped bathroom of her and prisha’s apartment, brushing their teeth. samuel makes faces at her in the mirror and it should be strange, to be t-shirt and shorts/boxers open with him. but he’s seen down into the root of who she is, so isn’t all this less? he’s humming something familiar as she washes her face, catching her surprised reflection.  “it’s yours.” bess casts her mind back. “from–” “that first night, yeah.” she nearly drops her face towel. bess has never shown him that song. samuel shakes his head with a chuckle, a familiar you’re a weirdo. “it would be just like you to play something that gets eight bars stuck in my head for months and never sing it again.” “i...” bess can’t pinpoint a reason besides her own fear, like a karmic penance for one of the most humiliating nights of her life. “i can’t believe you remember.” there’s a truth in his eyes that neither of them are willing to admit they can see.  “wanna work on it?” she asks impulsively, determined now to redraw a better memory, “maybe tomorrow?” samuel’s grin is so wide it’s almost hard to take in all at once. “this mean you’re gonna actually do that open mic?” bess shrugs. she needs to escape this tiny room all of a sudden. “maybe.” he doesn’t push her further and she’s grateful. samuel hesitates at the edge of her bed as bess pulls up the cover.  “oh my god, just get in the bed samuel.” and he does. their knees touch. bess turns out the light but there’s still just enough to see him looking at her. drunkenness has made her warm and sleepy.  “what?” “for the record,” he says, “i know what i think of you.” it feels like they’re teetering on an edge. “cool grandpa?” they laugh so hard that ella jumps from the foot of the bed. samuel looks so fond that bess doesn’t know what to do with herself. “yeah. that’s it.” “night samuel,” she whispers.  “night bess.” * (she wakes up before the sun, tangled up in him.  for once, rather than overthink it, bess just closes her eyes and goes back to sleep.) * bess can’t stop smiling. before she could even look at samuel after getting offstage, benny had lifted her off her feet and proceeded to all but bulldoze everyone in the club to get her in front of jeremy’s record label contact. could he tell that she’d just been kissed within an inch of her life? it feels like it’s written all over her face. bess can barely remember what she said, but his personal contact card is currently burning a whole though her purse. al buys them a round. (she finds ethan lingering in the back. what he says to her is somehow a surprise and not both at once. what she says to him, in the end, feels long overdue.) prisha insists everyone come back to their place to celebrate, and they pile into ubers. louie exalts her as a true artist the entire ride and even phil seems impressed. true to form though, he’s a roledex of weather facts as bess and prisha frantically pull out every candle or flashlight in the apartment; their lights flicker ominiously every so often as the storm beats down their windows. benny puts a playlist together and tries to order pizza. by some miracle, it actually arrives; everyone pools together for a 150% tip. so it feels like ages before bess looks up to find samuel leaning against the alcove of her living room, watching as louie begins a spirited debate on the best numbers in hamilton.  bess nods her head toward the door of her bedroom. she’s expecting him to make a silly face with his eyebrows or hesitate, but samuel’s mouth just curves up on one side, like that’s all he’s allowing himself, and follows. “for the record,” he says as the sounds of the party fade a little behind them, “the answer will always be satisfied. no contest.” god, how had she never seen him before? her bedside lamp is still working. bess fishes out a pale white whale from childhood, one that changes colour as you tap. she grins at samuel, who’s leaning against her closed door and smiling like he’s not even sure what to make of her.  “you’re incredible, you know that?” her face heats, pride and embarrassment both at once. “so are you. i can’t believe we got through that song.” “all you, bess.”  she wants to roll her eyes, but refrains. “the electric was a great idea.” samuel’s eyes drop when he smiles; the familiar humility in it reminds bess of the reason she wanted to talk to him in the first place.  “i know what you did tonight. before you showed up.” he looks up then, a little sharply. samuel’s always had a good poker face but bess can see it still, that guarded look. “what did i do, bess?” saying it out loud makes her feel like she’s in a movie. bess steps forward. “you told ethan to come. for me.” “are you upset?” “no. i just want to understand why.” samuel’s gaze is as steady as it’s ever been. “i just want you to be happy.”  she feels unraveled, somehow.  “then why did you...” even in the poor light, he flushes. “why did you kiss me?” samuel looks at the floor, then back at bess. her heart beats in double time. “he didn’t show, or so I thought. and I didn’t want to...” he laughs lightly, almost at himself. “throw away my shot. I guess I wasn’t really expecting you to—” try to press him into the wall? “to kiss me back, or even what that might mean, but I wanted to show you, or tell you that—” she’s close enough to touch him now. samuel’s hands cup her elbows, very gently, like he needs to ground himself. but he looks bess right in the eye. “even if you didn’t want me, i’d choose you first. every time.”  her heart free-falls.  “bess.” he squeezes a little, catching her eyes. how long have they been standing in this moment of after? “please say something.” “i told him we couldn’t work,” she says in a rush. “and i don’t even know if it was really because you and I—” bess stumbles but samuel hangs on, his grip on her unwavering, “but i think part of me always knew it was just...like, a fantasy? we barely even knew each other and i always hated myself a little for being that girl trying to steal someone else’s partner and i wasn’t dealing with any of my shit until—” samuel just waits. the realization feels too big, but there’s no going back now. “until i met you.” he looks almost stricken. bess lets out a strange, wondrous kind of laugh. she puts her hand on samuel’s chest. she’s the one who needs steadying, now. he draws her closer without looking away from her face, like he’s helpless to it.  bess can’t remember the last time she felt so sure of anything. all those those expressions that always felt hidden in his eyes seem so plain, now: surprise, fear, hope. “i choose you, samuel. though i probably don’t even deserve to.”  she can see his adam’s apple bob as he swallows. samuel’s hand brushes her hair back away from her face, tracking the curve of her ear. just before she’s about to freak out, he asks, “are you drunk, bess?” she nearly laughs. “no. are you drunk, samuel?” he shakes his head. she understands that serious look, now. it’s wanting. he wants her.  samuel goes to pull her the rest of the way in— “bess!”  louie’s voice and a loud knock on the door springs them apart. the lights go out.  “bess, we’re going now. and the lights are out. do you have a source of light in there? are you coming to say goodbye?” samuel lets out a long, low “fuck.” she has to clap her hand over her mouth. his nearly silent laugh ghosts over her skin as he presses his face into the curve of her neck.  (samuel kisses her there, just once, but it’s enough that her knees tremble a little and she can feel the shape of his smile too.)  “i’ll be right out!” bess calls to her brother. his shadow moves away from the door. hysterical giggles shake her shoulders. samuel’s hands slide up to hold her face. “do you wanna—” “come home with me.” she can barely make out his features in the dark (except for the want) but bess’ stomach drops anyway. the irony of no electricity is funny when she feels like sparks might burst from beneath her skin.  “okay.” * bess is deliriously happy. samuel puts down his guitar and barely lets the door close before he’s pressing bess against it with both hands. his palms are heavy and warm on her hipbones; bess wants to rock up against him but there’s a certain thrill in it, how strong he seems.  she has no idea the last time she was kissed like this.  despite how fierce it feels, samuel lets her lead. he doesn’t open his mouth until she does, touches his tongue tentatively against hers at first pass, tugs so gently on her lip with his teeth until she makes a noise like a whimper.  she should tell him maybe, that samuel made her completely forget herself, back in the alcove at saint c’s. but then bess just lets her hands find their way back into his now slightly damp hair. she’ll just relive it instead. she scrapes her nails over his scalp and samuel’s breath comes up short; it returns in something that sounds like a groan, or a snarl, and oh.  bess has to take deep breaths of her own when he pulls back, a wide-eyed glance to her face to make sure she’s alright. she can only nod. samuel’s fingertips squeeze her waist as some of that urgency seems to fade from his eyes. he trails his mouth slowly from her lips to her jaw; she tilts her head instinctively to give him room and samuel finds that same spot on her neck from her own bedroom.  his teeth and tongue press a little harder than before; he gets a gasp for his efforts. her legs feel unsteady again. bess grabs at the open sides of his button-down until samuel shrugs out of it. it drops to their feet. he doesn’t protest when bess pushes him gently, walking backwards across the apartment with his arm tight around her.  he doesn’t let go when his legs meet the edge of his bed. bess would fall into him if not for samuel keeping them upright. he drops to sit, pulling them apart, and finally bess has to take stock of herself. samuel’s face is so open, his smile so wide in a way she’s never seen before.  “still good?” he asks. bess nods.  “still good?” samuel laughs lightly. “i’m great, bess.” he reaches for her hand, his thumb brushing each of her rings in turn. “we can stop whenever you want.” she’s the one standing but bess feels smaller, strangely. instead of replying, bess steps out of her shoes. samuel’s eyes seem to darken as she slides her jacket from her shoulders and lets it pool on the floor. bess leans down and brings one knee to the bed, by his hip, balancing herself with one hand on his shoulder. samuel’s inhale is impossibly loud as he instinctively supports her with a sliding grip up the back of her thigh. bess’ skirt isn’t that short but she’s glad she didn’t trade it for jeans before she left. samuel’s face betrays how pleased he seems by her choice.  once she’s finished effectively straddling him, bess looks down from her perch.  “hi.” samuel’s knuckles stroke up and down her leg. goosebumps ripple and he smiles. “hi.” bess takes his face in both her hands and leans down as samuel tilts his chin up to meet her. she’ll never tire of kissing him. it feels like she can’t get close enough; he must have the same idea because his arms wrap around her back until bess is sitting firmly in his lap, their hips slotted together.  “can i touch you?” samuel asks against her mouth. bess nods, maybe too quickly, but she can’t bring herself to be embarrassed.  guitar callused fingers slide beneath her top. samuel reaches the slim band of her lacy bralette. he pauses, but bess leans into his hand and then he’s tracing the curve of her breast. his thumb brushes a little roughly over her nipple; bess feels an abrupt ache between her legs. “that seems pretty,” samuel murmurs in her ear, like a casual observation. “it’s a matching set,” she replies, trying not to sound too breathless. “for luck.” he pulls back with wide eyes. bess wants to laugh but she’s too busy dealing with this rush of blood to her face. she sits up carefully so they don’t knock heads and reaches for the edges of samuel’s t shirt first; he drags it over his head in one smooth, practiced motion. shit, he’s hot.  he’s staring as bess unfolds herself to stand back on the floor (her legs are still unsteady but he doesn’t need to know that) and goes to pull off her own shirt. samuel’s eyes don’t leave her face until the fabric coming over her head pulls her from view. when bess blinks him back into focus, he’s gone a little slack-jawed. she nods at his jeans and the speed at which samuel divests himself of them has her biting back a giggle. bess’ face feels hot but there’s a frisson of pride that straightens her spine. she’s not even half an arm’s length away from him. samuel touches her stomach, just above the waistband of her skirt. “can I?” bess has to swallow before she can nod. just like before, samuel stares at her face until the last half of her outfit joins the rest of their clothes in a heap. samuel’s eyes trail from her eyes to her feet and back. it takes everything in bess not to fidget. she expects to see heat in his expression but there’s only wonderment and tenderness.  “fuck, you’re so beautiful.” she has no idea what to do with that. samuel tugs her into his lap this time, intent. his kiss is searing. bess rocks into him, just once, just a little. that grip on her thighs returns, tighter. bess can only gasp a laugh into his mouth when samuel stands, holding her up against him, and turns to lower her with a kind of breathtakingly slow care onto his bed.  bess lands on her back, samuel now the one leaning over her. desire coils low in her stomach. he gently shifts her hips so they’re both actually parallel with the long edges of the comforter.  she feels inexplicably, unbearably, fond of him.  then samuel looks away. he exhales, like he’s embarrassed.  bess frowns in concern. “what is it?” samuel shakes his head. “when you look at me like that, I can’t catch my breath.” oh. it feels so strange to be the steadier one. bess reaches for his cheek, drawing samuel’s eyes back to her. “guess you’ll just have to distract me, then.” he laughs, but then as he leans down, samuel’s smile fades and bess remembers. he wants her. she can feel it. his hand slides, pleasantly rough, over her skin, sliding beneath the band of her bralette. bess seizes samuel’s lip in her teeth as he strokes back over her breast. he teases her nipple and the moment bess manages to wriggle out of the garment and tosses it away, samuel’s swapped his hand with his tongue, her other breast now teased by his clever fingers. she gasps again and she can feel him smirking. samuel diverts his mouth’s attention to her other side. bess focuses on her breathing. the storm still lashes against the windows but it feels like nothing compared to the roaring in her blood. bess slides her fingers up the nape of samuel’s neck and a few things happen at once: samuel’s free hand finds the damp junction between her legs; bess pulls his hair a tiny bit harder than intended; his teeth catch her nipple with just enough firmness that bess’ back nearly arches off the bed, along with a keening noise she didn’t even realize she could make. samuel freezes immediately. he looks up and bess has no idea what her face looks like, but all she can say is, “do that again.” he leans back down, his teeth scraping over her other breast; when he tugs, bess does too, so hard that samuel hisses.  “sorry,” she pants, “sorry.” he shakes his head, a firm denial. it might be the dark, the lightning, or the fact that bess is so fucking turned on, but samuel’s expression has veered far past wanting— into hunger. he practically leaps back up to her mouth, a kiss so fierce that their teeth nearly clack together. “your hands,” he says, like it enrages him almost, “in my hair, holy fuck.”  oh was right. “you’re one to talk about hands,” bess retorts. “can you please just–” samuel leans back. “can i please just what?” he looks smug the bastard. it would be like them to bicker in the middle of sex, wouldn’t it? but his tone is so serious when he says, “tell me what you want, bess.” that she has to squeeze her thighs together.  “please touch me.” “where?”  bess is going to kill him. samuel touches her cheek with surprising gentleness, and kisses her there. “here?” he does the same to her neck. “here?” her shoulder. he marks the valley of her breasts, the slope of her navel, the jut of her pelvic bone. “samuel,” bess says. it sounds like a plea but she doesn’t care. she can only reach his shoulder now, the back of his neck. he may have shivered but she can’t tell because she’s too busy trying to keep it together.  he finally finds the elastic of her underwear.  “okay, bess?” this question isn’t a joke. bess makes sure to meet samuel’s eye; the mixture of that desire and care makes her dizzy. “yes. please.” when his fingers have finally slid inside her, bess says “samuel,” at a level of breathlessness she only ever gets when she sings. he touches her with the same care and confidence as he does any of their instruments, until her legs tremble; samuel finds a beat with his tongue against her clit that’s so good bess has to cover her mouth when she comes.  samuel crawls back up the bed towards her. he leaves a kiss on the inside of her knee, and her shoulder, just an inch or two from where he had the first night she’d stayed here. bess feels very safe, suddenly.  “still good?” samuel asks again, a more raw edge to the question this time. bess can only affirm silently as she leans up a little to kiss him. she can taste herself in his mouth, can feel the weight of his arousal against her. bess presses up and samuel groans.  heat pulses again between her legs. “do you want,” bess starts, putting her hands on him, straining against his boxers. samuel’s whole body seems to twitch. he pulls her wrists away though with a bruising kiss.  “i’m just dying to be inside you, if that’s cool.” her stomach flips.  “very cool.” samuel smiles and goes willingly when bess rolls them over. he reaches blindly into a bedside drawer. bess catches sight of a pair of glasses and makes a mental note to ask about them when her mind’s not currently so occupied.  “shit, are these even in date?” samuel squints at the packet in his hand. “god, have i not had sex in this long?” bess can’t help but laugh. they giggle their way through confirming the expiry date, getting rid of samuel’s boxers, and rolling on the condom in the dark. for a moment they just look at each other. bess hasn’t ached like this for anyone in a long time.  “tell me what you want, samuel.” his adam’s apple bobs as he sits up. “c’mere.”  samuel pulls her forward and bess lifts her hips to line them up. he swallows her tiny gasp as she sinks down onto him; it’s been a while for her, too. samuel anchors her with one hand splayed across her back, waiting silently until bess has adjusted to the stretch.  bess rocks down experimentally and he makes an almost strangled noise in the back of his throat. a soft kiss lands on her forehead, a starkly tender inverse to nearly everything that’s happened so far, and maybe even to what they’re about to do. it settles bess and breaks her open both at once.  “okay?” he asks carefully. she nods, wrapping both her arms around his neck. “you’re amazing, you know that?” samuel murmurs over her lips. his own hips swing up towards hers and wow. “bess.” she was right, before. he’s strong.  they get a rhythm going quickly enough, like another harmony that comes so easy. the angle has bess’ clit pressing with beautiful pressure against samuel’s pelvis; she clenches down just as he thrusts up. he curses and it just stokes that flame hotter inside of her. after a certain point bess can’t even speak anymore. she has both her hands in samuel’s hair and he’s latched back onto the curve between her neck and shoulder, teeth and tongue and words like, fuck and tight and good and bess— “samuel i—” he looks up at her face like he wants to commit it to memory.  “bess.” and she’s gone again. * when they’ve caught their breath and tidied up, bess and samuel find themselves side by side in his bathroom, a sweet reflection of that night from weeks ago. she’s glad she thought to bring her toothbrush. samuel keeps staring at her in the mirror.  “what?”  does she have toothpaste on her face? he just shakes his head, the way he does when he laughs to himself.  “nothing. you just look better in my t-shirts than i do.”  bess rolls her eyes but her face feels hot anyway. “weirdo.” it feels good not to have to wonder as they head back to his bed. samuel drags her immediately towards him beneath the covers, his cool hands greedy beneath her borrowed sleepwear as her back curves against his chest. he plants a minty kiss above her shoulder-blade where his shirt’s slipped down. bess shivers and he leaves another on the back of her neck. “sorry,” he murmurs, and bess flips around to look at him.  “for what?” the storm broke finally, and amber light of the street through his windows feels just as safe and warm as it had before. but samuel is the one who seems afraid, now.  “i don’t want to freak you out.” “you’re not freaking me out,” bess insists. “tell me.” samuel hesitates. bess reaches out to touch his face.  “hey. i don’t scare that easy either, you know.” he exhales a faint laugh. it’s so rare to see samuel seem unsure, or fragile. it makes bess feel thrillingly off-centre.  “i don’t think i’ll ever be able to stop wanting you.”  she’s falling.  “and not just—” samuel nods vaguely at their general closeness. “this. i mean all of it. the music, your family, everything. i know it’s probably a bad idea to start things with bandmates or whatever but i just—”  bess doesn’t let him finish. she can only pour all her affection for him into a kiss, taking samuel’s huff of surprise in her mouth even as he reaches for her waist to pull her closer, then on top of him.  when she pulls away he seems a little dazed.  “you make the bad days okay,” bess says firmly and samuel smiles with such near-adoration that she understands it now, that loss of air. “so we’ll figure it out, okay? one day at a time.” samuel nods. “okay.”  and he pulls her back down. * bess wakes up with words in her mind.  samuel’s grip is so tight that at first she doesn’t think he’ll let her go. but bess manages to slide away, picking up his hand gently and lifting his arm. she looks at his sleeping face and kisses his knuckles.  samuel’s lips curve a little and if she looks too hard she could be in love with him already.  she knows where he keeps blank sheet paper in his production area. bess finds a pen and a coffee table book about new york parks; she sits on the edge of the bed to scrawl, humming to herself.  she doesn’t realize he’s up until a familiar press of lips lands on her neck. bess will never stop shivering and samuel will apparently never stop smiling about it.  “hi,” he mumbles. his voice is low and gravely with sleep. bess files that away under the list of things that does something to her. samuel hooks his chin over her shoulder and bess lifts her work to accommodate his arms sliding around her waist. “new idea?” bess nods. “thinking about what you said to me.”  she’s circled can’t catch my breath at the top of the page. samuel goes very still. it feels like it could crush them, the weight of this kind of intimacy. but at least bess doesn’t have to carry it alone. “wanna write with me?”  she turns her head to look at him; samuel’s surprise will never not be thrilling.  “will you let me add a back beat?”  he’s already reaching for his guitar. bess laughs.  “i could maybe be persuaded.” the way his eyebrow lifts makes her stomach jump. “duly noted.” (they do finish the song, eventually.  the morning just gets away from them first.) 

[madeofuterspace]

Slagging, Snogging, and All the Other S Words

During a tense but public argument Y/N’s misunderstanding of British slang causes problems for George Wealsey. 

(Non-British Reader)

Word count: 3k

Warnings: teens drinking alchol, mentions of sex

When your father met your mother, he was intrigued...bewitched almost. He found her English accent adorable and they dated for nearly 5 years until you came along. Things were magical, your mother fit into the role of wife and caregiver instantly. It was almost like with the wave of a fairy wand, the household chores would be finished in an instant. Your mother’s secret about being a witch was concealed until your magical abilities began to emerge.

Your father wasn’t a naive man, but a practical one. When wooden blocks began to float and your stuffed animals began to sound a little too much like their real life counterparts, he just assumed he was wrapped up in the magical whimsy that was childhood. It wasn’t until his wife sat him down and revealed both her and your heritage, that things began to add up. He was heartbroken that she had hidden her abilities for so long, but loved the both of you the same.

When your 10th birthday was around the corner, your mother expressed a want for you to go to Hogwarts in the UK. She had loved her school days and wanted you to experience a similar journey. Your father requested a transfer to the London office and there the three of you went. Now, in your fifth year with the looming threat of Voldemort and Deatheaters, your family never regretted their decision. Your mother had joined the Order and took you along to the meetings, wanting to be the best role model she could for her child. You had excitedly agreed to go to the meetings, assuming you’d be in the room where it happens. Instead, you often sat in a random bedroom with 4 Weasley siblings, the brightest witch in your year, and the boy who lived.

“Y/N! Can you do us a favor?” Fred Weasley plopped on the floor next to you, shifting his whole body to give you what looked like, his full undivided attention. You frowned, knowing that Weasley favors rarely ended well.

Before you could answer, George cut in. “No Fred, not Y/N. They wouldn’t like it much. Let’s try it on Ron instead.” You frowned, silently weighing your options. While you weren’t happy about George making decisions for you, you’ve also seen what happens when a person eats a Weasley treat. You plucked the treat from Fred’s hand, it was a pastel blue taffy.

“It’s a pretty color, what’s it supposed to do?” You held it closer to your eyes, scanning for any warning signs. George’s hand shot out, grabbing your wrist. “It’s not meant for you”, he said airily while his other hand reached out for the treat.

“Oh? Then whose it meant for?” You asked curiously, quickly transferring the taffy to your freed hand. George looked nervous glancing between you and your closed fist. “Harry!”, he blurted out, “It was meant for Harry. That’s why it’s blue.”

Harry looked up from his conversation with Herminone and Ron, “That’s why what’s blue?”

George looked...flustered almost. “The piece of candy Y/N is man-handling. We made it blue”, George looked at his brother for help and Fred raised his eyebrows. “We made it blue,” George continued, “to match your eyes.”

The room was silent. George clenching his jaw, kept his eyes trained on Harry. No one really knew what to say.

“Ok...here you go Harry.” You tossed the candy to Harry, “You two really need to work on the coloring a bit more. His eyes aren’t even that light.” Fred opened his mouth ready to defend his and his brother’s creation when the door’s opening interrupted him.

“Good evening, everyone,” your mother said cheerfully, “Y/N, we’re heading home.” You nodded at her before waving goodbye to everyone.

When you left, Harry popped the treat in his mouth and his eyes immediately widened. He spat it out with an accusatory glare at the twins, George didn’t seem to notice as his eyes stayed glued on the door you just walked through.

You began to notice a pattern, George seemed to be everywhere. At first, it had started small. Him reminding you of forgotten books, slyly placing more vegetables on your plate in the Great Hall. But George’s random acts of thoughtfulness began to become more extreme. The nice Ravenclaw boy who had been tutoring you disappeared. A couple weeks later during Quidditch practices, George gave you a helmet and some additional padding - even though you were just sitting in the stands studying.

It was endearing but soon it became overbearing and confusing because you were certain that George was dating Angelina. They had looked perfect at the Yule Ball last year, and continued to look perfect together everyday since. The gnawing in your stomach you had felt that night increased tenfold as you saw them laughing in the hallways, the beautiful brown skinned girl always looking bashfully at him. George seemed happy when Angelina was around. If he ever caught your forlorn y/e/c eyes while they talked, he immediately snapped back to her. As if she was the only person in the whole world. As if you didn’t even exist.

Maybe you were reading George’s affections wrong? Maybe the older boy likened himself as an older brother, treating you the same way that he treated Ginny. And yet, he noticed your love of citrus - often presenting you with a clementine throughout the day. He knew you enjoyed 1 lump of sugar and 2 creams in your coffee and always playfully bantered at your preference of it over tea. He remembered your complaint of light pollution in London blocking the night sky, so he took you to the astronomy tower whenever he knew it would be a beautifully clear night. One would assume that George was a romantic, but Angelina was still in the picture.

Over the winter holiday, you had finally broke. Your family was invited to a celebratory “Mr. Wealsey survived” party. 12 Grimmauld Place was decorated with beautiful hanging streamers and twinkling lights, bottles of firewhiskey and butterbeer littered the table alongside plates filled with snacks. Fred handed you a tinted glass with a carefully neutral face. You quirked up your eyebrows before taking a careful sip. Suddenly, the strong taste of alcohol coated your tongue but you didn’t dare make a face to alert the adults in the room that your glass wasn’t “child-friendly”.

“Don’t tell George,” Fred whispered, “he’d have my head.” You laughed before following him to the corner where the other teens loitered. You noticed that Ginny was the only one without a tinted cup, even Herminone had joined in on the secret.

“So what’s the plan for when they figure out no one touched the butterbeer?” You asked with a smirk. Harry’s eyes roamed around the room, “I reckon they won’t mind as long as we’re not too crazy.” Your eyes followed and you silently agreed, all the adults looked happy, although it could be the alcohol. You take another sip, letting the drink settle in your stomach.

Ron snorted, “Sirius might not care if Harry drinks and I don’t know much about Y/N’s folks but mum would go mental.” You had tensed up, Ron had let your secret out. Fred glared at Ron while you took another sip, knowing it would be your last.

George’s eyes narrowed, “what’s in your cup Y/N?”. You smiled at him, hoping to play it off easy. “Same as yours Wealsey.”, you used your cup to gesture towards him. Harry made a not so subtle nod to the others to head over to the snacks, leaving both you and George alone.

“Did you pour the drink yourself?”, he asked scowling. You looked at him blankly, waiting for him to elaborate. “Anyone could have put anything in that drink! What if you'd been poisoned or drugged?” George said a little louder than you would have liked. Professor Lupin’s eyes flickered over to you too with curiosity.

“Can you pipe down a bit? No one is going to drug me at an Order party, we’re all having fun so just chill out and have fun.” You gritted out between smiling teeth. Obviously, you hadn’t chosen your words as carefully as you thought as George began to bristle.

“Give me your drink.” He said urgently.

“No?”, you replied confused by his request.

“It’s for your own good, it’ll make both our nights a whole lot better.” George reached  out for your cup, you instinctively pulled back spilling both of your drinks in the process. You groaned at the obviously not butterbeer stain on your white top while George seemed to fum.

“What is your problem?” he said annoyed. The partygoers began to look at the two of you, both confused and invested.

“What’s my problem? My problem is that you continue to be this overbearing presence in my life when you obviously have a girlfriend!”, you yelled. You were so over George, with his stupid gifts and knowing eyes. How couldn’t he see that he was leading you on?

“I don’t have a girlfriend,” George said, confusion painting his face. Your face felt warm and you were aware that you now had the full attention in the room. Maybe it was the firewhiskey or maybe it was a culmination of the past month but you just couldn’t stop yourself.

“You don’t have a girlfriend? Are you serious? You act as if the whole school hasn’t seen you shag Angelina in the halls? Or are you being an asshole and leading her on too?”, you crossed your arms waiting for an answer. The room was mostly silent except for the sputtering of a speechless George.

“GEORGE WEALSEY, UPSTAIRS NOW!”, Molly roared. George turned a deep shade of red and looked at his father for help. When his father sternly crossed his arms and raised his eyebrows George seemed to accept his fate. He left the room all while Molly ranted about self decency and marriage and whatnot. You hadn’t realized tears had been rolling down your cheeks until your father handed you a handkerchief. The party slowly continued on with occasionally glances towards the hallway that led to the stairs.

You stood with your mother’s arm around you while your father went to retrieve your coats. As your father prepared at leave, Fred stopped you.

“Y/N, wait.”, you felt yourself pause and look up at the older boy. Your heart clenched, you felt guilty for what you had done to his brother.

“Do they say shag in America?”, he questioned carefully. You and your father both shook your heads. To be truthful, it was the first time he had heard the word in his life. “I picked up the word from over here, everyone says it so much at Hogwarts.”, you answered softly. Fred crossed his arms and leant on the banister.

“And can you tell me what it means?”

You frowned, he must have known what it meant. They went to the same school, heard the same rumors. Fred tapped his fingers against his elbow, waiting for your response:

You felt your face heat up, “it’s when you kiss someone...a lot...repeatedly”. Your father’s face flashed with recognition, he now understood Molly’s reaction. Your mother on the other hand cringed, immediately realizing your mistake. “Apparently!”, you hastily added on misunderstanding your mother’s reaction.

“Y/N, darling”, your mother started unsure of how to continue. She looked at Fred a mix of amusement and pity on both of their faces. You felt uncomfortable, did they know something that you didn’t?

“Y/N, that’s not shagging, that’s snogging.”, Fred explained carefully as if he were talking to a small child. “As in, Georgie was talking to Angelina about how he wanted to snog you.” Fred said, fighting off a grin.

You felt yourself blush, was Fred just messing with you or did George truly feel that way.  “So then what did I say?”, you looked at Fred for clarification, then your mother. Surely she knew what was going on and would clue you in. Your dad has been glancing between the three of you, trying to decide if this was general British population terms or magical wizard terms.

Fred opened and closed his mouth, debating on the best way to break this down to you. “Shagging is when two people...y’know…”, he was acutely aware that both you and your father were hanging on to his every word. “It’s when two...or more...people show their...interest...in each other...intimately.”, Fred finished, hesitant to explain further.

Oh. Oh.

Your mouth fell open, “ And so Molly and everyone else thinks -“, you began.

“That Georgie is a right perv, yeah.”, Fred said, scratching his head. You felt an overwhelming amount of guilt, you must have gotten George in a great amount of trouble. You spared a glance upstairs where you could still hear the muffled voice of Molly Wealsey. You silently handed your coat to your mother before setting your jaw and nodded to yourself. You knew you had to right this regardless of your nerves to be in the same room as an angered Mrs. Weasley.

You carefully climbed the stairs, not wanting to reveal yourself just yet. The voices had gotten louder, if you focused enough you could hear what they were saying. You lifted your fist to rap three times against the door, hoping that it would be loud enough to draw attention to yourself. The door opened slightly, revealing a red faced Arthur Weasley. His brows were knitted in confusion.

“Hullo Y/N, we’re a bit busy at the moment. Did you come up to say goodbye?”

You square your shoulders before smiling, “No, Mr. Wealsey. I was hoping I could talk to the three of you, I just wanted to clear some things up.”

Mr. Wealsey looked behind himself, seemingly checking in with his wife before opening the door wider allowing you in. George sat on the bed, eyes glued to the rug in front of him. Mrs. Wealsey forced a smile your way, confused to see you here. You couldn’t help but wonder how often George got in trouble and endured lectures by himself, assuming that whenever he was in trouble Fred would be sitting right next to him.

You cleared your throat, not wanting to lose your nerve. “So...I guess I’m not as well versed in English slang as I would have thought. I was wrong, George didn’t...do anything like that with Angelina in the hallways. I used the wrong word, I’m really sorry.” You finished awkwardly looking behind Mr. and Mrs. Wealsey.

Mrs. Wealsey cleared her throat, “I see. George, I’m sorry for being so upset.” Arthur placed his hand on George’s back, “Truthfully, I don’t mind if you express your interest in that way...as long as we meet them first and -“. Arthur looked up remembering that you were in the room. You fidgeted, not wanting to interrupt an important family moment but also wanting to talk to George on your own. George noticed your torn face.

“Maybe, we can finish this conversation a bit later.”, George looked between his parents with pleading eyes. Mr. and Mrs. Wealsey looked at each other and nodded, they smiled at you before leaving the room. George stood up to close the door but a stern look from his mother sat him right back down.

“I’ve always found your (nationality) tendencies adorable, same with that accent of yours. Never thought it would land me in so much trouble though.” George said with a laugh. He stood up again, walking closer to you. “I think you owe me something in return, for spreading such nasty rumors.” He stopped in front of you, all of his prankster swagger returning.

Even though George was a bit taller than you, he angled himself to meet your eyes. His skin was paler than usual due to the gloomy December weather, which made the perfect canvas for his bright red hair and scattered freckles. His light brown eyes seemed to glow, and you could have sworn there were patches of pure gold. George Wealsey was perfect, from his messy hair to the red bump on his chin. You were both quiet, drinking in each other. You finally found your voice again.

“What did you want for your troubles?”, you whispered. You were afraid if your voice was too loud, the moment would disperse. One sudden move and you and George would be back to stolen looks and tense energy.

George hummed, his eyes flashing to your lips, “Another glass of firewhiskey for starters, maybe a couple sickles -“

“That all?”, you asked, taking a mini step towards him. George flushed a gorgeous berry red, “Maybe...if you would be so kind...also a kiss?”. You composed yourself, you wanted to squeal, jump up and down, maybe even break into a choreographed musical number but you simply nodded. The kiss was gentle, a brush that allowed you to back away if you wanted to. You felt an appreciation that George wanted to make sure you had an out, but you wanted more than a peck. You shifted your weight on the balls of your feet to push into George a bit more, he wrapped his hands around and you placed your hands on the nape of his neck. When you both pulled away for air, you noticed that his hands never moved.

“You reckon anyone would miss us if we kept doing this for a bit longer?”, George asked, dazed. You ducked your head down to hide your grin and George placed a kiss on your hairline. You laughed, all of the jealousy and confusion surrounding you and George evaporating. Before you could open your mouth, your parents called for you from downstairs. You groaned and buried your head into George’s chest.

“Don’t worry love, it's not like you don’t come around every week.” George said, grabbing your hand and pulling you out the door before you reached the landing he pulled you in for another brief kiss. “And then we’ll have school where I’m sure Angelina and Lee would get a kick out of this.”, George laughed as you fought off an embarrassed grin before kissing goodbye and leaving with your parents.

A/N: i hope you guys enjoyed, as always please message for any requests and don’t feel weird about leaving any comments, opinions, or constructive criticism xxx

[florbelles]

C & E for Lyra, G & M for Lillian 💕

thank you lovely!! sorry for the delay xx

— E / EXTERNAL PERSONALITY

i. does the way they do things portray their internal personality?

absolutely. it might seem counterintuitive, since a good deal of her life has relied on deception — her many cons, her evasion of suspicion in forty murders over the span of ten years, and eventually posing as a civilian to spy on the resistance for the project — but she’s effective because of her passive, instead of active, methodology; she will not tell an explicit lie, but she will make a statement that is technically true, but wildly misleading in its context; she really is that affable and good-natured. she is also sadistic, messianic, and freely admits that she considers herself monstrous ( yes, she is terrible; she knows what she is, do you? ), but generally speaking, no one has cause to see that until it’s too late ( no, literally, she is removing their eyeballs, she is cutting their tongues, she is sewing flowers where their organs used to be, and isn’t it beautiful, that their deaths have meaning, that their skin will not simply blister and burn, that they will not choke as the ash fills their lungs; she will string their bodies about the county; no one will know the work is hers, not until later, not until the end, but then, they never thought to ask ). her blood runs much too hot, she is much too impulsive and reckless, her fuse much too short to maintain a persona that is not, essentially, who she is; if others have missed something essential, well. that’s hardly her fault, is it?

ii. do they do things that conform to the norm?

absolutely not. she has never, anywhere in her life, not been glaringly out of place. it’s how she prefers it; she hides in plain sight. she was perpetually flinging herself up against what was expected of her, getting kicked out of boarding school, disappearing for days at a time on nantucket, eventually leaving the week before her sixteenth birthday and never returning. she left behind any semblance of a normalcy with her old life; she’s been on the run ever since. the closest she has had in her adult life to a routine, to normalcy, is with the project. that says everything, i think.

iii. do they follow trends or do their own thing?

see above. she has quite literally never conformed; even as a girl she was a scandal, far too obscene for the old money set ( doubtless her mother’s blood, they murmur; what was lawrence thinking? ). her manner of speaking is outdated, over-formal and over-familiar; her wardrobe consists solely of bare feet or high heels, of long white or pale pink dresses with thigh slits, plunging necklines, bared arms; she is entirely ostentatious. she was living out of her car pumping gas at a texaco in a wedding dress on a tuesday afternoon.

iv. are they up-to-date on the internet fads?

not especially, she stays informed prior to hope county on what’s presently influencing the public consciousness but she doesn’t especially engage with it; she’s never been much for the internet. she’s good at context clues. if you send her a gif or a meme she’ll understand it. if you send her a screenshot of a vine or expect her to understand that sort of shorthand she’ll be lost. why have you sent this photo of a man smashing his phone. is he a friend. does he need help.

v. do they portray their personality intentionally or let people figure it out on their own?

she projects her personality diligently. everything about her has been refined to this; everything about the way she presents herself is intentional. yes, it’s a manipulation, but it’s also true — she has never been anything else. she would not be able to be otherwise, even if she wished to. she allows people to draw their own assumptions from what she presents, and their conclusions are nearly always incorrect; she is indisputably a certain type of woman, but very few actually arrive at the type of woman she is. she weaponizes hyper-femininity to give the illusion of vulnerability to a certain type of man. she gives the impression of materialism where there is none. she bares her tattoos at all times ( the lilies strangled by vines, the thorned roses, the serpent twined in carnations, the wrath across her breasts ); she has shown everyone what she is, she warned them, she wears it on her skin, it is not her fault they did not interpret it correctly ( this is why the marking & atonement immediately resonates with her, it’s aligned with an ideology she already possesses ).

— C / COMFORT

i. how do they sit in a chair?

legs extended and crossed at the heel when she wishes to take up space or make herself an imposing presence; straight backed with her legs folded at a bar or in a meeting; a regular feline at home ( if she’s with her husband she’s curled around him and in his lap, no personal space in this house ). ( originally answered here x )

ii. in what position do they sleep?

she used to sleep on her stomach or side with one arm flung out and the other tucked under her head; she and john sleep in a tangled mess on top of each other because they’re disgusting. she likes to keep a hand on one of his pulse points; she can’t sleep unless she can feel him breathe. ( originally answered here x)

for the last ten years of her life she sleeps curled on the ground with her fingers in the dirt and tries to feel a pulse through the earth.

iii. what is their ideal comfort day?

watch the sunrise ( this is not john's ideal comfort day so his ass better be on that balcony ), fuck all morning, wander the mountains or get high by the river most of the day, read or dance to her favorite records, and a fire at night ( bonfire in the firepit or by the river preferable, hearth fire acceptable if the weather is not permissive ).

iv. what is their major comfort food? why?

hot, sweet, baked things. sugar donuts, scones, coffee cakes. she would loiter around the nantucket bakeries as a girl. lawrence would take her sometimes, if he needed something or was repenting.

v. who is the best at comforting them when down?

john is essentially the only person she even allows to attempt; faith and joseph very circumstantially. it’s less about emotional vulnerability and more about burdening anyone else with her problems; in any given situation, she considers herself the most expendable party, but specifically her discomfort/suffering — she quite literally believes her soul to be damned and forfeit as the price of the world, the lamb, if you will — and that extends to her emotional state in terms. she’s comfortable making herself john’s problem because he signed up for it; she adamantly refuses to do so elsewhere.

— G / GORGEOUS

i. what is their most attractive external feature?

she favors her eyes; all of her sisters share them. she is most often complimented on her hair.

ii. what is the most attractive part of their personality?

extremely resourceful and an excellent conversationalist; either a real pain in the ass or a fucking delight when she lets her hair down, depending on who you ask.

iii. what benefits come with being their friend?

access to everywhere and everything, though if it’s above board she’s probably going to be dull about it and spend the whole time sniping at society she sees there. knows the best places to slip in if you don’t want to be seen, can guarantee you’re seen if you do. can dispatch unwanted suitors, artfully when she’s sober and off-puttingly when she in her cups. premium gossip, if you'd like it.

truthfully, before the war, she'll never be a simple friend to have; she comes with the complications of her family and her name, as much as she might like to slip out at night and play at anonymity to pretend otherwise ( which she will want to do, often ). nonetheless, she invariably comes with society's gaze fixed on her, her familial obligations, and a good deal of skepticism about the intentions of others. she’ll see to your social advancement because that’s what she expects you need from her. if you've withstood the test of time, however, you’re her family, second only to her siblings; she’ll do anything for you.

post-war she can offer her loyalty and a wealth of knowledge about the world before, context to pre-war technology, etc. very scientifically adept, if not trained; in another life she would have spent her years in a lab instead of in front of the cameras. a valuable ally as long as you don't put her on the front lines.

iv. what parts of them do they like and dislike?

she likes that she's resourceful. she likes that she's undefeated among her peers at chess. she likes how splendidly she can command a room, when she wishes; she likes that she can make people listen to her. she likes it better still when she feels she has something that's worth saying ( and she nearly always does ). she likes that she can be ruthless.

while it is one of her defining traits, she can dislike her obstinacy, insofar as she recognizes it’s to blame for her willful blindness to what was happening around her before the great war. she dislikes the extent to which her loyalty to her family led her to turn her head to what was happening around her. she dislikes that she cares so much what everyone thinks of her. she dislikes that she needs her mother's approval, that she hears her voice even after her death. even after she killed her.

v. what parts of others do they envy?

to that point, she envies the more uninhibited like jackie a good deal; to disregard the opinion of others, even their family, in the name of staying true to herself and her ideals is a type of bravery that lillian wishes she had, even if she thinks jackie misguided in her radicalism. she envies freedom, in all forms she lacks it. she envies those unconcerned with perfectionism. she envies anyone who lives a life unencumbered by expectations and legacies.

post-war, she envies those who aren’t burdened with what came before, all that was lost and how and why. she wouldn’t unknow it it she could — being the last to know is a great fear of hers that’s been realized one too many times — but that doesn’t mean she doesn’t envy those who don’t have that baggage of first hand experience and involvement.

— M / MATERNAL

i. would they want a daughter or a son?

neither, truthfully, but she would probably feel more comfortable raising a son; she’s already spent her life shielding evie from their mother, and feels she did an abysmal job of it, so she’s not eager to repeat those mistakes.

ii. how many children do they want?

none, really. lillian is unable to have biological children, but even if she could, she only would have had them out of a sense of obligation to continue the family line, and because of that sense of obligation — subconscious though it might have been — she came to resent the concept.

iii. would they be a good parent?

not really. she could learn — she can learn about anything — but it wouldn't come naturally to her. because it's not something she would choose for herself, it isn't something that would ever be uncomplicated for her. in many respects she's too much a perfectionist to strike a balance as a parent; she would either be overinvolved and overbearing or go to the other extreme and be entirely hands-off. her nanny would most likely be the better mother; hers was.

iv. what would they name a son? what would they name a daughter?

john is the family name for boys, from which she'd probably be disinclined to deviate ( even evie only ventured so far as "shaun" in her defiance ). she would name a girl anything but audrey ( her mother's first name, her own legal first name ). after the war it would be extremely circumstantial. she would probably name her after jackie. because of birth order, she tells evie brightly. evie is annoyed by this for the rest of their lives.

v. would they adopt?

she technically does adopt, in the sense that she takes in her nephew and passes him off as her own. she figured she owed evie that much. ( as it happens, the great war comes just before his first birthday, so motherhood is still not something in the cards for her ). she wouldn't do it again, and she would not have done it under virtually any other circumstances.

[mor-beck-more-problems]

Hippie Sabotage || Morgan & Evelyn (feat. Cecily)

TIMING: Current

PARTIES: @thronesofshadows & @mor-beck-more-problems

SUMMARY: Morgan needs a special ingredient for her ritual, and Evelyn knows a woman, Lady Cecily Ashford, who can give it to them. But some things are easier said than done.

CONTAINS: Poshness and sass

Morgan didn’t trust the stars to align in her favor. Not as easily as this seemed to come together. After everything that had already happened, how could Evelyn just happen to know some Baroness with a home museum of dark creepy artifacts, including the bol d’éventre Morgan had been tearing her hair out looking for? Where was the catch? When was the other shoe going to drop? She gripped her friend’s arm as they approached the Haven Hotel where this woman was staying, her face knotted with worry. It was bad form, she knew, to show someone how desperate you were to have something. But she didn’t know how to hide this either. Constance was cruel and slippery and every day she got to hang around the twenty-first century consequences free, Morgan burned as if she’d been slapped. “Do I have to call her Lady Ashford? Mrs. Ashford? Do we..I mean...obviously, you know more about this fancy stuff than I do, but I need the bowl, unless you’re telling her that you need it?” She gave Evelyn a sidelong look, her brow clenched with anxiety. “Am I overthinking this? I’m overthinking this.” Deep breath. “It doesn’t matter. Slong as we get the bowl, whatever else happens.” She pulled on what strings of hope she still had left in her and smiled.

Cecily Ashford only sat on the wretched florals in the hotel parlor because she refused to loiter at the window like a dolt. The world was not as it had once been, but there were still enclaves of auctioneers and traders making do in such rustic, pastoral hamlets such as this. Even the inn, or all its faults, was not without potential. And a visit from a young friend could brighten even a dour day, under the right circumstances. Cecily beamed through her net veil as her visitors arrived. “My dear, Eva, it’s been too long. Let me look at you-- the parties are getting duller by the year, and more of your cohorts are running off to greener pastures. But, at least you seem to be doing fine. Very fine indeed. And who--” Cecily was far too well bred to allow her speech to falter, but her eyes told a most subtle story of surprise to Evelyn. “Might this young woman be?”

She loathed the idea of meeting someone from her past again. Evelyn had run away from England for that very reason, to escape the suffocating feeling that came with living in that house. In that city. In that country. Though she found herself unable to feel true panic, she had been seized with a certain unfamiliar sense of worry upon finding out that Cecily Ashford was in town. There was a certain part of it all that made her feel like a child again, like she should wear the white lace dresses that her father had placed her in, ones that make her throat itch regardless of the fact that they were made with the finest of fabrics. However, if this was what would help Morgan, she would deal with it. Make pleasant small-talk and get the bowl that would rid her friend of her troubles. “I will take the lead, no need to worry.” She spoke in a gentle whisper to Morgan as they approached the hotel. “I call her Cecily, and she is rather fond of me, so I think you might be able to get away with that as well.”

Evelyn opened the door and made her way into the lobby. She had not expected the woman to be there, and led Morgan around until they were in the first-floor parlor. Though it had been a number of years since she had seen the woman, she could still smell the same perfume that she’d been wearing ever since Evelyn was a child. The past is past, she reminded herself as the two of them made their way over. “Cecily.” She offered a small smile, wincing for a moment at the nickname. “It has been too long.” Evelyn straightened her posture, hands running against the skirt of her dress. “I can imagine the parties are getting duller - though I am certain you do your best to liven them up.” She let another grin cross her face. “I am doing fine, and I appreciate that you have noticed. Making my way best as any of us can.” She remained standing, waiting for the woman to motion for them to sit before she did so, though the hand of the arm that was not occupied by Morgan's grip traced the armrest of a chair opposite Cecily. “This is Morgan. We have come to ask you about something of yours. Of course to catch up as well, but when I heard you were in town I could not pass up the opportunity. May we?” She finally said, nodding in the direction of the chairs. “Let me pay for some tea - or something stronger, if you wish.”

“Oh, my dear, I couldn’t possibly drink before three. Although if I recall, you do delight in breaking decorum. I think the Duke of Richmond is still nursing that foot to this day,” Cecily teased, looking the girl over once again. “But, perhaps some sherry. To be among the young is to feel devilish again.” She looked at the woman called Morgan as she said this. There was something impertinent in her face, even as she shrunk behind Evelyn like some Victorian lady’s companion. Well, Evelyn did have an odd taste in playthings, and who was she to make a fuss? “Shall we sit? I was rather surprised to hear about your sudden interest in my collection. You know I don’t part with my treasures so easily, my dear. Not even for friends.” She squinted over at Morgan thoughtfully, then to Evelyn, then back again to Morgan. “And what is your part in this, Morgan, correct?”

Morgan, who could feel Evelyn bristling next to her, gave her best smile. “Oh, I’m, you know, just here to...look pretty?” She waited a moment to see if the bit would land, but her look turned self conscious before she could really find out. “I mean, I just, have a vested interest, I guess. And it’s not every day I get to meet and esteemed gentlewoman, or, uh, lady, such as yourself.” Somewhere in her mind was a faint voice in her head that said she should stop while she was ahead, but with the older woman’s apathy and smugness, clearly so practiced to make her indecipherable on purpose, at least to someone not already fluent in her nonsense. She saw possibility shrinking before her eyes, along with all its potential. Another door closing in her face, throwing her back down into Constance’s grasp. “You do have it, right? The bowl de--eventre?”

“Well, I have a spirited personality, or so I have been told.” Though Evelyn often supposed that many people who had told her and her father that had meant defiant instead. She was not going to fully deny that, either - though she may have not appreciated the tone with which the remarks had been given, she could hardly deny them, especially given that she had run away on her birthday. “I hardly weighed anything, but I have always been able to make a memorable impression.” She shrugged. “I think sherry could be lovely. “Yes, let us sit.” Evelyn sat down opposite Cecily, not wanting to break away from Morgan just yet. After all, she was here in order to help her, it just so happened that she knew an important player in this. She supposed that in the end, it did make sense -- she knew a great many people and even if they were not themselves aware of the value that items they owned held, it did make sense that they would have had such items. Evelyn made a mental note to inquire at some point or another to see if Morgan or anyone else knew if any of the many items she had amassed over the years held any value outside of a monetary one.

She flashed a grin to Morgan at the looking pretty comment, though it seemed to fall flat on Cecily’s sense of humor. Evelyn straightened her posture. She was not about to let the other woman talk down to Morgan - even if that was not entirely her intent, Evelyn was all too aware of how easy it was to do just that. She knew that she was more than a little guilty of it herself, too. More than just occasionally, but right now was not the time to focus on the similarities that she shared with the woman opposite her. The pull to fall back into old habits was alluring - more than she would have imagined, but in a flash she could see her father reminding her to be quiet, to be everything everyone thought she was. “She does.” Evelyn interjected before Cecily could speak. “Right?” She raised an eyebrow at the older woman. “Morgan is a,” she took in a breath, the word friend still feeling far too foreign, “friend. She is a friend of mine, and I trust her, so if she says that it is something that she - we - I - we,” Evelyn finally decided, “need, then it must be quite something. I do have something of a memory of adoring looking at it as a child, though it was your company and the Yorkshire puddings that your cook always used to make that truly made those visits special.”

Cecily was charmed by Evelyn’s flexible manner, but not impressed. She had no intention of giving up her prize, not if this was some lark and certainly not if it turned out to be more significant than she had first imagined. But she did truly miss Evelyn, and if she could find out the cause for this sudden enthusiasm, so much the better. She leaned back in her chair, still composed, and regarded the pair with a smile. “How very sweet you are, Eva,” she said. “Why don’t you tell me more about this...need of yours.”

Morgan looked at Evelyn, gauging how much she ought to explain. Cecily’s eyes were squarely on her, somehow gentle and intimidating at once. She reminded her of Lydia, but not in a way that gave any comfort. “I’m uh...a scholar in several fields, including some obscure ones. This bowl, when applied in a specific context, can…” Well, it united the energy of the ingredients with the incantation thanks to some skillful carving work. It served as a stabilizing agent for the spell. Negative intentions could be volatile, or so common wisdom usually went. So some structural unity and metaphysical braces were usually in order. At least, hypothetically. Morgan had never gotten around to doing something like this before. “Create some incredible reactions. And this context, this application of the bowl’s properties, it’s going to save a lot of people’s lives and do a lot of good for this community. And your bowl is, as far as I’m aware, one of the very last surviving of its kind. If not the actual last. If the need wasn’t so urgent, I--we--would happily put our energy elsewhere. It’s not my intention to inconvenience anyone. But we...need this. We just need this, ma’am. Very dearly.”

“An obscure life-saving silver bowl?” Cecily said, her brow reaching for the heavens. “My dears, if what you say is true, why in god’s name should I part with it for the good of this place?”

“Well, you know that people always found me engaging, even as a young child.” Evelyn replied in turn. However, she supposed that her years away from London had made her a bit more naïve in that she had thought that it would have been rather easy to have Cecily simply hand over the bowl. However, Morgan was here, and the other woman’s explanations were something that Evelyn found herself in dire need of. Even if Morgan’s explanations did not come out as precisely as she had come to expect from the other woman. However, she appeared to have at least more confidence in the way she held herself than the first time she and Evelyn had met, all those many months past. “Precisely. We would certainly put our efforts elsewhere, but you were due to be in town and I recalled this specific object, and, well, you know I have never been able to get an idea out of my head once I have my heart set on it.” She giggled, twirling her hair around her fingers. “Yes, it is life-saving but just think - you would be doing the world a great deal of good, though I understand that you find this sort of thing rather complicated.” She waved one of the staff over, and requested a bottle of sherry before turning back to Cecily and squeezed Morgan’s hand. “However, I am willing to pay whatever price you might request, I have no qualms about that. Save for returning to England.” That much I cannot do.

“Oh, Eva. You know I care for philanthropy as much as the next woman. The hospital board takes up ever so much of my time, and I’m an investor in a number of nonprofits,” Cecily chided. “But you must be reasonable. Is the bowl even going to survive whatever ‘reaction’ you perform on it? Surely its value will decrease with use. Why shouldn’t I give it up at auction and let the proceeds go to some other, more deserving community? Why not keep it for myself and direct these ‘contexts’ for my own needs? You make this sound like the key to blazing world peace.” She laughed, a cruel, tittering sound that chided them for asking the question in the first place.

“Because you can’t!” The words burst out of Morgan before she could stop herself. She flinched, looking abashed at the woman and Evelyn both. “I just mean… look, it’s a specialized sort of thing and you’re not going to believe me if I told you and you wouldn’t care even if you did. But it’s my life and my family, the family I’ve made here, which includes Evelyn, is on the line. My entire existence is on the line. It’s specific, it’s magic, for crying out loud.” She laughed haplessly. She didn’t know this woman, she didn’t have the code for how to make her remember how to give a damn about something besides these stupid boards and nonprofits and whatever else she would rather be doing. “Please,” she said, no longer awkward or halting, but fully earnest. “Please do this for us. Please…”

Cecily’s face betrayed nothing. She looked to Evelyn, and spoke as if she hadn’t heard Morgan at all. “You should consider returning to where you belong, Eva my dear,” she said. “Your father misses you terribly. I’ll tell him what a treat it was to see you when I return, though, hm?”

“Well, Lady Fowler did have a leg up on most all of us, but you are correct.” Evelyn laughed, twirling her hair around her fingertips. She was more than okay with playing the stuck-up socialite that Cecily knew her if it got them what they wanted. Turning back into who she’d been as a teenager didn’t entirely sit right with her, but she found it far easier to do than she would have liked. “I will pay you anything you want and you can give the money to whatever charity, get another library dedicated in your name.” Cecily’s laugh cut through her bones - she’d heard it before, though not directed at her. She used to join in in such laughter.

Morgan was talking again and Evelyn found herself once again grateful, even if the look on Cecily’s face implied that she was less than pleased, and that in and of itself was never a good sign, not much at all. “We - yes. It will help us a great deal. More than you could ever know.” They weren’t getting through to her, and Evelyn cursed herself for it. Because she had believed so fiercely that this would help, that she’d be able to charm Cecily into doing whatever she wanted. Her lips curved up into a small smile at Morgan’s mention of family, though that moment was cut short by Cecily’s next comment. “I am not going home - not going back to England. I have made a life here.” No. “Please do not.” Evelyn could feel her breath catch in her throat. This was everything she didn’t want. She had escaped her life back home, her life with her father and being forced to be everything she was not. She knew he wanted her back, she’d seen the news when she first ran away. Perhaps she’d gotten far too cavalier with her actions, with what she’d posted. She’d walked into this. “Please do not tell him where I am.”

Of course Cecily had known that Evelyn’s abrupt disappearance would be something of a sore spot. One did not vanish from respectable society altogether unless there was a cause. But she had not expected such an impassioned reaction either. It was good to have such precious information on hand, and to know its value. “You’ve been out of the game too long, my dear,” Cecily sighed. “You’ve shown your hand and you have nothing to offer me of value. Now, I won’t go blabbing to your father yet, but, that may prove conditional later on. Do keep that in mind next time I call, Eva.” She rose from her chair and patted Evelyn’s cheek as she had when she was a girl, for old time’s sake.

“Stop calling her that!” Morgan snapped. “She’s not a child, and this isn’t some game for you to power play!” Her hand was out to swat the woman’s away. She only stopped to think when she found herself struck in turn. She shrank back, too stunned to process being slapped or anything else. The only thing she knew for sure was that this whole thing had been a mistake.

“I have not.” Evelyn practically hissed. She had let her emotions get the better of her once again - which continued to prove time and time again that shuttering away how she was feeling was the better way to go. Better than reacting in far too much of an impassioned way. She ought to have known that Cecily wasn’t here for the sake of altruism. She hadn’t ever been keen on that, not back in England, and clearly the few years that had passed had done little to change that. “Please.” Though pleading was hardly something she wished to resort to, she couldn’t help herself. She pressed her lips together firmly, doing her best not to flinch at the woman’s hand against her cheek, no matter how gentle it was, it now felt little other than patronizing.

Then there was Morgan again, Morgan who was far too good, defending Evelyn. The sound of Cecily’s hand against Morgan’s cheek caused Evelyn to stand up, her height almost even with Cecily’s. “You do not get to walk into my life and hurt my friends. I had heard you were coming to town and I figured that you would be able to assist with something I need. I thought that perhaps you would have been more keen to do some sort of good, particularly given that I remember this bowl collecting dust in a cabinet of yours.”

“Then that makes it your mistake of underestimating me, Eva,” Cecily said the name with emphasis, just to prove how undaunted she was by this childish display from the pair. “You should know I give nothing away for free. But do be in touch, my dear. Pleasure seeing you, as always.” She gave Evelyn a curt nod and swept out of the parlor, back towards her room.

Morgan slumped back in her seat, face in her hands. “I am...so sorry…” she groaned. “I just...I didn’t like how she...and I’ve never seen you like that before either. It was just… I reacted, and I didn’t give you time to think things through, or come up with a better bargaining chip, or a sales pitch or…” she let out a long exhale. “Tell me what I can do, Evelyn. Are you okay?” she mumbled.

She could do little besides blink as Cecily left them - that in and of itself was alarming, given that she didn’t have to. Only blinked because that was what humans did. Evelyn turned to face Morgan. “You do not have to be.” She brushed against Morgan’s shoulder, and reached out for the other woman’s hands, much like they had the first time they had met, all those many months ago. It seemed like a lifetime ago, and she supposed that for Morgan, it had been. “No - I…” her voice trailed off. “I ran away from home, four years ago.” Morgan’s hand, no matter how cold, felt good. Better than Cecily’s, that much was certain. “My father - he cannot know where I am. I feel as though I am the most myself I have ever been.” She shook her head. “It - it is not your own doing. I should have - I got too caught up in the dream of being able to get her to give this up. I should have thought through this more.” Biting her lip, she looked over to Morgan again. “We will fix this. I will fix this.” She paused, taking in a shaky breath, “I mean, I will fix whatever I can.” She shrugged, in response to Morgan’s question. “Up for debate.”

Morgan slumped deeper into her seat and squeezed Evelyn’s hands. “I had no idea. I didn’t realize you were taking such a risk for me, Evelyn, I wouldn’t have pressed so much if I--” Morgan grimaced. Yes, she would’ve, but she would’ve felt bad about it in the moment and not just in the aftermath. Maybe exercised some more caution, but that didn’t always work out well for her either. Maybe they really would have always wound up here. “I’m still sorry, for putting you through that. Come on, at least one of us should get drunk after all that. My treat. We can figure out the next move after.”

“You are worth a risk.” Evelyn shrugged. “It - well, I had to, did I not? I think my years here have somehow made me softer than I should have liked. More willing to believe in the goodness of others?” She scrunched her nose. It was not entirely true, she certainly still held her reservations but she had come to understand that growing up as sheltered as she did, despite studying human behavior for her degree (and excelling in it) - had made her quite a bit less able to always understand everyone else’s true self. “I think I believed that I would surely manage - well, I do not know…” her voice trailed off. “You need not to be sorry. We can go and get drinks, certainly. I - we will make this work. We just have to be two steps ahead of her next time.” She stood up, dropping her hand from Morgan’s. “I may have a few ideas already.”

[westannatasharomanoff]

#23 and #100 with Brutasha pls

23. Excuse me, has the 12:15 bus come yet?

100.  We could…you know, go together, if you wanted.

This story takes place in a world where The Avengers don’t exist because Loki never invaded Earth.

*Natasha was running late. She read her watch. 12:16. Well, that was a problem. She missed the bus. She couldn’t be late to the party. How could she let herself get distracted like that? She looked around the bus stop and saw a man sitting on a bench doing a crossword puzzle.*

Natasha: Excuse me, has the 12:15 bus come yet?

Bruce: No, the busses are backed up. All of them are coming a few minutes late today, which is a real shame because I was invited to a lunch party at 1:00 and now I might be late. 

Natasha: Oh, what a coincidence. I was invited to one too, I bet it’s the same party! 

Bruce: Who’s hosting it? 

Natasha: Some guy I met at work.

Bruce: What do you do? 

Natasha: Oh, you know, I just have an everyday, boring job. I wouldn’t want to bore you with the details.

Bruce: No, really. I want to know. 

Natasha: What do you do?

Bruce: Well, I used to be a physicist, but then... something happened. You work for Stark Industries, don’t you?

Natasha: Yes. I work in legal. You can ask the CEO about it if you’d like. I was her assistant for a while. 

Bruce: Why were you her assistant if you’re from legal? 

Natasha: Tony Stark. He also made me box the head of security. 

Bruce: Ah, I see. Do you have a name?

Natasha: Yep. I got it for my birthday.

Bruce: Are you going to tell me what it is? 

Natasha: Oh, sorry. *thinking* Do I say Natasha or Natalie? I gave him Natalie’s life story, but Natasha is my actual name. 

Bruce: Are you having trouble remembering or something?

Natasha: Natalie. Natalie Rushman. 

*Natasha knew that she hadn’t used that name in two years. She also knew she was only invited to this party because she was friends with Pepper and Tony was still mad about the whole spy thing. Hopefully, nobody would use her real name in front of this guy.*

Natasha: I told you my name, what’s yours?

Bruce: I’m Bruce Banner. 

Natasha: You’re the guy who accidentally turned himself into a rage monster!

Bruce: I don’t understand how a woman who works in legal at Stark Industries and did modeling in Japan would know that.

Natasha: Wait, did you Google me?

Bruce: Maybe. I just wanted to make sure I could trust you. I Google everyone I meet in case I need to run from them. You aren’t going to arrest me, are you? 

Natasha: For what, loitering at a bus stop? * Bruce laughs* So, how’d you meet Stark? 

Bruce: He heard about the rage monster and got all excited. He just HAD to meet me. 

Natasha: That sounds like Tony. 

Bruce: About the party. We could…you know, go together, if you wanted. You probably don’t. I’m really sorry for bothering you, actually. 

Natasha: It’s fine. I would go with you, but I don’t go to parties with people who don’t know my real name. 

Bruce: What? 

Natasha: I’m a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent. Now that I know you’re familiar with it, I really don’t need to hide that from you. My real name is Natasha Romanoff. 

Bruce: This has been the weirdest day. I accidentally poured myself dog food for breakfast instead of cereal, and I don’t even have a dog. Now you’ve given me two names and you work for the company that wants to contain me.

Natasha: On the bright side, at least the bus finally got here.

[eddiesasspbrak]

Escapism

Eddie needs to get away from his mother and finds himself stuck in a downpour. The closest place to hide is the arcade, where he meets Richie Tozier, a boy from his school. Richie takes an interest in him and gives him a place to escape to.

Part of my “I’d rearrange the alphabet to put U and I together” series 

Read on AO3

A

5k+ words

Eddie Kaspbrak didn’t like to say he hated things. Hate was negative and there were already so many negatives in his life that he wanted to focus on the positive. On things he liked. He liked movies. Going to see them in the theater with the big comfy seats and a large popcorn perched on his lap. Sitting at home on the couch, a movie he’d seen a hundred times on the screen and big blanket on top of him. Both were great. He liked running. His mother always told him he shouldn’t run because of his asthma, but he never had a problem. He liked the way the wind felt against his face as he pushed himself to go just a little faster. It was freedom. He liked spending time with his friends, Bill, Ben and Mike. Riding their bikes down to the quarry and going for a swim in the summer. Sitting in the clubhouse reading comics until it became too dark to see.

Yes, there were many things that Eddie liked and didn’t hate much. What he did hate was his mother. He’d been told before that you can’t truly hate your parents. You might hate things that they do or get angry enough to think that you hate them, but deep down you really love them. Eddie thought that was bullshit. He hated his mother and he knew that if he did love her it was such a microscopic part of him that it would never be strong enough overpower the hatred.

There were several reasons he hated his mother. When he was younger, she would overreact to every little illness. He would get a tickle in his throat and cough and she’d be on the phone making a doctor’s appointment within seconds. He fell off his bike once and didn’t even get hurt, but she called an ambulance and made him lay where he fell until they gave the all clear. Even then, she insisted that he was injured and made them take him to the hospital anyway. A full body x-ray later and he was sent home with a big bill and no injury. She used to make him take a handful of pills a day for his “conditions”. He eventually found out they were placebos and stopped taking them.

He wasn’t even sure if he had asthma or not. He’d run vast distances at a fast pace and, sure he’d be out of breath for a minute when he stopped, but he never had to use the inhaler. The only time he did feel like he needed it, he realized, was when he was having a panic attack. The panic disorder was probably the only thing that was actually wrong with him and he was sure she was the one who caused it.

He hated her because she had to know what he was doing, where he was going and who he was with at all times. If he didn’t tell her, she would follow him. She seemed to have spies all around town who would report back to her on what he’d been doing. In a small town like Derry, everyone knew almost everyone else, so it was likely that she really did have spies watching his every move.

She hated his friends, called them a bad influence when they were nothing but respectful when in her presence. They were the ones he loved. They’d been there for Eddie when he needed someone to talk to. He couldn’t talk to her. About anything. The one time he thought he might let her know what was going on in his life, she grounded him for two weeks. All because he said he thought Beverly Marsh was pretty. Bev had a bad reputation in town, which probably wasn’t even true, and she would not have her son spending time with a girl like that. He wondered how she’d react if she knew that he also thought he liked boys.

Despite all the hate he felt for her, he still tried to stay positive. A feat proving impossible whenever she started in on him. This time it had been because he dropped a glass while doing the dishes and it broke. He bent down to pick up the bigger shards and she ran in yelling at him to stop. She was afraid he would cut himself. He ignored her and kept cleaning it up only to have her grab his arm roughly to pull him away from it. The motion caused one of the pieces to fall from his hand, hitting his other hand on the way down. It wasn’t a bad cut, but it bled and caused him to curse from the jolt of pain.

She followed him into the bathroom, where he was going to disinfect it and bandage it, yelling about how he needed to be careful. She also wasn’t happy about the swearing and blamed his friends influence for the foul language. Eddie bit his tongue and said nothing until she told him he was too delicate to touch sharp objects and should let others do it for him. She’d been saying something similar his entire life. Always calling him delicate and incapable.

He couldn’t go on the roller coaster at the fair because he’d be too afraid. He might pass out and he’d surely throw up. He couldn’t go to Betty Ripsom’s tenth birthday party at the roller rink because he might fall and break something or another kid could roll over his hand. Besides, the food could have his allergens in them and what if he ate something and they couldn’t get his EpiPen fast enough? He couldn’t stay the night at Bill’s house because what if someone broke in hurt him or kidnapped him?

The anger built up and resulted in him yelling at her. Eddie told her that it was her fault he cut himself because she pulled on him. He could have cleaned it up without incident if she had just left him alone. He could take care of himself and he didn’t need her. He yelled until his throat hurt and then he left. She ran after him, calling out his name. Followed him out onto the porch and watched him run down the street toward town, screaming after him. He ignored her and kept going.

He needed to be alone and to cool off. Bill was out of town for the weekend with his family. Ben was working. Mike was probably home but his grandfather’s farm was too far to walk to, and he didn’t bring bus money or his bike. He couldn’t go back to get either because it would mean seeing her and she would try to guilt him into staying. With none of his friends being an option, he didn’t know where to go. Though he had to figure it out fast.

The forecast had called for rain and he knew it was coming. The sky had gone dark with grey clouds and thunder rumbled in the distance. Since he didn’t have any money, he didn’t know where to go. The library was an option, but he thought the silence would drive him mad. He needed somewhere noisy to block out his thoughts. Every place he could think of required money or it would be considered loitering and the last thing he needed was another argument.

He looked at all the shops as he passed by, hoping that one would let him come in without having to spend any money. Restaurants and stores surrounded him, everyone likely to make him leave if he just stood there. He didn’t want to be accused of shop lifting for just browsing either. A flash of lightening caused him to startle and a second later he felt a raindrop hit his cheek. Now desperate as the rain started as just a light drizzle but picking up by the second, he began to run and ducked for cover under the alcove of a shop. Surely, they couldn’t yell at him for standing outside the store, right?

He sighed as the rain began to pour, becoming like a sheet of water, making it hard to see two feet beyond where he stood. He knew it was going to rain, he just didn’t realize it would be this heavy. Part of him wished that he had just gone up to his room and turned on loud music instead. He knew that wasn’t always effective though as they were still under the same roof and the odds of things boiling over again were very high. This was for the best, even if he was stuck in the rain. He just wished he’d grabbed a jacket as the rain made the spring air cold and he hadn’t gotten away without getting a little wet. He shivered and turned to look at the building behind him, unsure of exactly where he was. He’d just seen a hiding spot and lunged for it.

Eddie knew there was an arcade in town, he’d just never paid much attention to it. He definitely had never been inside. Video games had never really been his thing. If he was going to spend his money on something frivolous it was going to be something that would last. If someone had asked him for directions to the arcade, he couldn’t even tell them where to go. So, it was a surprise that the alcove he chose to hide under was part of the storefront of the arcade. The windows were slightly tinted and beyond he could just barely see kids and teens alike playing the games inside.

A particularly big crowd had formed around one game and that gave Eddie the impression that he could hang out in there and watch. It wasn’t the most exciting way to spend the day, but it was a way to escape the rain and cold.

Inside, music played at a low volume from overhead speakers. Yelling, cheering, button smashing, and game noises were much more audible. The entire place smelled like pennies, fried foods and too much air freshener and it made Eddie’s nose itch. Trying to blend in, he made his way to the largest group to see what they were all watching. A half circle of boys and girls of various ages were formed around a single person whose focus was on the game before him. Eddie recognized him from school but couldn’t quite remember his name.

“Why’s everyone watching him?” He asked a preteen boy standing near the outside of the group.

“Because he’s about to beat the high score on this game.” The kid explained, standing on his toes in attempt to see better.

“Oh.” Eddie didn’t really see the point. Was getting a new high score really that important and impressive? If anything wasn’t it a little sad? Spending so much time playing a game that you become the best. Was it even enjoyable anymore by that point? Still, Eddie had nothing better to do and he needed to look like he belonged and so he watched.

Eddie couldn’t say how much time had passed. He kind of zoned out watching the rhythmic movements of the other boy’s hands on the joystick and buttons. It was only when the group around him all yelled out and the hands stopped moving that he snapped back to reality. Eddie glanced at those around him and was met with disappointed faces. The crowd began to disperse, some going to the boy to say a few words. He heard a “better luck next time” in there and figured he must have failed.

With the crowd now gone and Eddie’s hiding spot taken with it, he turned to look back at the entrance to check the status of the weather. If he’d been paying attention, he might have seen that he caught the notice of gamer he’d been watching. When he turned back, finding that it had slowed but was still pouring, he found that he was no longer alone. Dark eyes magnified by big glasses, floppy, curly black hair and a crooked grin stared back at him and he wondered if he’d blown his cover.

“Kaspbrak. I didn’t take you for a game enthusiast. Don’t think I’ve ever even seen you here.” He said.

Eddie searched his brain for a name. It seemed rude not to greet him now that he’d called him by his own name. Or last name at least. Whether or not he knew his first name was still unclear. Still, Eddie couldn’t seem to find the name in his head. It was a small school, their graduating class a tiny fraction, yet he easily forgot the names of his classmates. If it wasn’t Bill, Mike or Ben, it just didn’t register. Though Eddie had definitely noticed him before. He was a part of his bisexual awakening a few years back along with a handful of other guys from school.

“I’m not really. This is my first time here. I just…it’s raining.” Eddie felt flustered as he gestured back to the front windows. Talking to attractive people was never an easy task. Not that his friends weren’t attractive. He was just used to them and he’d known them since they were kids with missing teeth and runny noses. Not cute.

“So it is.” He looked up over Eddie’s head, reminding him how much taller he was, and toward the windows. “And you chose the arcade to take shelter in. Couldn’t resist the smell of prepubescent sweat and nacho cheese wafting through the room?”

The thought was gross, but Eddie couldn’t stop the smile from forming. “Is that what that is?”

He opened his mouth to respond when another boy came by and slapped a hand down on his shoulder with a grin. “That kid tried to beat your score, Rich. I told him it wasn’t going to happen. I think he might be crying now.”

Rich? Richie! Eddie knew that he knew his name. He just needed a jolt. Now that he remembered, he also remembered all the nicknames he was called by their less than friendly classmates. Dick was the obvious one, Trashmouth a bit more creative. He’d heard his name called out in class often enough that it really should have stuck. Eddie wondered if he was self-absorbed. Why else would he forget a name so easily that he heard so often?

Richie finished talking to the boy who moved onto his next conversation, leaving the two alone again. Eddie didn’t know what was left to say. He wasn’t the best conversationalist. Not with practical strangers anyway. It didn’t help that he felt like all eyes were on them as Richie seemed to be somewhat of a celebrity to the younger kids.

“So…you’re not into games?” Richie asked, breaking the brief awkward silence between them.

“Not really, no. Plus the idea of touching machines that hundreds of other people have touched with their dirty hands it just disgusting.” Eddie wrinkled his nose.

“That’s right. You have that thing.”

“What thing?”

“That germ thing. What do they call it? Germaphobe?”

“I’m not a germaphobe. I just get grossed out easily.”

“No kidding. Last week I saw you gag when that couple passed gum between their mouths.”

“Any normal human would find that gross!” Eddie was laughing now, and it was weird how quickly he was becoming comfortable with Richie.

“You swap saliva while kissing anyway. What’s the difference?”

Eddie wasn’t sure if it was the conversation or Richie or the way he was smiling at him that was making his heartbeat so fast. He thought that if it weren’t so noisy everyone would be able to hear it. His bad mood from earlier, his argument with his mother, was gone from his mind and he focused on coming up with a response.

“It’s very different. Swapping gum is the same and eating already chewed food.” The thought made Eddie shiver in disgust.

“If you think that’s gross, then I wouldn’t suggest eating the food here.” Richie leaned in and whispered conspiratorially.

Before entering the establishment, Eddie had never known that they had a small kitchen in the back of the arcade. It was pretty gross. Who bought food at an arcade? He had glanced at the menu hanging above the order window. Hotdogs, burgers, nachos, fries and pizza. Eddie couldn’t imagine willingly eating any of it, especially after Richie’s previous comment. It made him laugh but also made his stomach turn.

“There’s a better place down the street. The chip shop. Ever been there?” Richie asked when Eddie made no move to respond.

“No. My mom frowns upon eating in restaurants. The cooks don’t wash their hands and you’ll get a parasite from it. So, she says anyway.”

Richie furrowed his eyebrows together and laughed a bit awkwardly. “I promise I’ve never gotten a parasite from them. They’ve got great burgers and fries though. Come on, you’ve got to try it at least once.”

Eddie turned as Richie passed him to walk toward the door. Miraculously, the rain had stopped, and the sun was shining beyond the front door. Being invited to get a meal with Richie was weirdly exciting but Eddie was reminded that he’d left home with empty pockets. He followed Richie to the door but stopped as soon as they were outside, frowning for the first time since talking to him.

“I don’t have any money with me. Rain check?” Eddie asked, the disappointment hard to ignore.

“Don’t worry about it. I got paid this morning.” Richie said, taking off down the street.

Eddie had to jog a bit to catch up. God, his legs were long. “No, I…I can’t let you pay for me.”

“It’s not a big deal. You can treat next time.”

The smile he sent Eddie’s way brought a visible blush to his cheeks and Eddie choked on a response. He’d been invited to eat with Richie. Now Richie was going to pay for him. He implied this wasn’t a one-time thing. Was Eddie naïve or had he been asked on a date without realizing it? That was a stupid thought as he didn’t even know if Richie was into guys and Richie didn’t know if Eddie was either. This was Derry. People didn’t exactly run around shouting that they were gay. They’d likely be killed or run out of town if they did. Still, it was possible, right? Did normal friendships start this way? He really didn’t know. The three friends he had were all made in elementary school when all you had to do to make a friend was invite them to play tag or share your cookies at lunch.

Eddie was sure there was a subtle way of finding out Richie’s intentions, but he didn’t know what it was. Aside from coming straight out and asking him or attempting to flirt, his mind was blank. And neither of those options was ideal. Or really possible for Eddie. He’d chicken out if he tried to ask and he’d never successfully flirted with anyone. He always became too tongue tied when he tried and ended up embarrassed.

When they arrived at the chip shop, Richie held the door open for him and he managed to nearly trip over his own feet walking through the door. He internally berated himself for being so unsmooth and couldn’t ignore the smile his lack of grace earned from Richie. Their menu was small but then again so was the shop. It was narrow, booths lining both walls with a small walkway in between. The whole back wall was made up of the counter and Eddie noticed there were no customer bathrooms. He wouldn’t be able to wash his hands before eating. It was fine. He was fine. He wouldn’t die from eating one meal without washing his hands.

They each ordered a burger and a side of fries to share. Richie paid and a few brief, awkwardly quiet, minutes later, they were receiving their order. Richie lead him to a booth halfway between the door and the counter. Eddie was once again reminded that this was so unbelievably foreign to him. If it were Bill, Mike and Ben he’d feel totally relaxed. He’d slide into the booth, probably with Ben, and eat as if it was the first meal he’d had in weeks. Now he felt anxious. He didn’t want to embarrass himself or make a mess of himself. He’d made sure to only get one messy toppy on his burger, opting for ketchup. It would probably stain more than the others, but he didn’t like mustard and mayo could be mistaken for other things he didn’t want to think about. Not while sitting across from Richie.

He took small bites of his burger, only taking a fry every few bites and he wondered if other people ate their food so carefully. Calculating the possible outcome of each bite before he took it. It was sad, wasn’t it? Spending time with a potential new friend and being so nervous he could barely function like a normal human being. He blamed his mother. She kept him from socializing for so long, it was something he had to learn from observing others closely. Just another thing to add to the long list of reasons to hate her.

The silence was beginning to weight on Eddie. Every so often Richie would say something, but it didn’t spark a conversation and he couldn’t take it anymore. He had to say something soon or the anxious nerves were going to build up and cause him to launch off his seat like a little rocket.

“So…video games…I heard you have a lot of high scores.” He said, inwardly cringing at his lack of conversational skills.

“I have a few. I’m on the board for pretty much every game in the arcade.” Richie looked proud but Eddie was confused.

“Is that where you spend all your free time? What about hanging out with friends?” Eddie knew that he was friends with Beverly and there was another guy he was often seen with. Started with an S. Stanley?

“I still hang out with them a lot. The arcade is just…”

“Just what?”

Richie seemed hesitant to speak again, taking an exceptionally long sip from his drink. Briefly Eddie wondered if he should have pushed it. He just wanted to know more about him, and the arcade seemed like a safe starting point for a personal conversation. Maybe he was wrong.

“Just a safe place. Things at home aren’t great and the arcade is like an escape from it all. I don’t have to think about anything else except what’s happening on the screen. I don’t have to worry about my dad calling me a disappointment when there are alien invaders to blast out of the sky.” He smiled but it was without humor. It broke Eddie’s heart to see that look on his face.

“I get it. I wish I had a place like that to escape to.” Eddie of course would go to his friends houses when things got rough at home, but he always worried about being a burden. They’d tell him again and again that he wasn’t, but he couldn’t change his own mind. If he had a place like the arcade, he wouldn’t spend another day wandering through the rain looking for refuge.

“What made you come to the arcade today? Was it really just the rain or were you out for a walk and got unlucky? I can’t imagine any reason I’d leave home without some cash.” Richie pointed a fry at him as he spoke, seeming a bit more relaxed.

“I just needed to get out of my house for a while. My mom is…a lot.”

“Yea I’ve kind of heard rumors about her.”

“Wait, what? Where? There are rumors about my mom?” Eddie felt slightly panicked. He’d never heard anyone talking about his mom before and he could only imagine the things that were being said.

“People say she’s super overprotective and doesn’t let you out of the house much.”

Well that was partially true. Overprotective, definitely but she couldn’t keep him inside. She’d tried and he always found a way out. He made it clear that he wasn’t going to be caged in. “Overprotective is an understatement.”

“Worse than that?”

“Way worse. She’s terrified of me getting sick or hurt so she goes out of her way to make sure it doesn’t happen. Our entire house would be padded if she had her way. I cut my hand today-.” Eddie held his hand up to show the bandage there. “-and she caused it panicking over the potential of me cutting myself. The irony is lost on her.”

“Is that why you went out in the rain?”

“I thought a cold rain shower would help calm me down after the screaming match.”

Richie smiled. “Did it work?”

“No.”

“But you seem calmer.”

Eddie didn’t say anything. He wanted to say that it was because of him but couldn’t make the words leave his mouth. He didn’t know how Richie would react to that. If he was completely wrong about his intentions, Eddie could end up making things very awkward. The last thing he needed was rumors to be spread around town that he was gay. His life would become hell outside of the house as well and he couldn’t handle that. Sure, there were bullies but they didn’t bother him much. If they thought he liked men, he could only imagine the things they’d do to him. So, he kept his mouth shut and just continued to smile as he stuffed a fry into his mouth.

They finished their meals while talking about school and friends. When they finished, Richie convinced Eddie to follow him to a “secret location”. He said that something cool always happened there after it rained. Part of Eddie was afraid to go. He didn’t really know Richie or what his intentions were. He could really be leading him to a cool spot he frequented, or he could be leading him to a trap. Would be pay for his lunch just to beat him up? It really was a silly thought as he knew for a fact that Richie was bullied as well.

Eddie followed him all the way to the edge of town, down a grassy field by the quarry to the edge of the woods. His anxiety only grew with each step he took farther from civilization and help. Richie walked past the line of trees a few feet before stopping. Eddie was distracted by the way his shoes were sinking into the mud and almost didn’t notice that he’d stopped in front of him. He just barely avoided crashing directly into him. Probably best that he didn’t as the muddy ground was slippery and likely would have sent both lurching forward into the mess in front of them.

Looking down, Eddie saw a flooded swampy area on the ground with sticks and leaves floating. The most notable thing was the frogs. He wasn’t sure just how many there were as they wouldn’t stop moving long enough for him to count, but there were fifteen at least. They were a distance away to keep from disturbing them, but close enough for Eddie to worry about one jumping on him.

“Cool, right?” Richie aske, looking back at Eddie. “They always come out like this after a heavy rainfall.”

“I’m not gonna lie…I wasn’t expecting frogs.”

“What were you expecting?”

Eddie shrugged because he didn’t know what he’d been expecting. He had about a million possible scenarios running through his head, but none were probable. In the end, anything that Richie had to show him would have surprised him.

“Do you always come here after it rains?” Eddie asked.

“Not always. Bev and I found them by chance when we were out for a walk. I’ve come back a few times and they’re always here. I like listening to them.”

Eddie looked at Richie’s face in time to see the content smile spread across his lips. He’d never seen him look this happy and it sent butterflies to his stomach.

“I feel like I’m intruding on your secret spot.” Eddie admitted, feeling a little awkward.

“You’re only the third person who has seen this with me.” Richie said. “Bev obviously being one and Stan the other. So, I guess it is a secret.”

“Why show me then?”

“Because I like you.”

The smile he sent Eddie’s way made him dizzy. Of course, Eddie knew he meant as a friend but hearing those words from a cute boy was like an arrow to the heart. The last thing he needed was to fall for a potential new friend who might very well be straight. Yet, there he was, eyes fixated on his mouth wondering what he tasted like.

A second later he’d know the answer. Ketchup and salt from the meal they’d shared. Of course, he wasn’t actually thinking about that when Richie leaned down and planted one on him. The exact thought running through is mind was something like “danger, danger! Brain explosion in 3…2…”. He’d only been kissed once at a Christmas party. He didn’t even realize he was standing under the mistletoe until Ben’s cousin swooped in and kissed him. It was nothing like this.

When Richie pulled away, Eddie wasn’t honestly sure if he’d kissed him back. His brain had short circuited almost immediately and he was still trying to figure out if it had really happened. Richie was smiling, his hand on Eddie’s cheek and his thumb resting on the corner of his mouth.

“I…you…” Eddie couldn’t make a coherent thought come to his mind. His tongue felt thick in his mouth and his head was mush. “Kissed. We kissed.” He finally managed.

“Is that ok? You didn’t say anything after I said I like you, so I took my chance.” Richie said, tilting his head slightly.

“Ok. Yea. It was…ok. Definitely.”

Richie laughed and Eddie hated that he sounded so stupid and out of it. “I’ve always noticed you at school and wanted to talk to you, but people tend not to like my sense of humor. Admiring you from afar was better than you hating me.”

“You liked me before today? Like…before meeting me? Why?”

Richie leaned back against a tree and sighed. “Why? Let’s see…because your adorable doe eyes make me weak when they’re all scrunched up in anger. I’ve heard you laughing with your friends and that little snort you make is one of my favorite sounds. When you got mad in class when you were told you’d fail if you skipped the dissection, I swear I had heart bubbles around my head when you called Mr. Groff a masochistic amphibian murderer.” He was laughing at the memory and Eddie was sure he was going to melt.

“I…couldn’t remember your name.” Eddie winced as the words fell from his lips. “I mean, I knew who you were I just…I’m bad with names. But I’ve noticed you too. You’re part of the reason I realized I liked guys. I just wanted to be honest because you just said a lot of stuff and were really honest, so it only felt fair that I-.”

Richie cut off Eddie’s rambling with another kiss. This time Eddie stayed focused on the feel of his lips, soft and wet and salty. They stayed like that for a while, together in the canopy of the trees, getting to know one another and kissing when the mood struck. Richie gave Eddie his number, told him to call when he needed somewhere to go. He would be there to take him away. To help him escape.

[cgirat]

i’m not always proud

brain big so this is a bandersnatch (2018) and pride (2014) crossover fic purely because theyre both set in the 80s and i think that joe & stefan would be a sweet couple. title is from thos moser by gupi ft fraxiom because im like that

joe cooper/stefan butler

Pride 1985. Joe marches proudly; lesbians and gays do support the miners, it's an act of solidarity as they're both treated unfairly by the government and the police. It's the best feeling being proud of who he is because for so long he'd hidden it for fear of how his family might look at him, he was out to practically everyone but the people that were meant to be closest to him. Within just a few months a lot has changed, he's moved in with Stephanie, he's working at a café near Gay's the Word, the pastry chef likes him enough they Joe gets to help out sometimes and the activism is going well so life is really looking up. It's a new way of living and he's getting used to it and overall he's happy with it.

Love does not seem to be something that's going to happen for Joe. He deals with that as best as he can, he doesn't try and force anything, if he goes to the bars and a man there wants him he's okay to make out. But no one asks him out or seems to be looking for commitment, he gets it they're young and he's still early into adulthood so it's whatever.

A young man seems to be loitering after the march is over with his hands in his pockets, eyes wide open and lips set in a straight line. Joe sees him across the street while Steph's abandoned him for some goth lesbian and they make eye contact for a brief moment before he looks away. Joe finds him a weird kind of beautiful, something about him is sharp and Joe doesn't look away. He wouldn't have crossed the street towards the man if he hasn't looked back at Joe. Pride is as good a time as any to be friendly.

Close up the man is shorter than Joe. He's still weirdly handsome at this distance and his dark hair and green eyes are intriguing.

"Did you have fun at the march today?"

The dude looks startled if wide eyes are anything to go by. "Uhhh, well, I didn't catch much of it, I was just on my way back home, actually."

"Oh cool, you should come to next year's march it'll be bigger and better hopefully." Joe smiles politely, getting the cue that the dudes not like him and he's prepared to turn around until he hears him speak again.

"Stefan. Me, uh. I'm Stefan." Stefan falls over his words, smiling sheepishly, revealing rows of shark teeth. His smile is endearing. He puts his hand out for Joe to shake.

"I'm Joe." he accepts Stefan's hand in a shake and Joe notes that his hand is warm but his shake isn't very confident.

They smile at each other for a bit even though it's awkward when Stefan releases Joe's hand and his own retreats to the pockets of his jacket.

"Well if you're not in a rush home feel free to come to our post pride party. It's at Gay's the Word; last years was good so hopefully, this year will be too."

Stefan smiles again. It's toothy and contagious.

They spend the rest of the night getting to know each other. Stefan isn't as closed off as Joe was a year ago, he talks about work and geeks out over computers and video games. He works at Tuckersoft and has already developed a "choose your own adventure" game based off of a book that received decent reviews. Joe thinks he's probably being modest. When he talks about it it seems very complicated and Joe instantly knows that Stefan is way smarter than he'll ever be because he knows smart, educated people things. It's like looking into the past, Stefan is 20 and he's closeted? Straight? Joe doesn't want to ask as it's none of his business no matter how much he wants to kiss him a little.

Joe and Stefan walk arm in arm to the bus stop and stay linked there while waiting. Stefan is a little drunk and so he talks a lot but Joe welcomes it. Joe's laughing at Stefan who can't seem to get over the fact that Joe's nickname is so shit.

"Bromley, of all the town's to be named after-"

"Even now I wonder if it's meant to be cute or if they're taking the piss."

Stefan huffs out a laugh, "I'm thankfully uninteresting so I don't have any nicknames." He pauses. "Having two friends helps as well, one of them is my dad but he's not the nicknaming type."

"It's lonely in the office?"

"Very." Stefan rests his head on the glass of the bus shelter. "Especially today, I wasn't even supposed to be in but my therapist forgot to tell me that she'd moved my appointment to Tuesday so I went there instead. I bet she was at the march today." he pauses for a moment. "Why does she even do appointments on Saturdays? Overworking is my thing."

Joe can't take his eyes away from Stefan's face. His eyes are closed and his face glows in the orange of the street lights.

"She's a lesbian?" He may be curious but whatever Stefan goes to therapy for is none of his business. He wants to know, though, one day.

"I'm not sure, I didn't ask, but you know when you can kinda just tell?"

Joe gulps. "I didn't meet a lesbian until my 20th birthday."

Stefan laughs, eyes opening and staring at Joe incredulously. "Wow, you were incredible sheltered. Can't you just tell? Like Colin's girlfriend, I don't think she's a lesbian because she's dating him but something about her isn't.... Normal."

It's past midnight. June 30th. It's officially his birthday and Joe can't catch a break. "I'm Bromley, remember?"

Stefan's laugh is glorious to hear. It's aided by a few cans of beer but welcome nonetheless. "Well happy gay birthday Bromley." he laughs, gesturing to the pin on Joe’s jacket that he’d forgotten about. of course he blushes, that’s all he’s capable of doing.

Stefan’s bus comes too soon after that. Joe says that if ever he wants to meet up again he should just go to Gay's the Word and ask for him. Then he's gone. Joe's heart flutters.

-

The next time they get the opportunity to hang out Joe ends up going to Stefan's workplace. He brings pastries and coffee which Stefan's boss eyes and makes a point of mentioning how disrespectful Joe is to come to the offices without offerings. Like the weakling he is, he gives Thakur the pain au chocolat that was meant for himself. Stefan laughs to himself, even if he keeps his eyes trained on his monitor. He and Stefan spend the day there, Joe dicks around on the computer next to him and they talk easily about the game, the book and work. Stefan reveals he wasn't really planning on releasing any games after Bandersnatch but he just kept on living after its release and with nothing better to do he started coding again. Joe hates being presumptive but he sees why Stefan's seeing a therapist.

On the way out, they swing round the record shop.

"I told my dad about you. I told him I have three friends now..." But he quickly looks up looking for reassurance from Joe, "if that's alright with you. If we aren't friends he won't be surprised if the number goes down I'm not the easiest person to get along with so-"

"Of course we're friends. You compliment my baking and photography I'm an easy man."

"Really? How easy?"

Joe flushes.

"Bad joke, sorry I didn't take my medication."

"Your medication makes you less inquisitive to your friend’s private lives?"

"Well yeah. I found out most of what I know about Colin when I was flushing them."

"Funny how that works...."

Stefan rolls his eyes while he picks out a record. Pearl jam. Steph loves them.

-

Stefan's a welcome addition to his life. He's easy to get along with, not as loud as Joe's other friends and he makes time for Joe.

He's helping at the book shop (filling shelves, taking some books upstairs for storage) with Mark.

"Y'know Bromley, I'm surprised you have time to be here between work and that boyfriend of yours." He says offhand.

That strikes Joe because boyfriend? He's been single forever having never dated seriously. He tries to never think about that because he's only getting older. He pauses from flipping through the book that he's holding.

"Boyfriend?"

"The one from pride. How'd you not know your own partner, the one with the dark hair and leather jacket?"

"Stefan?" Joe can feel himself flushing. "We're friends, what?" He laughs nervously.

"Oh, poor naive Bromley. You sheltered folk sure do congregate." Mark laughs. It's a joke that Joe doesn't really get it. It's not funny because they're not into each other that way. Joe rationalises it to himself, how Stefan and him just wouldn't work out because Stefan seems preoccupied and Joe doesn't fight for attention. He won't.

[9uk]

Let Me Stay Close To You : part 6

⌲ summary : you were finally free from the worst nightmare of your life in high school. the doors of college welcomed you with open arms, you were set on living your best life in here, away from the toxicity back at home. that shimmer of hope in restoring your life, was somehow effortlessly crushed by a tap on your shoulder. “Hey Y/N, why don’t you say we catch up for a moment?”

⌲ pairing : bully!jungkook x reader

⌲ word count : 5.6k

⌲ genre: angst

⌲ warnings : mentions of abuse, snakes

⌲ a/n : i’m so so sorry this is unedited and written at 4 am & i just wanna thank you guys for waiting and please give me all the feedback i need to improve so bad. idk sometimes i think my writing is little draggy but it is lacking lots of info as well, or maybe i don’t like to read long descriptions or something idk lol just tell me ur opinion.

part five >  part six  > epilogue

It is a feeling long gone but never forgotten.

It must be the most cruel joke of the year—Jeon Jungkook in the arms of Y/N.

He feels breathless, like the infinite darkness has consumed all the oxygen in his lungs, sucking every last bit of him out of his body like the blackhole. He hated it. He absolutely detested it.

The dark. It was something that reminded him of the times he hid in the corner of his bedroom, praying with bleeding lips —that he had bitten down onto so hard out of fear—and trembling hands, as he awaited the lashing he was going to receive. 

He started to think that it was happening on a daily basis now, how at any point in time at night he father would bust into the room with a cane, his dark figure looming by his door and Jungkook would shudder away as the tears involuntarily slip from his eyes.

 At 3 am, he would sit by his window and watch the moon with much resentment, silently as he sinks into the abyss of the night. 

The deep cuts and harsh bruises on his body was painful. But nothing could compare to the betrayal he felt when he sees his mother happily chatting over tea with a friend—all this while, when he was locked up in a random room—almost getting beaten to death with a thick rod away in the late hours of the night.

Jungkook doesn’t care if he gets caught loitering in the open hallway like that, he had nothing to lose and was ready to risk it all if he was granted just one look of his loving mother. 

He missed her a lot. 

The quiet times he spent in the suffocating room made him think about how much he took her love for granted.

 Was love supposed to be earned? 

He didn’t know that love—something he thought was the warm embrace of his birth giver, the extra marshmallows she would pop into his hot chocolate, the peonies she picked and tucked into his hair, the voice as smooth as silk aiding him into a deep slumber—would too, consist of a unimaginable amount of lies after lies, betrayal at its finest, and the revelation of the ugly side of it all. 

Her eyes fall onto his frail figure, one that has been tortured physically to a point of plain damage.

He was a hundred percent sure it was his mom—from the way she habitually blinks with her right eye a couple of times between normal blinks, from the way her fingers wrap around the entire teacup rather than the mini handle. Yet, instead of her eyes widening and growing with worry for her child being abused beyond the line of humanity—she furrows her brow, and her gaze turns into a glare, one he always faced when he picks on his vegetables, and she storms to him, grabbing him by the sleeve of his shirt, dragging him back to the room where he’d belonged.

She aggressively shoved at his shoulder, “You’d better dare not come out of here again. If father sees you, I don’t know what he will do to you. And I won’t be able to help you.” She wipes at her skirt, as if she had just laid her hands on a piece of garbage.

“Mommy!” He can’t help but cry out at her entire change in attitude towards him,

before her face contorts in disgust, slamming the wooden door in his face followed by a locking noise at the keyhole.

Jungkook refuses to believe what had just happened, so he screams as loud as he could, not caring about how piercing the shrills of his voice were—hoping that she would hear his expression of his misery through the seperation and feel at least a tinge of pity for him.

 He sucks in a deep breath, tears successfully rolling down his face a waterfall, and he screams even louder if that was possible—he wants her to have his yells of plea engraved in the back of her head, appearing every so often to haunt her in her sleep and taint her with guilt. He wants his mother to snap back to her old self, the one who would be carefully placing bandaids over the tears on his skin.

Unfortunately, her footsteps fades into the distance, and she returns to teatime with her acquaintance, shredding all of her last bit of conscience for her son.

A piece of garbage he was.

Freedom shined like a butterfly crawling out if its cocoon bathing in fresh sunlight for the very first time. 

Jungkook was released from his room like a convict when the grim news of the passing of his brother arrived to the household. He wasn’t even allowed to attend his biological brother’s funeral, like he was a bad omen or something of the sort.

During this period of time, he was frequently left alone in his room with his usual three meals and toys he grew bored of. The monster didn’t visit at night, for the grieving over his brother was too much to bear apparently. It gave him enough time for his injuries to heal, a skin forming over them barely covering anything except to provide protection against infections honestly.

However, after a several days pass the door unlocks and he trembles in pure terror. Was this his fate?

That there would be no end to the treatment his own family gave him, that he would have to spend all his birthdays along with his Ironman plushie as he sang himself to being an age older.

He prayed, for it was all he could do.

To his surprise, he never knew the bedroom door opening this time, was to a whole new world for him. Jungkook begin going to school, being able to eat meals at the main dining table, put his foot up on the couch if he wished, enjoy hot showers and roam freely—even out of the estate.

A unfamiliar yet eye-opening concept of life.

He wasn’t complaining.

His father remained cold as ice towards him and he couldn’t bother much about his mother, after seeing the way she left him to drown on his own in a pool of misery and despair. He was no longer desperate for parental love or attention, they ignored him but kept him in check when needed and he enjoyed life more than he could have ever imagined.

‘Study hard’ and ‘Take over the company’ were two phrases he heard a lot coming from both freaks and he just did as told, knowing how his grades would get him whatever he wanted now.

He didn’t even have to ask, and the poshest car or the latest limited edition pair of shoes would arrive at his doorstep. 

His life seemed almost perfect now, except that he still hasn’t learnt how to sleep with the lights off. 

And that is because he simply can’t. The absence of light would bring him back to those days where he tossed and turned with nightmares swirling in his mind, worries overtaking his pounding heart and his father showing up with a potential weapon in hand. 

He doesn’t see his father often, assuming he is coped up at the office with work and his mother still endlessly mourning over the loss of his brother, finger tracing over his smiling features in his middle school portrait. The boy was long gone but never erased from his mother’s heart.

 While he was at the brink of death and she did not even bat an eye.

 He was smart—he just had to be obedient and he would get whatever he wanted, no more bad treatments anymore—he was now treated like a king. Sometimes he thinks that he owes his life to his brother. 

It was like a sacrifice made to save him from his predicament.

A really, depressing and tragic sacrifice.

One that switched the initial plan of the Jeon Family and their business—one that his parents decided to use and groom Jungkook to become the heir.

One that made the girl stop visiting ever since.

One that changed the destinies of the two children who met at the company dinner.

Jungkook has never fallen asleep with the lights switched off before. 

That is, until he did exactly so in your bedroom.

 He is unable to comprehend how he actually managed to do just so, fall asleep peacefully in complete darkness. Nonetheless, he did wake up after a couple of hours breaking out in cold sweat with his arms clutched around your stiffening form. 

Jungkook hates how the feeling of holding and pulling you close to him is so comforting in an unexplainable manner, and how you felt nothing less than home. Jungkook is beginning to doubt why the hell he started these petty grudges with you—when you were a fibre away from the woman he used to love wholeheartedly. Keyword : used to. However, it was a tad too late for regrets.

 He was only left with two choices of compensation and reconciliation. They were undeniably difficult to carry out, especially having hurt someone to an extent that far it’s almost outrageous. He thinks what he has done in the past to you is absolutely unforgivable. 

Because if he was asked to do the same for his father’s mistakes, there would be only one option.

“You’re back early today. No dates or parties to attend tonight?” You cheekily tease as Sooyoung walks through the front door.

 A few moments later, she doesn’t reply as she settles her bag down onto the couch and toss the car keys onto the table.

 There was resentment written all over her face, she looked annoyed and in an extremely bad mood. You decided to keep quiet, considering that it isn’t the best time to speak when she felt this way over god knows what.

Sooyoung fumbles around some clothes, before she is heading for the door again, completely ignoring your existence.

  No, please just Jungkook ignoring me would suffice.

You couldn’t let this slide and worry about what you had done to offend her for the whole night.

Just as she slings her bag over her shoulders, you open your mouth again. 

“Sooyoung-ah, where are you going?”

She barely even looks over her shoulder to face you, before replying, “To meet Seulgi and Wendy.” 

She was brushing you off so casually.

 You felt like this more than the number of fingers on both hands could count, when people offered you help after Jungkook threw your pencil case in the bin or poured your lunch over your papers, you would think there would be a chance in making proper friends with them and escape this cruel torment. It wasn’t until you tried to sit with them in lunch and the whole group of students suddenly went quiet, the feeling uncomfortable to beyond. It’s like your presence made them stop discussing about anything, they awkwardly scratched the back of their necks before hurriedly placing the food trays back and scurrying off to class, leaving you alone at the table.

 It was silly of you to think that people have begun to accept you just because they offered you a piece of tissue paper.

That day, you looked at your food and watched the tear drops fall into the gravy.

And from then on, you never went down for lunch ever again.

You’re thinking about why you weren’t invited, especially when it was always the four of you, no more or less. You didn’t want to lose this precious bunch of friends, and you surely weren’t overthinking when you felt that they were leaving you out on purpose.

“Uh, I’m not invited?” 

The words came out way more obnoxious than you had intended, it had an aftertaste of bitterness and spite. You regret it immediately as you witness her face fall even more, into an irritated frown.

“You want to be invited after what you did at the party?”

Kiss Taehyung? Scold Jungkook? What was it?

“What... I did at the party?” You genuinely question, scanning every small action or word you had done or said back then.

“Oh c’mon. Let’s quit playing dumb. You clearly knew how much Seulgi liked Taehyung and you had the audacity to make out with him?”

Your lips parted in shock. Sooyoung was clearly the one who suggested to go over and converse with Taehyung, as well as the one who left you alone with him. 

Why was she being so pretentious about the whole situation?

Did she like him?

But you had to admit Seulgi totally slipped your mind when Taehyung wrapped his hand around the back of your neck and kissed you hard.

“I just-“ You try to explain yourself. Only to face a dead end. 

It was your fault, and all the fingers were pointed at you right now. You exhaled, “My mind wasn’t in a clear state when that happened, and I just went with the flow, I really did not mean to hurt Seulgi or anything-“

Wow, you sounded even more pretentious than Sooyoung.

“Do you know how upset Seulgi got, when Taehyung was filling her up with details of how you practically threw yourself at him like a whore?” ‘And disappointed’ She mumbled softly to herself, but it wasn’t missed by your ear.

 “I never knew behind this facade of obedience and innocence lied someone who was so sly and disloyal.”

Your friends felt betrayed. 

You had no words to retaliate or argue with what Sooyoung had just said—because you think it’s true, you see yourself as that kind of a person too.

 You ignored the fact that Sooyoung kept complimenting Taehyung right in your face, that nothing really happened between the both of you that night thanks to a certain someone, and that Taehyung deviously lied about you throwing yourself at him. It happened because of both parties’ consents and desires. 

And despite all these facts that they never went to consider before labelling you as a whore, the damage has been done. 

The true colours have been revealed.

She swipes her car keys off the countertop when you’re left speechless and guilty, heading out once more. 

You felt like crying, but for some reason you couldn’t.

It was something you should have expected from the very start.

Losing the people you hold close to your heart was something you were beginning to get so used to. This felt worse, because you chose to hurt them.

People would comfort you by saying that it is unintentional and that you didn’t have the need to feel bad or upset, but you’re starting to feel like a monster yourself. You are rather thankful for your first ever friends after so long to leave your side, because it’s what an asshole like you deserves. 

A new chance had already been granted to you, and yet just so easily and quickly—you screwed everything up. Maybe a person like you did not deserve to live a normal life. 

You were meant to be alone, you always have been and you always will. 

The loud slam of the wooden door is a finger snap to your face, and you realise why all those years you had shut yourself off from people—you don’t think you are able to handle the kind of pain that squeezes tightly at your heart and constricts your chest when they leave. 

If people come and go so easily, you had might as well not let them enter at all. You think it saves a few more heartbreaks and opportunities of getting hurt.

Your whole body is stinging with numbness as your mind is nothing but a blank, you walk over to the coffee table—one which you and Sooyoung had shared the local pastries over a season of Friends for one too many a times—and ur heart clenches at that. 

Sly and disloyal. 

You don’t think you are able to forget those words that callously shot like daggers at you—for it was done by someone you loved and cherished a lot since you offered to share that damn kettle.

Picking up your wallet, you flip it open only to be met with the genuine smiles—something that the both of you often shared when you were younger. 

The old photograph was taken in the middle of summer, when two carefree kids hung out at the beach with silly floats and fancy swimsuits, rainbow popsicles in their hands. The glaring sun light as seen in the picture reminded you of how your childhood was filled with nothing but fragrant flowers and fresh sunshine, that made one feel young, wild and free.

You never saw that sunlight again.

Instead, you choose to view the moon in the darkest shade of night now, admiring how celestial and full it looked—to replace the emptiness you felt in your heart. Junghyun is someone you would rarely forget, for the round shining whiteness in the sea of black was always there as a constant reminder of the boy who played a major part in your younger years.

“Look at the moon, if you ever feel sad. Then think about me,” Your best friend nudges your elbow with a playful quirk of his brow, he turns to look at your tear stained face with something close to adoration. “And always remember that no matter where I will be,”

“…I will always love you.”

You chuckle at how stupid you must sound, reciting something as small as a foolish promise between two kids to comfort yourself. You’re laughing and yet, the tears never seem to stop falling from your eyes. 

The memories of that fateful day was sewn into your mind—the two of you were kicking water in the shallow pool, only for you to carelessly drop the Tamagotchi you have in hand into the water. Junghyun immediately dives in forgetting about any form of hesitation, fishing out your sinking device like a lifeguard. ‘It’s okay’ he says, ‘I’ll get you something even better.’ When your pet is glitched out and doesn’t respond to your commands anymore, you began wailing like the little brat you are. After he wipes your tears causing an unbearably cute pout is formed on your tiny features, he said those words you’d never thought you would cling onto for life. That night, it was the first time he ever asked for something from his parents.

Both adults were initially confused by the sudden request, but compiled to it anyway without further questions. And when Junghyun woke up to a brand new Nintendo DS placed on his study desk, his face gleamed with satisfaction.

There’s a knot forming in your throat and your lungs are deprived of air as you attempt to cease the relentless sobbing. 

The illumination of the moon—for some reason—seems extraordinarily fluorescent tonight.

The anatomy project has long been finalised and submitted. The grades of it would even be released by the end of this week. It’s been over weeks since Jungkook and you have ever spoken a word to each other. Since the complicated yet warm hug had taken place between the both of you, you detached yourself from his body after your breath steadied and your mind clear of the drunken, built-up frustration—only muttering an excuse to hurriedly leave before he could say anything else to you. 

You left him standing there feeling more peculiar than ever. 

The hug, the party. You words slap him across the face once more as he recalls the exact thing you had said to him. 

You were never more right.

 He was this horrible, sick-minded and sadistic piece of trash—was he any better than the man who beat him to death on a daily basis?

Taehyung wasn’t the best for you, but he had no right to interrupt whatever was going on at that point in time between the both of you.

 Simply because he wasn’t any better. 

In fact, he feels like he’s much worse than his friend—who sticks his dick in every living thing—Jungkook is a dick himself.

At least Taehyung was nice without trying and he knew the correct things to say or do, even more so he knew how to control his emotions and temper. Maybe that’s how he gets all the girls hung up on him even after he uses them like rags of clothes.

Jungkook wasn’t good at any of that. 

Properly communicating and interacting with people just wasn’t his forté.

 If he’s angry, he lifts his hand. If he’s happy, he says things that cross the line. If he’s sad, he converts that to anger and resort to violence to shield that one bit of vulnerability from anyone, not wanting to seem weak at all. 

That is why his circle of friends is small, and he feels like he doesn’t even truly know and understand any of them. But you? Damn, you knew his temper like the back of your hand, you’ve seen him in his angriest form, you’ve witnessed fear overcome every cell of him and undergo a panic attack, you’ve watched him on the brink of tears as he ventured through another nightmare—and yet, he knew nothing about you.

You would forever remain as this mysterious and unpredictable person to him—and that, never failed to make him feel exasperated by the overpowering need to explore every millimetre of you, inside out. 

He was unable to identify your soft spots or pick on your weaknesses—you were typically unreactive to anything that he does. 

The time he spent in college with you was nothing but an emotional rollercoaster, an absolute train-wreck. 

In class, he wouldn’t even notice your presence for you snuck in five minutes late in a dark hoodie and black jeans, lurking in the corner of the lecture hall, before hastily leaving the second the lecturer ended the lesson.

He realises that you were becoming similar to the girl in high school, he notices that your group of friends at the cafeteria had one person missing and it was always you. He wonders if you have “left the squad” or aren’t on talking terms anymore. He wonders what had happened to cause the falling out between you and your friends. Or maybe you were just being yourself, avoiding contact with humans in general. Like a shadow, you loomed in the secret spaces, disappearing and reappearing as and when you wished.

It wasn’t until that day he roamed the streets around town, exploring the people and places a little with his giant camera. He felt like a tourist in a foreign country when he was actually studying and living on this land.

 For him, everywhere felt foreign, even the posh villa (and many other more estates) he owned didn’t even feel like home. Nothing was close to the feeling of his mother’s fingers intertwined with his own—aforementioned lady long gone and burnt to ashes in the back of his mind.

Home—a feeling he cannot grasp despite the fountains of cash and power coming his way, the throne at the very top of JEON entertainment hungrily waiting for him to take over—Jungkook only felt it again after what seemed like decades, in your fucking bed, hugging you to sleep. 

The thoughts of you are shaken away violently when he—whether by fate or luck— decides to enter a fast food restaurant wanting to grab some fries. Not only did he get the strips of potatoes he craved for, he also managed to spot you just behind the counter, eyes wide and brows raised. It was adorable to see how you acted like you didn’t notice him at all, clearing your throat and blindly meddling with the smoothie machine.

Jungkook simply snickers at your obvious reaction.

It was almost as if the sight of you effortlessly stuck a smile to his face.

The joint only had customers leaving one by one after dinner time, the queue to the cashier nonexistent and he made good use of that matter of fact.

He confidently strides up to you—acting like he didn’t recently get yelled at by you, then hugged you, and at the very same time get ditched by you—and you quickly whisper to one of your colleague’s ear, begging him to take Jungkook’s order for you. Judging by how you were speedily undoing your apron, he takes the hint and waits for a while before backtracking and joining you in the bathroom with a smirk plastered on his face.

He had you trapped and not even your shadow wouldn’t be able to escape this time.

“Hello.” He greets lowly with his palm of the wall and his legs crossed, taking up the whole doorway when you emerge from the cubicle.

“Oh my fuck-“ You jump and his heart does little somersaults.

“Long time no-“

“Is there something you need?” He is cut off short in the speed of light, your dumbass face looking unbothered to the point where it’s scary.

Your tone is dead and dull, lacking any sort of energy and emotion, but the prompt sounds snarky coming out of you.

Your gaze was in all directions other than in his, you seemed uninterested and distant.

He shrugs it away, before answering, “Yes actually. I will wait till you knock off.” 

You want to argue and tell him that it’s a bad idea, and that he was the last person you want to see—but he spins to leave leaving you no choice.

Jungkook emitted a stench that leaks of a strong sense of dread and burning infuriation inside of you. The whole restaurant smells of Jungkook and you want to shun away from his incessant staring at your working form.

 “Is that handsome dude your boyfriend?” Kihyun points to the culprit of your everlasting dread and the persistent sighs coming out of you with his chin and he pokes your side with a side of his lips curling upwards. 

You squeak and smack his hand away, “Is not.” 

He scoffs at the firm denying of yours and continues, since number of customers were at minimum and there was nothing much to do left with a quarter to closing.

“As if. Why the hell is waiting for you then?” You roll your eyes.

When he obtains silence, he proceeds to press at your buttons.

  “To hold hands and smooch on the way home together!” He purposefully sings aloud for Jungkook to hear and you kick his butt trying to shut him up.

It’s a pity Kihyun is a young father of twins and the most fun and easygoing manager you could ever have. To tell the truth, he’s part of the reason why you’d stay working at this shitty place. You’d think he would make a great bestfriend if not for his age and family responsibilities. His personality also sadly resembled your late bestfriend a lot—funny, selfless and wise.

It was the first time you couldn’t even bear to clock out, because that would mean it was time to deal with Jungkook.

He excitedly leapt up from his seat, making his way to your side as you hooked your bag over your shoulder. It had been a long day of school and work, and Jungkook was there to extend it even more. Your shoulders visibly slouch at the thought. 

Stepping out of the restaurant, Jungkook stood beside you with a takeaway in hand, looking like he’s been dying to ask you stuff. You didn’t feel like interacting with anybody though, just wanted to be on your bed as soon as possible after standing for what seemed like ages past the clock.

“Are you hungry?” He is looking at you with those big round eyes again, and you shift your gaze to the floor, afraid to meet his brown orbs.

What the fuck.

“I bought this for you.”

Your head shoot up, then flicked to the plastic bag he’s carrying with one hand.

No fucking way. Wasn’t that his supper or something?

“W-What.. you didn’t have to-“ He throws the bag of burger and fries into your hands without blinking and you struggle to catch it.

“It’s actually okay.” You couldn’t accept his kind gesture or some reverse psychology effect he was trying to make you feel. 

The grumble in your stomach comes on cue, roaring louder than thunder.

You nervously laugh before helplessly stealing a fry from the bag, contradicting your earlier sentence.

“Great. Now you’ve accepted my offer, you have to answer three of my questions.” He shoots you a winning grin. You were already shoving the fifth fry into your mouth, munching away without any care in the world.

Fuck it, three questions it is. The fries tasted too damn good for you to give it back or run away from the golden crispy and fluffy treat.

Jungkook bites on his lips and contemplates for quite a while. Like the question was a hard one to raise. You tap at your feet in a bit of anticipation. Just a bit.

“Why does it seem like you’re avoiding me?” He finally gets it out.

It wasn’t just him, you had practically cut off all contact with any ape that was intelligent enough to speak and alienated yourself from this world. You wouldn’t even greet the birds in the morning like you always do, you just suffocated in the haze of self-pity and hatred.

“I’m just busy working.” You kept your words to minimal, not wanting Jungkook prying into your personal thoughts and feelings about yourself.

Lame excuse, that’s what Jungkook thinks of your short answer. But he is popping out his second question mark. 

“Hmm, seems fair.” He fakes and cocks a brow up. 

“Then what happened to you and Sooyoung or something,” 

The fact that he remembers your friend’s name almost lets a chortle slip from your lips. Your expression remains stoic—you were a professional at concealing the display of your real emotions—and even though you’re pretty upset at how the topic of the friends you once had was raised after so long, you reply from the bottom of your heart, “I don’t want to be associated with anyone right now.” 

It was the truth, and it wouldn’t hurt Sooyoung or you in any way.

He hums in understanding before, “Then... are you alright?”

You want to cry.

 Why does Jungkook, number one asshat and jerk towards you your whole life, have to act so sweet and caring when you’re at your lowest? It makes your heart want to give in and succumb to him completely. You had rather die.

The affection and concern Jeon Jungkook is showing you is too much for you to handle, and you don’t know what to make that of. 

Why does he even fucking care if you were okay or not?

You instantly turn on your heel—a copy of your actions back then when you first met Jungkook again—ready to escape the conversation and rush home—like you should have done ever since he stepped foot into your workplace. Jungkook has been recently making you feel things and all sorts of things—from the first time you bumped into him at a party, or when he laid over you and fell asleep like a baby, and embracing you after he made you cry— the last thing you want is to even feel anything.

It doesn’t take longer than a second before Jungkook is stomping towards your leaving form. He wasn’t going to be left hanging off a cliff by you, twice.

Being asked about your wellbeing was like mishandling an unpinned grenade, causing a spark in a room filled with methane and running through a minefield.

A wrong move and instead of exploding, you would vanish into thin air in a snap.

“What the fuck is up with you?” Jungkook grabs your arm in time to halt you and narrows his eyes sternly at you.

“One moment you’re cuddling with me, and then you’re scolding me, and another you’re hugging me back, and now you’re trying to run away from me.” The confrontation sounds like something that would happen within a couple and an inevitable blush grows on his cheeks as he tries to stay as fierce as ever. 

You look surprised upon his rant, but there was no response.

You were at a loss of words until, “If you can answer this, then I won’t distance myself anymore.”

You’ve had enough, and closure is what you both needed most.

“What are we? We’re not friends, nor are we acting like enemies, and we’re not together either.”

You put the truth out in the open like a glass ball handled with butter fingers , exposed and fragile to touch.

“Maybe this is what it feels like when you go against, to try and change something that’s meant to be, what we’re meant to be forever–” His features softened and his grip loosens as the realisation dawns upon the two of you, allowing your hand to fall by your side. 

You huff in a deep breath, sparing a brief moment to collect every thought and reach your conclusion.

 “Bully and victim.”

[chroniccombustion]

Your Name in Lights

Genre: Trans!AU, friendship, warm and fuzzy feelings Rated: K+ Characters: Naoto Shirogane, Souji Seta (Yu Narukami), Kanji Tatsumi, Investigation Team, ensemble, the Dojimas Warnings: minor implied past child abuse Status: oneshot, complete

They waste no time after school in grabbing Kanji-kun by the arm and signaling to Rise-chan to follow after them, high tailing it down the hall into the practice building to look for an empty room. The moment the three of them are inside, Naoto shuts the door behind them and whirls around like a person possessed.

“Souji-senpai’s name day is May 1st and I need your help to put together a party.”

Your Name in Lights

January comes in softly, a direct contrast to the events of the previous months, and while it takes the Investigation Team some time to begin relaxing, the urge to fervently check the weather, to stare anxiously at the television on rainy nights, finally starts to wane around two and a half weeks into the new year. There is still an air of trepidation – after all, the first time they’d been foolish enough to let their guard down they had nearly lost Nanako-chan. The second time, they nearly lost their leader.

By some horrid twist of ill luck, the only good thing that had come with that two month long hell had been the 17th birthday of Amagi Yukiko, which was nearly completely eclipsed by the hunt for Adachi. The harried group had made it a point to take a free day after school, to try and inject some normalcy back into their lives by gathering at the food court and presenting their friend with a small pile of gifts and a cake, but the oppressive atmosphere hanging overhead had somewhat dampened the mood. She had appreciated the gesture, though, so at least it hadn’t all been for naught.

But all of that is passed now, left behind where it belongs in that dismal, frigid span of time called November and December, and slowly the month of January trickles by.

As it does so, it brings with it a small sense of peace, of accomplishment, and tentatively the IT begins to breathe out a long, collective sigh of almost-relief. By the time the month is nearly through, something vaguely like happiness has already begun to take root. Their mission is – hopefully – over, their friends, their siblings, their leader are all safe; Adachi is behind bars and Ameno-Sagiri lies dead in the rubble of the Midnight Channel. With Nanako-chan and Dojima-san all but entirely recovered, January starts to feel, if only a little, possibly like the beginning of something much, much better.

There is the faintest dusting of snow that glitters in the fading light of the late afternoon sun as it sinks below the horizon line. Naoto watches through the window as a few more flakes descend and fiddles with the small, blue-wrapped package clutched tightly in their lap. They sigh. Of all the anxiety they’ve had to quell within themself over the last few months, all the ready-to-spring fight or flight tension they’ve kept in their shoulders, this right here, this situation they’ve now found themself in is probably the most nerve-wracking.

Saturday, January 21st. Kanji-kun’s birthday had been two days ago on the 19th, a Thursday. Unable to do much with a day and a half of school still ahead of them all, the Investigation Team had decided to postpone their festivities until the weekend – which was how Naoto had found themself wildly out of their element, sitting on the floor of the Tatsumi family’s living room, tucked up by the low table with a birthday present taking the brunt of their nervously fidgeting hands.

They don’t know what they should be doing right now; Rise-chan and the other girls have been banned from the kitchen, of course, where Souji-senpai and Tatsumi-san have long-since disappeared. Instead, Yukiko-senpai and Rise-chan are piled up on the couch, watching Kanji-kun bashfully try and talk through the process of embroidering white flowers onto a lovely scrap piece of lavender fabric. He keeps stumbling over himself, face red, but the enthusiastic interest his audience keeps giving him seems to be helping him to power through his embarrassment. Off to the side of the room, over near the television, Yosuke-senpai is stuck pulling double duty. Every so often, while vehemently arguing with Chie-senpai as to what sort of movie they should watch once dinner is ready (“Hell no, Chie! ‘Fist of the Mortal Flame’ is not family friendly!), Yosuke-senpai has to reach over and snag Teddie by the scruff of his neck to keep him from either trying to slide into the lap of one of the girls on the couch, or trying to sneak off into the kitchen to “help Sensei”. Senpai’s ability to divide his attention so fluidly is actually rather impressive. Naoto wonders if it’s a natural talent or something he’s learned from years of customer service work.

But then that leaves Naoto. They sit there quietly, observing everyone from a distance the way that they’re so accustomed to doing – alone and silent at the short table, guarding the little pile of birthday gifts like an awkward, hoarding dragon. They don’t feel left out, per se, just out of place. It’s taken them a long time to wrap their head around the concept of no longer being isolated, of being friendless, but now, sitting here watching the rest of their teammates mill around the room, Naoto thinks maybe they could get used to this.

(If only they knew what they were supposed to be doing right now. After all, they can’t remember the last time they had real friends, let alone be invited to a friend’s birthday party.)

Thankfully, it isn’t much longer before Tatsumi-san pokes her head into the room to announce that dinner is almost ready, giving Naoto the excuse they need to feel useful. They jump to their feet like they’re the pulled trigger of their own gun and escape off into the kitchen to help plate or carry or set up anything their hostess might need an extra set of hands for. They loiter just inside the door, unsure of how to voice their desire to assist, and silently pray they aren’t already underfoot.

Souji-senpai spots them first. He tilts his head just so, asking a question without words in that way of his that always makes Naoto feel strangely calmer but somehow also like they’ve been electrified. They meet his eyes as best they can and answer him with a short, sharp nod. 

Souji-senpai smiles. It’s quiet, soft like his voice when he speaks among people he’s comfortable with, and tugs just a little higher up near his eyes than it does with most others. It’s a smile Naoto has come to appreciate as one meant almost solely for Kanji and themself, for the only two members of the team that had been able to guess at Souji-senpai’s secrets, the only two he’d been truly relaxed around because they had understood him without him ever needing to say a thing. They can feel the corners of their own mouth lifting in response, a quiet smile of their own to match the one they’ve been given.

“Could you take this out to the table, please?”

Naoto feels their smile widen. “Of course,” they say, finding their voice at last as Souji-senpai holds out a long tray laden with tableware and chopsticks. They take it from him carefully – it’s a little heavier than they expected – and glance over to where Tatsumi-san is loading up another tray with a full setting for tea.

The elderly woman smiles back at Naoto over her shoulder and waves a hand lightly. “Oh just set it anywhere, dear. Kan-chan will know where it goes.”

Naoto dips their head and neck as best they can in semblance of a bow. Tatsumi-san chuckles, making a shooing motion before turning to hand her tea tray off to Souji-senpai, who shoots Naoto another quick, moon-bright smile as he takes it from her.

They return to the living room and hand the tray off to Kanji-kun, who hops off the couch as soon as he sees them round the corner. As the tray passes from one set of hands to the other, their fingers brush slightly, and Kanji-kun’s face lights up a pretty shade of scarlet. It’s… oddly adorable, Naoto thinks, and the thought makes their own cheeks feel suddenly warmer.

Kanji-kun moves away to set the tray down and Naoto leaves the job to he and Yukiko-senpai, who has already come over and begun to assist in setting out the tableware. She may be a hazard in a cooking situation, but she does now how to make everything presentable. Naoto will happily give their senpai that. They turn just in time to intercept Teddie as he rushes over to help – and no doubt try to impress the girls of the group. They barely manage to catch him by the arm before he crashes into Kanji-kun and sends a great many breakable things clattering to the ground.

Yosuke-senpai is at the table a moment later, grabbing at Teddie’s other arm with a muted curse and a, “Stop it, Ted, you’re gonna make a mess!” and yanking him back from the danger zone. Naoto gratefully hands over the bear wrangling to one more suited to the role before taking a few steps back and away from the ever-growing group of people. They sigh. It’s so easy to forget how quickly everyone can go from relatively calm to a flurry of motion and sound.

Still, they think as they watch Rise-chan saunter over to take the second tray from Souji-senpai as he comes back into view from the kitchen, it’s nice to have friends.

The party becomes more of an actual party and less of a collection of people stuffed into the same room sometime after dinner is concluded. Several people attempt to help Tatsumi-san clean up afterwards – including Naoto, Kanji-kun, and Souji-senpai, of course – but she simply smiles at all of them and forbids them from setting foot back in the kitchen. She tells them to “have fun,” shooting Souji-senpai a look with an eyebrow raised so high it nearly comes off her face. Subdued, he sinks back down into his spot on the floor with hunched shoulders and Naoto has to stifle the grin that threatens to overtake their face at seeing him actually act like a guest instead of a second host. It isn’t often that Souji-senpai is allowed to be the teenager that he is, (something Naoto is all too familiar with, themself); it’s a sight that never fails to makes something in their chest warm whenever they get to see it.

And today they get a perfect view of it, having been lucky enough earlier to weasel themself into the spot next to him before someone else (Teddie) had. Usually Yosuke-senpai would be next to him as well, on Souji-senpai’s other side, but today is Kanji-kun’s birthday and Kanji-kun had wanted his best friend to sit beside him, so Souji-senpai is now seated between Kanji-kun and Naoto – who have both silently agreed via eye contact behind Souji-senpai’s back to keep him seated and out of the kitchen. Yosuke-senpai has been ousted, forced to sit opposite his boyfriend at the other end of the low table and next to Teddie. He had pouted for a while, attempting to good-naturedly guilt trip Naoto into giving up their spot with his best puppy-dog expression, but Naoto had staunchly refused.

“Awww, c’mon! I’m his second!”

“And? I am his tactician. I got here first.”

Souji-senpai had just watched them both with a barely-concealed look of amusement and suddenly became extremely interested in Kanji-kun’s embroidery sample when Yosuke-senpai’s puppy-dog expression had turned towards him instead.

Naoto scoots a little closer Souji-senpai’s side and offers him a small nod when he glances over at their movement. He nods back, that quiet smile ghosting back over his features – along with a look in his eyes that clearly shows his minor disgruntlement at not being allowed to help do dishes. Naoto’s shoulders twitch in silent laughter.

Everyone is distracted a few short moments later as Rise-chan thrusts a glittering gold and pastel pink gift box across the table into Kanji-kun’s face. The bow is enormous and very nearly pokes out one of Kanji-kun’s eyes, but he takes it from her with a startled yelp and an embarrassed flush. He opens it slowly, taking care not to rip the pretty wrapping paper, all the while rejoining whatever conversation had been happening around the table that Naoto hadn’t entirely been paying attention to; too busy observing their Pack of Imbeciles with something akin to affection blooming happily in the pit of their stomach.

One by one all the presents are opened and all the gift-givers are thanked. Kanji-kun is clearly a bit overwhelmed at everything, unused to having this much positive attention on him or being on the receiving end of so many physical tokens of friendship. Naoto feels a tug of empathy just between their ribs, knowing all too well just how surreal it must be for him to be surrounded by people that enjoy his company. They smile into their teacup, hiding the heat they know must be spreading across their face as Kanji-kun opens up their gift and practically beams at the sight of the book’s title.

Advanced Knitting Patterns. Naoto is just a teensy bit proud of themself for picking it out all on their own. They have very little experience giving gifts to people that aren’t their grandfather; they’re counting Kanji-kun’s stuttered, elated “thank you!” as a victory of the highest sort.

Surprisingly, there is not a single gag gift among the pile, which Naoto had expected at least Yosuke-senpai to bring. (Although, considering everything that had transpired between Yosuke-senpai and Kanji-kun back at the end of last year, Naoto does have to admit it would be less likely now for Yosuke-senpai to pull something than it might have been before.)

Yukiko-senpai’s gift is a free night’s stay at the Amagi Inn – which is also extended to Tatsumi-san, as Yukiko-senpai had apparently recently overheard Kanji-kun saying he wished he could give his mom a holiday. Chie-senpai’s gift is a movie, of course, though not a kung fu one as Naoto might have predicted. It appears to be animated, and the cover has what looks to be an anthropomorphic rabbit with a championship belt around its waist, so Naoto is unsure as to what the film is actually about but they can’t deny it looks interesting. (They wonder if perhaps they can all watch it together later, rather than whatever Chie-senpai had originally planned to make them sit through.)

Rise-chan and Teddie’s gifts are little things – a cute yellow sewing basket and a fluffy stuffed bear, respectively – and there is a handmade card and a large spool of coral-colored ribbon from Nanako-chan. Second to last is a videogame from Yosuke-senpai, followed up by an invitation to “come over whenever if you want to play versus,” which Naoto is proud of Yosuke-senpai for. It’s nice to see them acting like real friends rather than the chilly distance that had been between them most of last year.

The final present to be unwrapped is from Souji-senpai. Kanji-kun smiles as he unwraps it to reveal another book, this one titled A Beginner’s Guide to Gardening, his face lighting up like dawn over the Samegawa. It’s a very similar smile to the one Souji-senpai reserves for Naoto themself; quiet and unguarded, with deeper edges and a stronger presence around the eyes that make it just that much more real than the ones he usually gives the world. Naoto briefly wonders if Kanji-kun has picked up on it, even subconsciously, from their senpai, or if it’s a brand of smile all on its own that only those with cracked and mended edges are able to give. (Naoto isn’t sure, but they think they might have something similar that hijacks their features when around their two favorite companions.)

All in all it’s quiet an impressive assortment, one that Kanji-kun is entirely deserving of, in Naoto’s opinion, and there is a brightness to his eyes as the evening continues on. It’s something carefree and joyful that has seemed long-since missing, something that should have been there all along. Above everything else, Naoto is happy to see this side of their friend; it feels like summer, this cozy, contented warmth that spreads through them as they sit and observe the people they care about, the people they’ve come to think of family.

At some point, as everyone is helping to gather up the neatly-folded wrapping paper and discarded, empty boxes, Souji-senpai slinks out of the room and around the corner to what can only be the kitchen. Naoto spots his escape. They mutter a quick, “I’ll be right back” to Kanji-kun and follow after their senpai – partly in case he needs any assistance, and partly to make sure the energy of the get-together isn’t taking a toll on him. Introvert’s intuition, they think, suppressing the amused chuckle at their own little joke.

They do indeed find Souji-senpai in the kitchen, padding quietly in behind him as he pulls a few plates from the dish drainer and wipes them down with a towel. Naoto watches for a moment, simply observing.

Souji-senpai moves fluidly around the small area, gathering up desert plates and setting them to the side in two short stacks. When he’s done with that, he does the same with a handful of utensils – drying them off and setting them next to the plates – before pausing in front of a line of drawers as though debating whether he wants to go rifling through Tatsumi-san’s things. It’s obvious how comfortable he is in a space like this, how much he allows his own mind to go quiet. Souji-senpai is very much a person that needs to be doing something with his hands, needs to have something to occupy his thoughts to keep him from sinking too deep inside his own head. His comfort task seems to be cooking, or even just some form of kitchen work like dishes or cleaning up. It’s a testament to how often in his life he must have had to fend for himself and how he’s made it into something positive instead of a lonely chore born from necessity.

For as alone as Naoto has felt in the past, they can’t imagine what it’s like to be surrounded by loveless, empty silence. Their grandfather is too kind of a man, too caring, and not for the first time, Naoto wishes they’d known their friend sooner so that maybe, just maybe, they could have eased the some of the solitude off one another shoulders.

“Do you need any help?” they ask quietly, taking care not to startle him. Alone like this, with the sounds of the party in the next room muffled by the dim light and the separating walls, Naoto consciously drops the “senpai” from the end of their question. It’s something the pair of them (along with Kanji-kun) have started doing ever since the events of December, when the footing between them all had shifted into something a bit more equal, a bit more stable. The word still exits in Naoto’s thoughts, yes, but only as an affectionate form of respect for their leader, their upperclassman. Aloud, though, when it’s just one or both of them and their friend, without anyone else around, they all simply… exist. Formalities are forgotten, titles and honorifics dropped, and for that sacred length of time the three of them find the ability to think of themselves as human and nothing else beyond.

Their friend turns his head to look at them, movements slow like he’s coming out of a deep line of thought. A light blinks on behind his eyes as he sees them in the doorway and spreads like a small, harmless flame sparking into a crackling campfire. He smiles. “Possibly,” he admits, a hint of sheepishness lacing his voice. “Tatsumi-san went to bed a while ago, I think. I… forgot to ask her where she keeps her cake knife.” Pink dusts over his cheekbones and his smile turns just the tiniest bit self-depreciating. He curls his fingers around the back of his neck – a motion of discomfort no doubt picked up on from Yosuke-senpai, mimicked the way that couples often seem to do. He huffs, laughing at himself. “It didn’t seem polite to go hunting for it.”

Naoto smiles back at him. “Would you like the detective to do it?” they tease – an action they’re still getting used to being able to do.

Souji-senpai ‘snerks’. “I don’t think that’s much better,” he says, but there is still laughter in his tone, so Naoto takes it as the return banter that it is.

They step further into the kitchen.

Together, they manage to locate the appropriate knife with minimal searching and Souji-senpai adds it to the small pile of things he’s been gathering on one of the trays from earlier that evening. Just like last time, he hands the tray off to Naoto, and then turns to open the refrigerator and duck his head inside. Naoto steps back to give him space to move but doesn’t yet return to the living room, content to keep observing for as long as they can in this liminal pocket of time.

Souji-senpai emerges from the refrigerator a moment later with a large cake box grasped firmly in both hands and nudges the door shut with his hip. Turning back to the counter and setting the box down, Souji-senpai looks up and seems to startle slightly at the sight of Naoto still loitering by the edge of the sink. “Oh,” he breathes, likely unaware he’s spoken, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to make you wait for me; I just need to plate this is all.” Grey eyes flick down to the tray in Naoto’s grasp, (which, admittedly, is getting just a little heavy) and the faintest hint of a frown begins to tug at the line of his mouth. “You can head on out, if you’d like.”

The furrow of his brow does something to Naoto’s own. They frown slightly in return, not liking the unconscious flicker of guilt they spot behind their friend’s expression. “I don’t mind,” they say honestly.

Souji-senpai opens his mouth to reply. Naoto speaks instead.

“I don’t.” They twist their mouth into a light smile, no more than a quirk of one corner, really, but it appears to do the trick.

Souji-senpai blinks at them, opens his mouth once more, shuts it again. He looks lost for a moment, like he isn’t sure how to respond or what he’s allowed to do – it’s something Naoto knows their friend is still struggling with, will struggle with for a while to come. Izanagi’s dungeon is a fresh memory, only a few weeks old at best, and it’d be unreasonable to expect Souji-senpai to come to terms with everything his Shadow had revealed about him any sooner than the rest of the IT had after their own.

Souji-senpai isn’t used to people being gentle around him, still doesn’t entirely know how to handle the knowledge that everyone cares. He’s so accustomed to playing a role, to holding himself in place, that when he’s faced with a situation in which he gets to be a normal person, he flounders. Even now, with something as simple as a friend waiting for him while he completes a self-appointed task, it’s clear to Naoto’s hyper-observant eyes that Seta Souji has no idea how to just… be.

Souji-senpai only knows how to be a host or an ornamental guest; the role of friend and found family member, of someone invited to the party and not just expected to be there on his best behavior is a concept that will probably take years to comprehend.

Naoto watches the line of their friend’s shoulders as he awkwardly transfers the cake (one that Naoto would bet real money he’d made from scratch himself,) from the box to a platter, likely feeling off-kilter at being watched as he works. Thankfully, his discomfort doesn’t seem to go any deeper than him simply being caught off guard, so Naoto doesn’t feel too bad about it. It’s almost nice; it means that progress is being made.

Still, their thoughts from earlier refuse to go away. Knowing what they do now about Souji-senpai’s childhood – or lack thereof – the idea that he has no idea how to be at a party without taking an active role is… worrying. There are many things it could say about him, and Naoto doesn’t like a single one.

“When is your birthday?”

The question is out of their mouth before Naoto can even consciously make the decision to ask it, and Souji-senpai’s shoulders are suddenly wound as tight as springs. Naoto doesn’t like what that says, either.

He lets out a low breath, not quite a laugh but not quite anything else, and resolutely does not look up from where his fingers have stilled around rim of the cake platter. He stays like that for a few moments, silent, until at last the tension bleeds from his spine. He sags a little, like he’s suddenly somewhere far away. His voice is almost a whisper when he finally speaks.

“...Not until after I leave.”

Naoto feels something cold and heavy sink to the bottom of their stomach. Oh. They should have known; nothing about Souji-senpai’s life has been fair to him, why should this be any different?

But Souji-senpai has already straightened up, has adopted the mask that he used to wear like a second skin but no longer fits him properly, and is turning a very strained, plastic smile over his shoulder to where Naoto is standing. His eyes do not meet their own, instead landing somewhere behind them at the space beyond the doorway. “It’s alright, though. I don’t really celebrate it anyway.” His expression doesn’t change, but the edges start to harden, and when he does flick his gaze down to catch Naoto’s for the span of a heartbeat, there is a horrible, bitter kind of sorrow lingering deep inside the rings of stormy-grey.

He shrugs. “Even before my parents stopped pretending to give a shit, it never actually felt right.” He tilts his head and stretches his lips into a thin line – the facsimile of a joyless smile. “Wrong name on the birthday card, you know?”

And suddenly Naoto does.

The realization feels like someone has dumped ice water over their head and they stand there as if stunned, mouth falling open in sympathy and horror. Of course. After everything that Izanagi had told them, after everything else that Souji-senpai had told them later, Naoto cannot fathom how they never put this part of their friend’s past together with the rest of the puzzle. Their face burns with embarrassment – both at having blurted out the question without thinking, and at having missed such an important detail about someone they consider to be one of their closest friends.

There is a gentle pressure at their arm. They look up instinctively, cheeks still ablaze, to see that Souji-senpai has moved to stand beside them with the platter held securely in his hands. He watches them carefully from the side of his vision before quietly moving his elbow to nudge against them a second time. “Hey,” he murmurs, voice kind. “Don’t do that to yourself, I know you.”

Naoto feels their face burn harder, though this time it’s for a slightly different reason. They forget sometimes that they aren’t the only one in the Investigation Team that’s eerily adept at reading others.

Souji-senpai’s expression softens and he offers them a tired, barely-there smile. “It’s okay.”

Out of their entire group of friends, Naoto has known Souji-senpai the shortest amount of time. They were the last to join the IT, the last person pulled from the Midnight Channel before Nanako-chan’s kidnapping, the last to face their Shadow and come back to the real world with a Persona at their side. But there is a reason Souji-senpai had named them his tactician, his third in command, and it’s because of their ability to notice what others don’t. There is subtext in his words, an extra, unspoken message that he knows Naoto will pick up on. They sigh as they decode it, and with the exhalation they let go of the threads of self-depreciation that had begun to tangle in their mind. “Sorry,” they mumble anyway.

Souji-senpai just shakes his head, lips tilting a little higher. “Don’t be.” He readjusts the platter in his grip and gestures towards the doorway with a roll of his shoulder. “Come on,” he says, “we should get back in there before we’re missed.”

Naoto just nods and follows him out into the brightness of the living room, the tiny, timeless pocket of quiet closing behind them as if it had never been.

 ---

 February starts and January closes. Naoto does not think about the conversation in the kitchen.

 March begins and February dies. Naoto does not think about how much they’ll all miss him when he has to go.

 But then March ends.

March ends, and Adachi’s letter arrives.

There is the letter, a question, and then there is a goddess. There is a final showdown in the deepest pit of the underworld; a quick, cold death, followed by revival, followed by one last stand in defiance of Izanami’s false truths.

There is victory. A collective first breath of fresh, fogless air as the team emerges from the Junes electronics department to find the town of Inaba bathed in the light of triumphant sun.

March ends, and Dojima-san makes a phone call.

 March ends, and Souji-senpai doesn’t leave.

 ---

 It’s nearly the end of April before Naoto is once again reminded of the conversation that took place in the Tatsumi family’s kitchen, and the question that had sparked it.

The jog to their memory is brought about, appropriately, by their own encroaching birthday – which they had nearly forgotten about in all the chaos of the previous month and the overwhelming joy at no longer having to give Souji-senpai back to the prison of his parents’ house. It is Rise-chan that brings it up, catching Naoto after school and asking them point blank what they’d like to do for their birthday celebration, and Naoto all but balks at the implication.

It startles them into dumbfounded silence, leaving them standing there, blinking like a deer in headlights as Rise-chan good-naturedly giggles over having “stumped the detective.”

They genuinely hadn’t even thought about it.

They say as much to Rise-chan, who frowns a little and gently scolds them over not taking time to think about themself – especially since birthdays are “special” because it lets everyone show appreciation for someone they care about. Which, to be fair, Naoto cannot argue with; they’d thought the same about Kanji-kun and Yukiko-senpai’s birthdays. (They choose not bring up their own accidental hypocrisy to Rise-chan’s face and instead allow it to settle as a flustered blush across their cheekbones.)

Ages ago, when their parents were still alive, they remember Mother and Father taking time off work to spend their birthday with them, turning down any cases that arose until at least a day or two after Naoto’s birthday had passed. Those are good memories – ones that Naoto keeps safely tucked away inside a little box in their heart – even if they aren’t ones that Naoto allows themselves to visit much anymore.

In the years since, Naoto has often kept themself busy during the month of April. Sometimes it’s deliberate; sometimes they just… forget. It’s usually only when their grandfather sits them down at the dinner table and places a small iced pastry and a brightly colored gift box in front of them that they even realize what day it is. There have been a few occasions where Naoto has been away until well after the 27th has passed, so the sweets and the present sometimes don’t happen until a week or so into May, but there is always a phone call, always a card over-nighted to wherever they’re staying. It has been a very long time since Naoto has been made to think about their birthday well in advance.

(Then again, after witnessing everyone happily throwing Kanji-kun a birthday party and trying to throw one for Yukiko-senpai, they probably shouldn’t be so surprised that the same would happen to them as well.)

Naoto revisits the encounter in their head later on as they make their way home, turning it over this way and that and layering it over several things at once as they’ve done a million times before on a million actual cases. They think about their own history with birthdays, about how the very idea of someone other than their grandfather actually wanting to do something for them, with them on their birthday has become so foreign a concept that they don’t know how to react like a regular person. It’s almost uncomfortable, how disarmed they’d felt. And yet, allowing themself to picture it, a small celebration with friends, it’s… nice. It does still scare them a little in its unfamiliarity, but not so much as to overpower the tiny blip of excitement and childlike glee that sits just below the surface of the fear. A smile makes its way to their face and they let it stay, warm in the glow of the scene in their head.

The glow is gone by the next morning but the mental train tracks have been laid, so the thoughts stay. Naoto runs through them every so often as the school day passes, angling them in new directions whenever the lectures get to be too boring for them to pay attention to, and only really pulling themself back out when lunchtime rolls around. Souji-senpai sticks his head through the door just as Naoto is standing up to stretch the feeling back into their legs and holds up a bento, tilting his head in question as he smiles that quiet smile of his. Naoto wastes no time in following him out the door and up onto the roof.

They talk as they pick slowly at the bento, trading topics back and forth like a pair of regular teenagers without a single, supernatural care in the world. It’s wonderful. Naoto lets their mind split back to Rise-chan the day before, asking what Naoto would like to do for their birthday, and thinks, this. This is what would make their birthday another happy memory: staying with their friends just a little bit longer, being allowed to act like the kid they are for once, without fear of rejection or persecution. They think their grandfather would approve.

“Your birthday is coming up soon, right?” Souji-senpai asks suddenly, as if reading Naoto’s thoughts. His voice is light, relaxed, no longer deliberately controlled to be lower than it’s normally wont to be. Naoto considers it an honor to be able to hear it, even if they know it’s not Souji-senpai’s voice, just the voice that came with his body; it’s yet another little way their friend is comfortable around them and it makes Naoto feel good.

Naoto nods, still chewing, and Souji-senpai hums brightly, his smile stretching just a bit wider in a kind of gentle fondness. “Is there anything specific you’d like?” he says. He laughs softly. “I’m getting pretty good at home-made cake. Let me know what your favorite is and I’ll find a recipe for it.”

And just like that, Naoto feels their entire body go warm.

Souji-senpai must see how flustered he’s made them, because he gives another breathy chuckle – still not wholly alright with laughing beyond a huff in his body’s voice – and holds the bento a tiny bit closer. Naoto shovels a hunk of rice into their mouth to avoid responding.

“Sorry,” he says, still smiling, though he doesn’t really sound it at all. “Didn’t mean to put you on the spot there.”           

Naoto side-eyes him as they chew, taking their sweet time so as not to give him the satisfaction of a reply. In turn, Souji-senpai gingerly picks himself out a sizable bite of fish and, innocently as can be, proceeds to occupy his mouth with it. (Somehow, the smile stays put.)

If Kanji-kun’s smiles are hard-won, a product of someone bringing out the rare, calmer side of his personality and the loyalty that comes with it, Souji-senpai’s smiles – his real ones – have to be coaxed out of hiding. It’s like convincing a feral cat that you aren’t going to hurt them, that you mean no harm and are worthy of trust. Souji-senpai only ever peels back the mask when the tension in his shoulders is soothed away – and that’s why, at first, those genuine, more natural smiles only ever came out for the people he was comfortable enough around to let himself breathe.

On the surface, Souji-senpai never seems to emote past the polite, default expression he usually wears. Naoto is trained to read people, though, and has long since learned where to look. Souji-senpai hides his emotions, absolutely, but he does have them, and to anyone that knows what to look for he is actually incredibly expressive. His face, his body language, the way he says things, it’s all based on nuance; his voice can go from calm and neutral to stony and cold in the span of a single word, and his shoulders and the set of his jaw hold most if not all of his tension.

It’s the same with his smiles. There is one he wears for the world – when he wears one for the world – and then another that he wears among friends or family. Then there are the personalized ones. Each member of the Investigation Team has a customized smile, as if Souji-senpai has crafted each one specifically for their intended person with tiny, minute shifts in detail that speak volumes in their silence. One is thoughtful and understanding, another is patient and encouraging, one is warmhearted and perpetually amused. One is even conspiratorial in nature, an almost unseen mischievousness that plays off its receiver’s nature as organically as water in a river. Each is just barely different – all are real.

But then there are the ones with an extra layer to them, the ones reserved for the handful of people that get Souji-senpai on a deeper, more personal level. There is one for Nanako-chan: soft and kind, laced with gentle hope and pride. One for Kanji-kun: bright and subtly excited, like he’s forever interested in anything Kanji-kun has to say and is glad when he says it without fear. And one for Naoto: quiet and knowing, edged with constant tiredness in a way that denotes just how much he’s able to let his guard down around them.

(Yosuke-senpai also has his own special smile, and it’s so full of desperate, all-consuming affection, gratitude, devotion, that it nearly hurts to look at. Naoto doesn’t think Yosuke-senpai even knows just how much emotion his lover has poured into that look, but it’s clear he cherishes it all the same.)

Right now, woven into that tired, peaceful smile that belongs to Naoto, there are threads of teasing, of causal happiness, and it belongs there in a way that only something a person has been deprived of for too long can. For a moment, Naoto wonders if this is what Souji-senpai feels whenever he’s with Nanako-chan.

It is in this teasing quiet that Naoto’s brain begins to take the thoughts from last night, from class, and turn them over again. It calls up thoughts of Souji-senpai, of birthdays, pulling and twisting until it unearths the memory of Tatsumi-san’s kitchen and the way Souji-senpai had held his face and voice and body tight like it had tugged at ancient scar tissue.

 (“When is your birthday?”

“Not until after I leave.”)

 Naoto’s mouth opens; their lungs fill.

“You aren’t leaving.”

Souji-senpai glances up from where he’s been poking at the bento, separating what’s left into equal portions. Eyes like river stones shift over to look at them, his head titled in minor confusion.

Naoto moves to meet his questioning gaze, bringing a hand to their chin, index finger over their lips – a habit formed from years and years of over thinking. “Back in January, you said your birthday wasn’t until after you left.” They tilt their own head to mirror his, watching as understanding spreads behind his eyes. “But you aren’t leaving anymore.”

Souji-senpai nods slowly, the corners of his eyes twitching in an aborted wince. “I also said I don’t really celebrate it anyway.” His voice is neutral, unperturbed, but there is a sour note to the end of his words – bitter and sad and resigned.

Naoto blinks, furrowing their brows slightly. “But you could now, with us.”

But Souji-senpai just shakes his head and turns his eyes back down to watch his chopsticks poking at the leftover vegetables. “I appreciate the offer, but…” He sighs. It’s a low, unhappy sound. “I’d really rather just not.” When he looks up again his smile is strained and his eyes do not quite meet with Naoto’s own.

Naoto presses their finger tighter against their lower lip, frowning. They want to protest, to argue that there are people now that want to celebrate with him, that will be there to do so if he said the word. But they don’t. Instead, Naoto keeps their mouth closed and their thoughts inside, even as they ache to shout, “we care about you!”

Because they get it.

They get it, and they hate Souji-senpai’s parents even more for it, for taking one more thing away from him that should have been good, should have been happy. They hate that there is a stain on yet another piece of their friend’s life.

The minutes go back to passing in silence, only this time it’s more sad than comfortable. It isn’t awkward, exactly, just heavier, and Naoto finds themself going back over everything again and again in a weird kind of loop – just like they do when elements of a case make no sense. It… helps, sometimes. Even if they don’t manage to suss out anything new, they at least confirm this situation to themselves, which can eliminate doubt on their end.

 (“Even before my parents stopped pretending to give a shit, it never actually felt right.”)

 Even when Naoto was at their loneliness, there had always been at least one person there to let them know they were loved. Mother and Father, then Grandfather; no matter how isolated Naoto had thought themself, they still had family. They were never entirely alone.

But Souji-senpai has never had that. Before Inaba, before Dojima-san and Nanako-chan had taken him in and kept him, Souji-senpai’s “family” had been solely made up of his absent, abusive parents. Kanji-kun had once described them as “fucking garbage” – a sentiment that Naoto was all too inclined to agree with. And it hadn’t just been the borderline abandonment, either, nor the blatant disdain they seemed to have for his existence. The worst of it, the part that had nearly broken him, if Izanagi was to be believed, had been the complete and utter hatred they had shown him in regards to his identity.

 (“Wrong name on the birthday card, you know?”)

 Little wonder he wanted nothing to do with the date on which his mother had given birth; it was the day his body had been born, not Souji-senpai himself.

…That’s it!

Naoto lifts their head again and turns to stare almost feverishly at their friend’s face, wordlessly willing him to look over at them and meet their eyes. He does, obviously confused and slightly uneasy at the intensity Naoto knows is etched into the crease of their brows.

“May I ask something else?” they say, keeping their tone as collected as they can in light of their new idea.

“Uh,” comes the response, hesitant and vaguely on guard. “Sure?” Souji-senpai’s eyes flick to the side for a moment as he shifts to offer Naoto his full – albeit wary – attention.

Naoto sits a little straighter. “When did you get your name?”

“My… name?” He blinks at them, eyes wide as he tries to catch up.

“Yes, your name. Do you remember when you first acquired it?

Souji-senpai huffs softly. His lips quirk upwards at the corners; a playful gesture despite obviously still unsure of what is currently transpiring. Then he turns away again. He fixes his gaze somewhere off in front of him, out across the rooftop and along the clear blue plane of the sky above. The playful smile slips from his face and becomes something quieter, nostalgic – reflective and sad but still with the faint coloring of years-old joy.

“I was, hmmm. Seven at the time, I think?” A cool spring breeze drifts by, sweeping a few strands of hair across his eyes and he shuts them, leans his head back slightly to pull the memory out of its carefully protected packaging. He stays that way for a moment or two, just breathing, and Naoto watches the curving of his mouth when he finally speaks again. “I had a friend that lived in the apartment building behind ours. He helped me pick it out.”

Naoto tries very hard not to be impatient. They want to hear the story, they want to know about the good parts of Souji-senpai’s past because they know too much about the awful parts and there needs to be something to balance it out. But they are also running out of time before the end of lunch, and this is important. They purse their lips as tightly as they can and do their damndest not to fidget.

Their efforts pay off, though, because Souji-senpai’s eyes reopen and he glances over at them with a wistful tilt of his lips. “First of May,” he says, and it sounds like the ghost of a long-passed sob. “He said it was fitting that I picked my new name on the first of something, like I was starting over.” Souji-senpai sighs, breathing out the last of the lingering emotion tied to the memory. The breeze returns and sweeps it away.

The both of them are startled out of the moment as the bell sounds from just inside the stairwell door, signaling the end of lunch and the beginning of the mad scramble for every student not in their classrooms to make it back in time. There is a split second where they simply sit there, looking at one another, before they both fly into action. Souji-senpai hurriedly stuffs the bento back into its bag while Naoto looks around to make sure they haven’t accidentally left anything on the ground. They sprint for the stairs a few moments later, side by side with breathless, stupid grins.

They part ways at the third floor, where Souji-senpai dashes back to his room with a wave over his shoulder. Naoto returns it as they round the corner of the stairwell. They hop the last couple of steps to the landing and nearly stumble before catching themselves, only half paying attention as they turn again and head down the last section of stairs leading to the second year classes.

Their mind is already buzzing with ideas before they even sit back down.

 ---

Ten days.

In retrospect, Naoto is exceedingly lucky that Souji-senpai hadn’t given them a date that had already passed, as that could have been a massive wrench in their plans if that had been the case. Thankfully, though, he hadn’t, and while there isn’t nearly as much time as Naoto would have liked to put their plan into motion, it is at least doable. Hopefully. 

There is still a week before their own birthday, and then three more days after that until the 1st. It falls on a Tuesday this year, which is regrettable, but Naoto’s falls on the preceding Friday and they’re fairly certain everyone will want to celebrate on the weekend like they did with Kanji-kun. Which means that, unless the two dates are combined into a singular get-together on the same day, (which Naoto does not want; Souji-senpai deserves his own party) there is a danger of his celebration not happening until the weekend of the 6th. It wouldn’t be a terrible, but the 1st is a much preferable date.

There is a statement to be made on that day, after all.

They waste no time after school in grabbing Kanji-kun by the arm and signaling to Rise-chan to follow after them, high tailing it down the hall into the practice building to look for an empty room. The moment the three of them are inside, Naoto shuts the door behind them and whirls around like a person possessed.

Both of their friends stare at them with a mix of confusion and worry – Kanji-kun especially looks like he’s gearing up for a fight the moment Naoto tells him whom to throttle. Rise-chan’s eyes are wide and alert, zeroed in on Naoto with the same laser focus that Kanzeon has in battle. Naoto realizes they… may have overdone it.

Still, this is one of the rare cases where the ends justify the means and Naoto’s mission is important. They need their teammates for this in a way they’ve never needed anyone before. Taking a deep breath, they start.

“Souji-senpai’s name day is May 1st and I need your help to put together a party.”

There is a moment where no one reacts; both their friends stand there silent, blinking at them like Naoto has just been speaking rapid-fire English instead of Japanese, and Naoto has to quell the habitual urge to purse their lips in anxious frustration. But then Rise-chan seems to process what was just said, because suddenly her entire face is splitting into the most blindingly gleeful expression Naoto thinks they’ve ever seen – which is saying something, having know the girl now for months.

The idol squeals, bringing her hands up under her chin and clasping them together as she bounces on the balls of her feet in delight. “Ohmigosh, really?!” She presses her mouth against her knuckles and squeals again, the sound morphing into an exuberant, close-lipped cackle in the back of her throat about halfway through. “This is fantastic!”

Naoto feels a surge of relief.

Maybe this will be easier than I thought.

In contrast to Rise-chan’s animated reaction, however, Kanji-kun stands rigid, shoulders hunched nervously like he’s thinks he’s about to be scolded. “Uhm,” he starts, clearly still confused as he glances back and forth between the two of them with furrowed brows. “Hey, so, I’m all for throwing Senpai a party but uh…” He trails off, rubbing at the nape of his neck sheepishly as he looks back over at Naoto with a lost expression. Finally he gives an awkward cough and mumbles, “what’s a name day?”

Rise-chan playfully swats at kanji-kun’s shoulder before Naoto can respond. “It’s like a birthday, silly,” she giggles, the high of her enthusiasm still running strong. “Only instead of when they’re born, you celebrate the day a person first gets to be themself – like when Souji-senpai picked his name!”

“But… why not celebrate his birthday?”

Rise-chan makes a strange, gravelly noise behind her teeth. “What’s wrong with his name day?” she counters, hands on her hips in the start of a huff.

“Nothing!” Kanji-kun splutters. His face turns a vibrant shade of burning red. “I didn’t mean—! I just… why not both?”

“He refused to tell me his birthday,” Naoto responds. “I do not think he wishes to acknowledge it, due to it being…” They pause, thinking of how to word their thoughts without crossing a line they don’t want to. Souji-senpai isn’t around to hear it, obviously, but referring to his assigned gender in any way still makes Naoto uncomfortable in the most empathic way imaginable. “…Not… his birthday,” they finally mumble out. They wince; casual communication has never been their strong suit.

It must be enough, though, because Kanji-kun lets out a soft, “oh” as the light bulb clicks on behind his eyes, which slowly start to widen in realization. He is ramrod straight an instant later, the lines of his body sharp and tense like he’s been hot wired with battle-born adrenaline as he stands there practically vibrating with barely contained excitement. He turns to Naoto (who gives a happy nod in confirmation), before breaking into a wide grin of his own and punching a fist up into the air. “Oh hell yeah!” he crows. “Screw the birthday, this is way better!”

Rise’s smile grows impossibly brighter. “This is so cool, we never get to do anything special for Souji-senpai.”

That’s because he never lets us, Naoto thinks with a pang of sadness; he doesn’t think he deserves it…

The room goes uncomfortably silent. Looking up, Naoto catches sight of their friends watching them, expressions pinched and aggrieved.  It takes them a second to figure out why. “Oh, I… said that out loud, didn’t I?”

Rise-chan nods slowly while Kanji-kun looks down and away. “You’re right, though,” she whispers, and her voice is just as pained as her eyes. She, too, looks away, casting her gaze downwards towards her feet as the light from her earlier giddiness fades to something bittersweet. She falls quiet again for a few more seconds before sadly, timidly, she murmurs, “Do you think Senpai’d even want us to throw him a party?”

Oh.

Naoto feels themself deflate. As horrible as it is to think about, Rise-chan does have a point; Souji-senpai had made it very clear that he wasn’t comfortable talking about his birthday, which was why Naoto had asked about his name day in the first place. However, even with the with the fresh exhaustion of Izanagi’s intervention months behind him, Naoto is aware of how long it will be before Souji-senpai is healed enough to be in a better place mentally. Just because he’s learned that others care for him doesn’t mean he’s learned how to care for himself. In all likelihood, the process will begin with caring only because others do, in an attempt to make his friends happy – caring just for his own sake will take a far longer span of time to kick in.

There is a very strong chance that their friend will either only go along with their party plans for their benefit and not truly allow himself to enjoy it, or will try and talk them out of it altogether. Neither choice is a good one.

“Well...” Kanji-kun says into the depressive silence, nearly startling the others with the unexpected sound. “Th-then we just don’t tell him.”

Naoto looks up at him sharply, the gears in their head beginning to turn. Across from them, Rise-chan does the same.

Kanji-kun seems to draw strength from their reaction, straightening his shoulders and nodding to himself. “You know, like… like a surprise. He can’t shoot us down if he doesn’t know we’re doin’ it in the first place.”

Rise-chan perks up like a cat, smile creeping back into place along her down-turned mouth. “Yeah,” she whispers; then, louder, “yeah!” And suddenly she is beaming, bright and eager with a newfound determination. “And if it’s a surprise then it’ll mean more, too, because it’ll prove we want to do nice things for him!”

A weight shifts in Naoto’s chest, cracking and falling away to make it easier to breathe. This could work. This could actually work.

“There’s still the possibility that he won’t appreciate being surprised like that,” Naoto says, because, well, there is, “but I agree. I doubt he’d be upset at the knowledge that we were thinking of him.”

“Then it’s settled!” Rise-chan claps her hands together and fixes them both with a thousand-watt smile. “Operation ‘Give Senpai The Best Name Day Ever’ is a go!”

Naoto just barely manages to stifle a chuckle while Kanji-kun mutters a quiet, “are we seriously callin’ it that?” under his breath.

They pretend to ignore the way Rise-chan smacks at Kanji-kun’s arm again in retaliation and instead turn to grab their school bag from where they’d slung it off to the side upon entering the room. They hide their amusement by digging inside for a quasi-empty notebook, smothering down a snort of laughter at Kanji-kun’s “hey—ow!” Once the sounds behind them have stopped, they emerge from their hunt, notebook in hand and open, and pull a pen from their jacket pocket with what someone besides themself might call a flourish.

“Alright,” they say with a decisive click of their pen, “what do we need to start?”

Rise-chan’s smile turns positively manic.

  They part ways roughly an hour later, with Naoto’s notebook now having several pages dedicated to scrawled notes and party ideas. At one point, Rise-chan had brought up Naoto’s own birthday party – which was indeed confirmed to be scheduled for the following weekend – but the three of them had unanimously agreed that Souji-senpai’s party absolutely must be held on Tuesday the 1st. Luckily, it seemed that any arrangements Rise-chan had been making for Naoto’s birthday were already done and thus wouldn’t interfere with their mission. She didn’t elaborate – only mischievously hinted that she’d spearheaded the planning alongside Souji-senpai, and enlisted the rest of the team to gather on the chosen Saturday with whatever pieces they’re responsible for. All of this, however, Naoto had already long since guessed. 

Their plan is broken down as such: because this is Naoto’s idea and because they’re the most knowledgeable in this particular situation, they’re responsible for the planning overall. Gathering the others, approving or vetoing aspects, doling out tasks, choosing whom to involve and whom to not since the concept of a name day party will require explanation; all of these are things that Naoto is comfortable doing. (After all, it’s just like rounding up the necessary resources for a particularly stealthy case.)

Kanji-kun had, surprisingly, suggested asking his mother to teach him how to bake. Souji-senpai had done so much to help with his birthday, and Kanji-kun admitted that he’s been wanting to return the favor for a while now. (Not only that, but also because the only member of the group able to produce anything edible is Souji-senpai, and a store-bought cake absolutely will not do.) Both Rise-chan and Naoto had liked the idea, and Naoto had even awkwardly asked if they could learn as well in order to help. With a stammer and a blush, Kanji-kun had agreed.

Rise-chan is next. Being the most experienced with, well, all of this, she is in charge of the finer details. She’d volunteered to talk to Yukiko-senpai and Chie-senpai about prep and potentially figuring out some kind of food situation, which, she assured, also included adamantly keeping the other girls from trying to make any of it themselves. She’d also offered to see about finding them a location to hold the party, (possibly the Amagi Inn,) but had agreed to wait on that particular front until after Naoto talks to Dojima-san.

Ideally, Naoto would like to have the whole affair take place at the Dojima residence, where Souji-senpai can feel safe and comfortable. It’s also imperative that Nanako-chan and her father be involved with the celebration somehow, even if it’s just having them be present, so throwing the party at Dojima-san’s house would just be the most practical thing to do. It would also give them the chance to help out with preparations if they so chose – and if nothing else, the team could put Nanako-chan and Teddie on decoration duty. Naoto plans to give Dojima-san a call just as soon as they know Souji-senpai is off at one of his part time jobs and well away from anywhere he could overhear.

Yosuke-senpai is appointed the job of acting as Souji-senpai’s distraction. No one has yet contacted him to tell him so, but none of them doubt that he’ll be completely on board.

All that’s left now is to start putting everything into action.

 ---

 Shirogane: DO U OR TEDDIE WORK ON THE 1ST?

Yosuke-senpai: idk abt ted but i dnt think i do? y?

Shirogane: GOOD. MAKE SURE U DONT

Shirogane: WE R THROWING A SURPRISE PRTY 4 SOUJI-SENPAI & U R THE DISTRACTION

Yosuke-senpai: !!!!!!???????

Yosuke-senpai: just tell me wat u need me 2 do!

 ---

 Shirogane: DID U ASK HER?

Kanji-kun: yeah she got all happy & pulled out gma’s cookbooks.

Kanji-kun: she’s teachin me the basics after school tomorrow. said to invite you.

Shirogane: I WILL B THERE. WHAT TIME?

Kanji-kun: around closing? startin after dinner I guess.

Kanji-kun: uh. she said to invite you to dinner too.

Shirogane: I WDNT WANT 2 IMPOSE

Kanji-kun: I don’t think she’s givin us a choice. ma’s kinda scary when she’s excited.

Shirogane: I AM UNSURE HOW 2 RESPOND 2 THAT

Kanji-kun: me too.

 ---

 “Dojima speaking.”

“Dojima-san, hello.”

“Shirogane?”

“Yes, sir. I’m sorry to bother you at work, but I have something important to ask you. It concerns Souji-senpai.“

“Souji? What’s wrong, is he alright?”

“No, no, nothing’s wrong! Forgive me, I didn’t mean… We want to throw him a surprise party.”

“…Oh.”

“Yes.”

“Wait, so… a party. Like a birthday party?”

“Yes and no?”

“Oh hell. Is it coming up soon? He’s never said anything, and with as busy as this past year’s been it didn’t even cross my mind!”

“That doesn’t surprise me, honestly; Souji-senpai has expressed an intense dislike for his legal date of birth. However, he has stated that he first acquired his chosen name on May the 1st, so we’ve elected to celebrate on that date instead.”

“The 1st, huh? Wow. That’s… soon.”

“It is. We would have started planning much earlier, but we all just found out ourselves a few hours ago.”

“Thank you for telling me. Souji’s a good kid, but I doubt he would have told me any of this on his own.”

“Sadly, you’re probably right.”

(A sigh.)

“Okay. So the 1st. Yeah, I can probably clock out early then. I’m going to assume that you’re calling to ask if you can have the party at the house, right?”

“Ah. Well, yes, actually. If possible.”

(A laugh.)

“If Nanako found out there was a party for her big brother and it wasn’t being held at our place, she’d never forgive me for it.”

“Thank you, Dojima-san.”

“Heh. After everything he’s done for us, it’s the absolute least I can do for him.”

 ---

 Rise-chan: Naoto-kuuuuuuuun! I spoke to Chie-senpai!

Rise-chan: Yukiko-senpai was working earlier so she’ll have to call me back. But!

Rise-chan: Chie-senpai and I are going shopping this weekend to get party supplies~

Rise-chan: How did it go with Dojima-san?

Shirogane: IT WENT WELL. WE CAN HAVE THE PRTY @ THEIR HOUSE ON THE 1ST

Shirogane: HES ALSO GOING 2 TALK 2 NANAKO-CHAN

Rise-chan: Awesome!!!!

Rise-chan: oh brb phone

Shirogane: RISE-CHAN?

Rise-chan: Sorry!! Yukiko-senpai just called me back. She’s coming this weekend, too~

Rise-chan: She also said we could look for places that cater while in Okina.

Rise-chan: If we don’t find anything she’ll ask at the inn for a small dinner spread.

Shirogane: THAT IS MOST GENEROUS OF HER

Shirogane: I WORRY ABT SUCH SHORT NOTICE THO

Rise-chan: Plan C is takeout from Aiya’s~

Rise-chan: (Last resort is Junes but I reeeeeeaaaally don’t want to.)

Shirogane: AGREED

Shirogane: U R GOOD @ THIS

Rise-chan: Why Naoto-kun~ Was that a compliment? ;3

Shirogane: GN RISE-CHAN

 ---

 The weekend passes in the weirdest, most jarring clash of furious activity and jittery stillness.

It begins the very next day at school – which is mercifully a Saturday and therefore not a full day, so Naoto only has to stifle their anxious fidgeting for half as long as they might have otherwise. It’s still nigh on unbearable. Finally, after what seems like an eternity, the last class of the morning ends and Naoto is on their feet and booking it out of the room as fast as their platform shoes will allow them to travel. They meet up with Kanji-kun and Rise-chan by the shoe lockers and wait for their senpai to come downstairs.

They don’t have to wait long. Souji-senpai hurries over, freshly changed out of his uniform and into more casual clothing. He waves to them as he changes shoes, apologizing for being unable to stay longer; he has a shift at the daycare center that afternoon. Naoto sends the rest of the group a confirmation text the moment Souji-senpai is out the door.

The group meets up at Junes about half an hour later, all of them instinctively heading up to the food court upon arrival and making a beeline for the table that used to serve as their secret headquarters all those months ago. It’s oddly nostalgic in a way. The location and the company and the impending deadline make the whole situation feel intensely reminiscent of a time not too long passed – which is both a pleasant and an unpleasant thing for Naoto to be reminded of, given the circumstance. Thankfully, however, the reason for this particular meeting is of a much happier origin, though arguably is of the same level of importance.

They sit and pool their information, with Naoto and Rise-chan rehashing the myriad of texts from the night before. After that is open discussion. Decorations are discussed (with the strict rule that absolutely nothing may contain the word “birthday”), along with a possible guest list. Eventually – though they all know of several people that would love to come and celebrate Souji-senpai’s existence with them – they decide it would be best to only include the members of the Investigation Team and the Dojima household. Souji-senpai isn’t out to anyone aside from them that they know of, hasn’t told anyone else about his parents and the reason he hates his legal birthday so much, so finding a way to invite Ebihara-senpai or Souji-senpai’s friends from the sports clubs without giving away the underlying significance of the party will, sadly, be too tricky to pull off. (Naoto has their suspicions about Konishi-kun, but until anything is confirmed they aren’t going to investigate further; it isn’t their secret to expose.)

The conversation turns to food shortly after. Then to cake. Then to appropriate presents. All the while, each of Naoto’s friends looks to them for approval, for their input, and while it flusters them a little they find themself excited as well. There is a cozy swell of pride and childlike eagerness inside their chest, resting comfortably against their heart and making it beat faster with the knowledge that their plan really is coming to fruition. For what might very well be the first time in a long time, Souji-senpai will be shown the appreciation he deserves. Naoto has to suck in a long, slow breath through their nose to even out their giddy, quickened breathing.

Once the plan is laid out and everyone is on the same page, Teddie pulls out his phone, puts it on speaker, and calls the Dojima landline. They fill Nanako-chan in on everything they’ve decided; she takes her time mulling everything over as they tell it, asking a question every so often and throwing in her own two cents as only the most discerning of little sisters can. She has the final say, Naoto tells her. Nothing will be done without her approval – after all, as much as Naoto loves Souji-senpai, as much as the IT loves him, as much as Yosuke-senpai loves him (which is even a different brand of love entirely), Nanako-chan is undisputedly the one that loves Souji-senpai most in the world. Her opinion is not to be taken lightly.  

They stay on the phone with Nanako-chan until all current aspects of the plan meet with her approval. The afternoon has worn on by that point, and since nothing more can really be done until the next morning the group decides to call it done for the day. Perfect timing, too, because as absorbed as they’d been with all the planning, Naoto hadn’t realized just how close it’s become to evening.

They walk with Kanji-kun and Rise-chan to the shopping district, where they part ways with Rise-chan in front of the tofu shop before continuing on to Tatsumi Textiles.

Dinner with Tatsumi-san is lovely.

(The practice cake the two of them manage to turn out, however, is not.)

Sunday is somehow less and more busy all at the same time.

Yosuke-senpai has to work, but on his break he messages the group chat several times with pictures of things he’s spotted around the store that he’s using as inspiration for his present. He also sends links to things he’d spent all night looking at online – including things like a new binder, which is sweet and practical and Naoto appreciates the thought behind it but also knows it’d be hard to get the fit right without Souji-senpai’s input. They politely tell him as much.

(They also know about the personal attachment Souji has to his old one, stretched out as it is after all the fighting he’s done in it, which Naoto and Yosuke-senpai both still hound him for. He’d almost bought himself a newer one at some point, one with a zipper, but he’d decided against it last minute and Naoto thinks it was less about saving the money for new armor and more about not being able to part with something so important to him.)

Yosuke-senpai take it pretty well, but follows it up with lamenting over the binder being his best gift idea. Naoto has to gently remind him that he’s dating Souji-senpai; he knows the boy better than anyone at this point. There is a bit of back and forth for a few minutes, in which Yosuke-senpai keeps insisting he has no idea what to get and Naoto reassures Yosuke-senpai repeatedly that he is, in fact Souji-senpai’s best friend and that they themself are no better suited to picking out gifts based on their history of quiet solidarity. Naoto knows their senpai is simply terrified of messing up, not that he’s deliberately being dense, but GOD it’s still ever-so-slightly exhausting watching Yosuke-senpai flounder like the anxious, love-sick idiot that he can so often be. Sometimes it’s endearing to see him acting like a first-year with a crush rather than someone who’s been in a relationship for nearly six months. Now is not one of those times.

Eventually Chie-senpai chimes in to tell him to shut up, and Yukiko-senpai suggests something that invokes a rare happy childhood memory (“Perhaps a book or an action figure? Souji-kun is the sentimental type…”), and Yosuke-senpai abruptly goes quiet for the next four hours.

Meanwhile, Rise-chan and the other girls head out to Okina to shop for party supplies – partly because they don’t want to risk running into Souji-senpai anywhere in town, and partly because Inaba, while charming, is limited in its selection. There is also the fear that someway, somehow, the gossips in town will notice what everyone is buying and ask. On its own, that wouldn’t pose a problem; the issue apparently lies with the fact that they’ve already been shopping for supplies for Naoto’s party, so doing it all over again so soon might pique some innocent curiosity.

There is also the added bonus of present shopping, as well as possibilities for party food that isn’t just the usual fair, so all in all it’s going to be a long, full day for the three of them.

Teddie drops in on the chat sometime that afternoon once his shift is finished to give them an update on his own progress. Earlier, while on break, he’d called Nanako-chan to ask if she would like to accompany him to Junes to shop for “groceries”. Souji-senpai had apparently been at home as well, and while he’d been reluctant at first to let Nanako-chan out of his sight, a well-placed “pleeeeeeeease, Oniichan?” had swayed him over. With Souji-senpai’s permission, Teddie now had at least two hours to help “Nana-chan” look for a gift of her own.

There was also talk of making a banner for the party, which was met with enthusiastic approval from Rise-chan. Teddie promised to let her know what colors they wound up choosing so that the girls could pick out decorations in a matching color scheme. (At this point Naoto is unashamed to admit that they are more than a little intimidated by Rise-chan and her event planning skills.)

Naoto themself winds up spending most of the day in the company of Kanji-kun, who has been looking through every pattern book in the textile shop for ideas on a handmade gift. He calls Naoto up a short while after Teddie has finished spamming the group chat and invites them over to help him narrow down his list. The pair spends a good portion of the day in Tatsumi-san’s living room, trying to decide whether a knitted cat plush would be a good enough present before Kanji-kun scraps the whole idea in frustration and admits that he doesn’t want to just give Souji-senpai something cute, he wants to make him something helpful.

They discuss the obvious choices – such as a scarf or a sweater – but quickly rule them out when it becomes apparent that clothing will require sizing and anything warm isn’t going to be practical in the approaching heat of summer. It’s a bit disheartening; the longer it takes to think of something to make, the less time Kanji-kun will have to gather supplies and actually make it, and Naoto feels powerless to help when the most they know about sewing crafts is how to mend the occasional tear in their favorite hat. To save themselves from burnout they take a break to order lunch from Aiya, grabbing extra for Tatsumi-san as a way of saying thank you.

It’s actually Tatsumi-san that makes the suggestion to give Souji-senpai a blanket. “It doesn’t have to be for warmth,” she tells them with a knowing smile. “Sometimes a person just needs to feel like they’re being hugged.”           

Naoto spends the next twenty minutes doing research on the benefits of weighted blankets while Kanji-kun minds the store until his mother has finished her lunch.

“For anxiety,” says one article; “can help with PTSD and depression,” says another. “Good for grounding, good for comforting, good for stimming, good for those with trouble sleeping”; the list goes on and on and by the time Tatsumi-san has taken back over at the front and the two teenagers are back in the living room, Kanji-kun is already plotting out what supplies he’ll need to make one. A quick text to the group chat and Rise-chan adds his requests to the pile of things to shop for while the girls are still in Okina.

The rest of the time before closing is spent with Kanji-kun looking through blanket patters to see if any can be modified. Naoto does what they can, but aside from helping to pick out colors and running their hands over different fabrics to determine the most pleasing textures, there isn’t really much more they can contribute. It’s almost a relief when Tatsumi-san reminds them of how late it is and invites Naoto to stay for dinner again with another baking lesson to follow.

For as busy as everyone has been all day, for all the advising Naoto has done among the members of the group, they themself don’t feel as if they’ve done anything particularly productive. The baking helps – the second cake attempt coming out far better than the one from the night before – but Naoto has never been a person that likes to sit and let others do all the physical work. Assuming the role of tactician is familiar and easy; not immediately following it up with being on the front lines is something they still need to get used to.

(It’s worth it though. Souji-senpai is worth it.)

 ---

 Monday marks the beginning of the countdown.

School starts back up and everyone is busy with their own responsibilities – family, work, assignments – and there just aren’t enough hours in the day anymore. It’s alright, though, Naoto tires to convince themself as the week begins to trickle by and their nerves slowly begin to eat away at them. It’s alright, because most of the preparations have been completed already (Rise-chan is very, very good at this,) and now all that’s left is the individual pieces. All that’s left is to wait.

Kanji-kun works on the weighted blanket.

Yosuke-senpai has apparently found and ordered his gift online (though Naoto would be surprised if he wasn’t also planning something personal and likely romantic for whenever the boys have a moment alone).

Chie-senpai, Yukiko-senpai, and Rise-chan hadn’t found anything in the city that they deemed good enough in terms of dinner, but Yukiko-senpai had apparently spoken to the kitchen staff at the inn and told them she needed help cooking for a friend. With as much as the staff seems to tend to think of Yukiko-senpai as their own family, and with as much as they’ve been willing to help her out with her personal cooking endeavors in the past, the likelihood of them having to use the takeout-from-Aiya’s contingency plan is blessedly small. And, since it’s a small event with under a dozen people, it won’t take up too much precious time from their actual jobs. So the timeframe also looks to be doable. (Naoto still worries, but they trust the skill of the Amagi Inn’s kitchen staff.)

Two of the girls had all managed to find their gifts for Souji-senpai in Okina, as well, though Rise-chan was inspired while there. Kanji-kun had told Naoto later on that Rise-chan had come by the shop and commissioned his mother for something, but that he didn’t know anything beyond that.

Lastly, though Dojima-san was staying mostly out of the way, Teddie had confirmed that he and Nanako-chan had managed to put their own gift idea together on Sunday. The parts they were unable to do themselves, Dojima-san had helped with later on. All that was left was the banner Nanako-chan had wanted to make, though they already had the pieces bought and hidden away.

For their own part, Naoto spends nearly every evening over at the Tatsumi residence, helping Kanji-kun with the blanket where they can and continuing their cake-making education with Tatsumi-san after dinner. The woman is an absolute miracle, honestly; she runs the shop, works on orders, cooks, and then patiently teaches two novice bakers. Kanji-kun does help with the shop, obviously – especially since Tatsumi-san is happily working double time on whatever it is that Rise-chan has ordered to make sure it’s ready by the 1st. Kanji-kun had said that she’d been positively delighted after Rise-chan had spoken to her, stating that she’d even tried to give their friend a discount (which Rise-chan had politely refused,) because the order was for “that wonderful boy that’s made you so happy, Kan-chan!” Kanji-kun’s face had been as red as the flames on his shirt while telling the story.

By the middle of the week, their test cakes have turned out pretty decent, which is a huge balm to Naoto’s nerves in and of itself. They won’t be able to get in any more practice until possibly Sunday, as Friday is their own birthday and Grandfather wants to spend it with them. They do feel a little guilty about being gone for dinner nearly every day for a week, but they’ve been on cases that have kept them away for longer and Grandfather knows how important this is to them, so Naoto tries not to feel too badly.

Saturday will be a no-go as well, because whatever Rise-chan and Souji-senpai have planned for their celebration is taking place on Saturday evening. Still, Naoto is confident that they and Kanji-kun will be able to make something presentable by Monday night. It won’t be nearly as good as Souji-senpai’s baking – or Tatsumi-san’s, for that matter – but Naoto takes a bit of pride in what the two of them have managed to do in such a short amount of time.

So really, Naoto had no reason to be so anxious.

(It doesn’t stop them from being anxious, though.)

  Friday is a good day.

Their friends catch them – before school, during break, at the shoe lockers after class – to wish them a happy birthday. Souji-senpai invites them to lunch up on the roof again and surprises them with the seasoned-rice-and-tuna onigiri of his that they like so much. Grandfather is waiting for them when they return home, a loving hug and a small box wrapped in navy blue paper at the ready the moment Naoto walks in the door. It’s a good, happy day.

It’s made even better by the arrival of a long, thin envelope in their mailbox.

At first there is a flash of dread; the envelope has no return address and bears only the words, To the Wheel of Fortune, for the Fool written in neat, feminine handwriting across the front. The dread dissipates, however, once Naoto cautiously pries the envelope open to reveal a smaller envelope and a note. Folded against the smaller envelope is a greeting card. The cover of the card sports a blue and black mask with something akin to a sunburst behind it, and several more shades of blue in a diamond pattern; it strongly resembles the image on the back of the tarot card they use when summoning Yamato Takero. The material is nice, durable, expensive. It’s obviously a custom-made piece, and as Naoto warily opens the card up to see Happy Name Day, Souji in raised, cobalt letters, they realize just how specifically custom-made it really is.

The note is also on high-quality paper, and written in that same looping penmanship that the package had been marked with. It reads:

 Shirogane Naoto,

I humbly request that you give this card to our mutual friend and confidant, Seta Souji, on Tuesday, May the 1st as, regrettably, I will be unable to attend the celebration planned in his honor. I have taken the liberty of signing my name in advance and invite you and the rest of your teammates to do the same.

Best wishes on your birthday.

 There is no name, no signature to indicate just who this mystery mailer is. It should worry Naoto that someone other than the Investigation Team and the Dojimas knows about Souji-senpai’s party and the actual reason behind it, but the fact that it’s respectful and appropriate keeps them from being too on edge. That, and the image of the familiar mask on the front of the card itself both finally lead them to the conclusion that, whomever the sender is, they know. It doesn’t frighten them as much as they think it probably should.

Later that night, after their birthday dinner with Grandfather is over and they’ve gone their separate ways to bed, Naoto pulls the strange card back out and examines it under their bedside lamp. There in the corner, down at the bottom where their fingers had covered before, is a scrawl of metallic gold ink that simply says, –Margaret.

 ---

 Naoto’s birthday celebration turns out to be a late-afternoon picnic at the Samegawa.

Rise-chan and Souji-senpai, it seems, had both agreed that anything larger, anything in an area with or involving more people would probably not be the most comfortable of situations for Naoto to sit through. However, since they’d wanted to do something slightly different that the dinner party they’d had for Kanji-kun, which had also given Tatsumi-san a chance to be involved with her son’s get-together, they’d decided on this instead. They had even come up with a secondary plan in case the weather had been against them, though with the bright sun and the warm wind, it obviously wasn’t needed. They smile at one another in that vaguely unnerving, silent, conspiratorial exchange of theirs and Naoto finds they just don’t have the courage to ask what their back up plan had been.

(Rise-chan and Souji-senpai working in any sort of collaboration is a special kind of powerful that borders on terrifying. Naoto doesn’t think a mere mortal such as themself would survive a full demonstration.)

Some of the food is store-bought, or was made with boxed ingredients, but Naoto genuinely does not mind. In fact, they prefer it that way somewhat, considering the culinary skills of the entire group combined is rudimentary at best. Kanji-kun, however, does come with a homemade offering – which he apparently did mostly on his own with Tatsumi-san only stepping in once or twice to give him advice as she supervised. Naoto does not attempt to hide their pride in him, and is rewarded for their own pink-faced compliments with a splutter and a blush so deep that Rise-chan jokes Kanji-kun could get part-time work as a traffic light. 

Souji-senpai, of course, comes with not only a decently large spread of his own but also cake. (No one has to ask if he made it himself; even when the world was quite literally about to end at the hands of a creation goddess, Souji-senpai still only ever made everything entirely from scratch.) He brings two large bags with him – one with cold food he’d made and left to chill the night before, and one he’d gotten up early that morning to prepare and then quickly put into insulated containers to keep it reasonably warm. Naoto is both impressed and not at all surprised with any of this information, and they tell him so with a tiny, cheeky quirk of their lips. Souji-senpai simply chuckles and offers Naoto the smile that is just for them. He shows affection through his cooking, by giving a little piece of himself away with every bit of food he makes for others. It’s subtle, but hard to miss, and it always makes Naoto feel cozy and bright whenever it’s directed at them.

The Team piles up on several picnic blankets all thrown together and held in place by packages of food and sit together in one big lump, Souji-senpai’s cake sat squarely in the middle. They talk, laugh, watch the lowering sunlight as it goes to kiss at the edge of the water; it’s wonderful. Naoto beams below the brim of their hat, face colored with a flush of happiness as they let their found-family shower them in attention. It’s something they can’t remember ever really having, at least not for ages, and while it’s different and new it’s also absolutely perfect – as if there had been a shard missing from somewhere deep in Naoto’s chest that many hands have now helped to fill.

The sunlight fades to a dusty gold at the line of the river, reflecting back the elongating shadows of early evening’s arrival. It isn’t yet dusk, the sky not dark enough to be considered so, but it’s getting close. In the past, Naoto has never cared much for twilight. The diffused amber light always used to make them slightly anxious, reminded them that yet another day had come to a close and left them feeling stagnant and stuck. Now, though, with their favorite people surrounding them, they think maybe the glow along the horizon might not be such a bad thing after all.

It’s getting closer to the darker side of day’s end, a couple of hours into the celebration when the cake has been devoured and the presents all opened, that Naoto finds themself sitting closer to the bank and watching the miniature waves that curl along the river’s surface. The motions are gentle, like the soft caress of a hand, and a sense of calm has washed over them as they stare at the last rays of sunlight glittering across the top of the water. Their friends have taken to gathering up the leftovers, putting away the boxes, packing up anything that might get lost in the dark when the sun finally goes all the way down. Naoto had tried to help, of course, seeing as how everyone had gone to the trouble of throwing them a party, the least they could do is help clean up, but they’d quickly been shooed away.

So they sit. And watch the river. And tuck their knees up to their chest with their chin resting comfortably atop them. They listen to the sounds of their friends up behind them as the group moves about but keep their ears unfocused to anything but the sound of the Samegawa. It’s because of this distraction, this peaceful suspension as the light grows low, that Naoto nearly misses the rustling of the grass as Souji-senpai comes to sit beside them.

“How did you like it?” he asks softy.

Naoto turns their head to look at him; he’s facing the water just like they were, with his face framed in soft edges and tranquil contentment. It’s a good look on him.

They hum. “It was lovely, thank you.” Naoto’s lips curve in a slow smile, which Souji-senpai returns even before he moves to face them. Their smile widens. “When Rise-chan asked me what I wanted to do for today, I would never have thought of this, even if I’d had an answer at the time.” They chuckle and shift their gaze back towards the horizon, the dance of the gold on the river shining just at the edge of their line of sight. “I’ve never… done this,” they confess, tucking their chin lower against their knees. “I’ve never really had any friends to do this with. So… thank you.”

Souji-senpai huffs softly – a happy sound that nearly becomes an answering hum of his own. “I wish we’d met sooner then.” He shifts his legs to stretch them out in front of him and leans back on his hands against the grass.

They both stay quiet for a time, Naoto watching the fading light and Souji-senpai watching them with patient eyes. Eventually he turns fully back toward the river and says, in a whisper nearly swallowed by the breeze, “For what it’s worth, I think we would have been pretty good friends as kids…”

Naoto feels their breath stutter and catch in their throat, and their vision blurs hot with sentimental tears. They cannot speak past the swell of unnamable emotion in their chest, warm and fluffy and desperate in its yearning for a different life with a different childhood. I want that, they think, but the words refuse to come; I wish we’d had that…

They cannot answer, so they simply nod.

  That night, after everyone has gone home and Naoto sits alone in their bedroom with Grandfather fast asleep down the hall, they go to their bookcase and pull an old, well-worn volume with a cracking canvas spine from its place on the highest shelf. There is a moment of mental debate, where Naoto carefully flips open the dusty cover and reads the words they’d loved so much as a child, before they close it again one final time. It’s served them well, given them joy and comfort when they’d needed it; now, it can go to someone else, someone that might have loved it as much as they did in years long passed.

They slip the book into a pretty paper gift bag they’d purchased the day before and gently tuck a handful of silvery tissue paper in around the ageing book. There is a small part of them that is sad to see it go, but it is eclipsed by the softer, fuller feeling still lingering in Naoto’s chest from Souji-senpai’s words at the riverbank. They know, (or they would like to think) that their childhood self would understand, and would whole-heartedly approve.

Naoto sets the gift bag on the edge of their desk where it won’t be forgotten and reaches for their phone to cancel the order they’d placed online the other day. They don’t need it anymore – not when something much more meaningful now rests inside the bag meant for their closest friend.

They fall asleep a short while later, slipping into peaceful dreams of alternate timelines where seven familiar figures join them on the grass of their favorite childhood playground, and a quiet boy with storm-cloud eyes asks them if they want to play.

 ---

 Naoto meets with Kanji-kun on Sunday for one last round of baking practice. The two of them politely decline Tatsumi-san’s offer to observe their efforts – if ever they were going to try and do this on their own, now would be the time. Tatsumi-san gives them a knowing, proud smile and tells them to call for her should they need anything, then slips away into the depths of the house to put the finishing touches on Rise-chan’s order.

So they take their time, moving carefully and reading the directions twice over before completing each step. Tonight it crucial; it’s the first time they’ve made a full-scale cake, rather then the individual-sized ones they’d been producing all week in order to save space and ingredients, and thus it is the first time they’ve used a recipe that requires more from them. If they fail tonight, then they will need to double their efforts tomorrow – Monday is all they will have left after this.

Early into the learning process, several days back, they had agreed that anything too complicated or overly ambitious was going to be out of their depth. They keep it simple, with minimal decoration (that’s what the banner and the rest of the party decorations are for) and an easy, traditional flavor. The only thing extra that they plan to add is a strategically placed spattering of colorful sugar flowers that had been purchased from a small bakery in town. The package sits off to the side, waiting.

When the cake is pulled from the oven and has sat long enough to cool, when the icing is on and as smooth as they can get it, they call Tatsumi-san into the kitchen to appraise the results. She smiles at them as she tries it, wide and kind, and in a soft voice that Naoto thinks their own mother might have used oh so long ago, Tatsumi-san tells them both that it’s perfect.

 ---

 Monday comes and Monday goes. Souji-senpai goes to work at his job at the daycare center, leaving everyone free to stop by the Dojima residence to drop off anything they feel comfortable leaving hidden in a downstairs closet that doesn’t get much use in the summer. Presents are stored, anything non-perishable is tucked away out of sight, decorations and paper supplies are left until tomorrow. Nanako-chan and Teddie map out where they want everything to go and show off the banner they’d finally had the chance to finish making with Dojima-san’s help. Afterwards, Naoto follows Kanji-kun home to take one final stab at baking.

The blue and violet sugar flowers look beautiful against the icing’s stark, vibrant white.

            ---

 Tuesday.

Naoto barely sleeps the night before, too busy going over and over and over everything in their mind long into the early hours of the morning. As a result, they find it nearly impossible to concentrate during class. They fidget with their pencil, bounce their leg unconsciously beneath their desk. It isn’t noticeable enough to draw any attention, but it’s enough to keep them distracted in and of itself. By the time lunch rolls around, they’ve barely managed to take any notes at all.

After school is even worse. Yukiko-senpai and Chie-senpai meet up with Naoto in the stairwell, where Yukiko-senpai whispers that they’re on their way to stop by the inn and pick up the finished dinner before heading over to the Dojima house to help set up. Chie-senpai adds that Souji-senpai is still upstairs in the classroom, being stalled by his boyfriend as Yosuke-senpai does his best to keep their leader’s attention on him. (Not that Yosuke-senpai has to try very hard in that respect.)

Naoto nods, perhaps a bit more animatedly than necessary, and hurriedly waves them on ahead. When Naoto gets to the ground floor and sees no sign of anyone else, they hang back near the bulletin board by the front entrance and pretend to peruse the various papers pinned to it while keeping an eye out for the rest of their friends.

Kanji-kun finds them next, and he confirms that neither of their remaining senpai have passed him on the stairs. He waits with them, also trying to calm a thundering heart rate without making it obvious, until Rise-chan makes her way down. She and Kanji-kun leave together in the direction of the textile shop – Rise-chan to pick up her order, and Kanji-kun to grab the cake before they, too, join the others at Dojima-san’s. Naoto watches them go.

Their phone buzzes in their pocket a moment or so later, a new message in the group chat winking up at them.

 Yosuke-senpai: takin prtnr back 2 my place 2 hang out. som1 txt me when ur ready

 Naoto snorts quietly to themself at that. Not very subtle, they think, because really – if Souji-senpai doesn’t show up later with hickies dotting his neck then Naoto will be thoroughly surprised. (Still, better than taking Souji-senpai on a date and running the risk of taking too long or leaving their leader too burnt out to enjoy his own party.)

Sending off a quick reply, Naoto takes this as their cue to leave. They change out of their indoor shoes and quickly slip out the door before the pair of boys can make it down and spot them loitering.

  Naoto arrives at the Dojima house before most of the rest of them – save for Teddie, who had headed out early to walk Nanako-chan home from school. The two of them are halfway through dragging everything out of the closet when Naoto gets there, the low table in the living room already piled high with all the gifts that had been left there the night before. Naoto spares a second to pull the strange blue greeting card – which now bears the signature of every member of the IT, plus Nanako-chan and her father – from the gift bag where Naoto had tucked it away for safe keeping. They set it on the table near the front of the pile, where the deep, shimmering blue of the envelope can be seen amongst the other colorful wrappings. That done, Naoto lets themself be pulled in the direction of the closet to help dig everything else out.

It’s only a short time later that Kanji-kun and Rise-chan arrive. Nanako-chan giggles over how pretty the cake is as she helps Kanji-kun put it away in the refrigerator. Rise-chan, meanwhile, sets down the large paper box she’d carried in and begins to rifle through the supplies from the closet for the roll of wrapping paper she’d stored just for this purpose. Naoto goes and sits with her when Rise-chan calls them over and together they manage to wrangle the box into its shiny pastel wrappings in record time. Nanako-chan stands off to the side and watches them excitedly for a moment before turning her attention back towards where Kanji-kun is helping Teddie to hang the banner. She calls out instructions until both sides are perfectly even.

The five of them are tackling the rest of the decorations when Yukiko-senpai and Chie-senpai finally knock on the door. Rise-chan helps to clear away space on the kitchen table as their senpai start unpacking what they can from the three giant bags of food containers brought from the Amagi Inn. Anything that won’t need to be heated up in any way goes directly on the table; everything else is set off to the side of the kitchen for the time being. Eventually Dojima-san joins them – much to the elation of Nanako-chan, whom Naoto is certain still has minor trust issues when it comes to her father and his work schedule. He greets them all, hugging his exuberant daughter and ruffling her hair, and then promptly gets out of the way with a promise to help should they need him.

The preparations are nearly complete when the members of the group all swap places. Kanji-kun and Naoto take over in the kitchen to get the last of the food warmed up with Nanako-chan’s assistance. Rise-can and the rest of the girls rearrange the presents over by the sliding glass door to make more room to sit at the low table, since Rise-chan’s gift is a bit too large and hard to display in the small space. They carefully lay the card on top of the pile.  

Finally, finally, with the sun drifting lower into late afternoon and striping the living room in soft, dusty light through the curtains, Naoto sends Yosuke-senpai a text to let him know they’re ready. He texts them back to confirm that he and Souji-senpai are on their way.

“Alright,” Naoto breathes into the room full of waiting faces. They feel their heart fluttering inside their ribcage like a butterfly’s wings, their lungs suddenly pulling in twice as much air and yet still not filling nearly enough to quell Naoto’s shaking hands. “We have fifteen minutes.”

Oh my god, they think with only a touch of adrenaline-spiked mania. We’re doing this. We pulled this off. And as they watch their friends, their teammates, the people that mean the world to Souji-senpai scurrying about, looking for places to linger to wait for him to arrive, Naoto can only tell themself that they’ve done all they can. The whispering voice of doubt tries to titter and hiss in the back of their mind that their efforts aren’t good enough, that they haven’t done enough; Naoto squares their shoulders and tells the voice to kindly shut the hell up.

Deep breaths.

“Everybody ready?”

A quiet chorus of affirmation is the response.

Calm washes over them out of nowhere like a warm summer breeze – Yamato Takeru humming gently inside their soul. They nod. “Good.”

Naoto switches off the lights and steps back away from the door to stand under the banner with their friends. Not even two minutes later there is the sound of keys being inserted into the lock, and a familiar pair of voices reaches them from just outside the door.

 ---

 “I… guess no one’s home yet…”

“Guess not.”

There is a pause as the lock turns and the grating click of metal echoes in the silent space of the living room. The handle turns.

“Hey,” Yosuke-senpai’s voice comes again, muffled by the wood of the door that still hasn’t opened. “You okay?”

There is another, shorter pause. Then, softly, “Yeah, I just… The dark still messes with me a little bit.”

Naoto tenses, holding their breath behind pursed lips as they listen to their leader, their friend expose a crack in his shield. They don’t have time to wonder if the admission will play well with what’s about to transpire before the door swings resolutely open and the wary sound that Souji-senpai makes behind his teeth rings audibly into the dark.

Here we go.

Yosuke-senpai steps in first, his voice preceding him as he enters and goes to stand by the light switch on the wall. “Well then, guess we’d better turn the lights on, huh?”

There is another pause where Souji-senpai must make some kind of inaudible reply, followed by a second pair of footsteps when he finally moves inside.

“Alright!” Yosuke-senpai says with just a bit too much cheer, and Naoto knows he’s speaking more to the group hidden in the shadows than to his boyfriend. “Bright light in 3… 2… 1…”

‘Click.’

“SURPRISE!”

The lights flash on, chasing the darkness from the corners and revealing the small crowd of people concealed within. Eight voice rise as one in joyous, excited greeting.

For a moment, there is fear.

Souji-senpai recoils as if struck, blinking in bright-eyed panic at the sudden light. He flinches backwards, startled at the sharp movements and the unexpected sounds, and drops lower into something like a battle stance – instinctive, like he’s used to years of being afraid of entering a house. His shoulders tense as he reaches habitually for a sword that simply isn’t there.

But then Yosuke-senpai is at his side, a hand is on his back, and slowly, like a frightened, feral cat, Souji-senpai straightens up and blinks again to take in the sight of friends instead of monsters.

(Naoto bites their lip so hard they feel the skin give way. They know all too well that the worst of the phantoms plaguing Souji-senpai’s mind are not the ones he’s had to face inside the television.)

“It’s okay, Partner,” Yosuke-senpai murmurs, just barely audible in the space of deafening silence.

And just like that, the fear begins to drain.

The team surges forward, Teddie and Nanako-chan at the front, and Naoto stands grinning as a very confused-looking Souji-senpai is dragged further into the room. Beside them, hanging back away from the gaggle of teens and children, Dojima-san chuckles softly.

“You did good, Shirogane,” he says.

Naoto glances over to see the older detective watching his nephew with a fond expression.

“I think he needed this.”

Naoto grins just a little bit wider.

Souji-senpai stares around the room as if lost, taking in the sight of the silver and blue paper streamers draped along the walls with quiet, childlike awe. His expression is guarded still, tinted around the edges with disorientation, like everything around him is foreign and strange. Ever since Naoto has known him, there has been an age to Souji-senpai’s eyes, a kind of maturity that no teenager should ever have to wear. It took them a long time to realize that it wasn’t simply the weight of the investigations that had put that age there. Now, however, as Souji-senpai catches sight of the bright blue banner in the corner of the ceiling, with Happy Name Day, Souji emblazed across it in shining silver characters, the age seems to melt away into nothingness, slipping from his shoulders and the lines between his brows. His lips part in wonderment, unconsciously forming the shape of the words as he reads them, and Naoto thinks they catch a momentary glimpse of the little boy their friend was never allowed to be.

“Wh…what’s…?” he whispers in a small voice, likely unaware he’s even spoken aloud.

Naoto steps closer, sliding up behind him and standing just off to the side where his peripherals will alert him to Naoto’s presence. “The first of May.”

Souji-senpai turns his head slowly to look at them, brow crinkling in silent question.

“The first of May,” Naoto repeats. They raise their voice just so, just enough to be heard over the raucous sounds of their friends in the background as the rest of the group begins to spreads out to begin celebrating in earnest. Their lips curl upwards in a smile. “The day you chose your name.”

Souji-senpai’s chest deflates likes he’s just lost his breath, grey eyes flickering from Naoto to the banner to the gifts by the curtains and then back again. He breathes, and the sound is shaky, tinged with timidity. “I don’t understand.”

Dojima-san picks that moment to wander over as well. He claps a hand down on his nephew’s shoulder – which causes Souji-senpai to twitch instinctively before relaxing into the fatherly contact. “What’s not to understand?” he teases, though his tone is that loving kind of serious that leaves no room for argument. “We’re celebrating that day you came into existence.”

The emphasis in not lost on Souji-senpai, it seems, because his face scrunches slightly as if he’s fighting back an emotion he doesn’t think he’s allowed to have.

Dojima-san shakes his head. His voice is low and resolute as he says, “To hell with your birth certificate, Souji.”

Souji-senpai has to look down and away for a moment, and if there is a faint gleam of moisture in the corners of his eyes, then neither Naoto nor Dojima-san say a single thing about it.

Before the final wall of Souji-senpai’s dam can crack and fall away, Nanako-chan runs up with Teddie fast on her heels and throws her arms around her brother’s waist. Teddie echoes the movement and soon Souji-senpai is trapped in a double embrace from both the IT’s resident Little Siblings. Dojima-san steps away with a laugh.

“Okay!” Rise-chan calls a heartbeat later. “Dinner first, before it gets cold!”

And finally, for the first time since stepping into the house, Souji-senpai’s face tentatively smoothes out into something like unfiltered joy.

  After dinner comes cake, which Souji-senpai just sort of stares at for a few seconds, as though his mind is lagging as it tries to process. He watches Yukiko-senpai with an owlish expression as she slices the cake into equal pieces and slides a piece with the largest, prettiest bundle of sugar flowers onto a plate. He seems to almost startle, shoulders hunching adorably, when she holds it out for him to take.

Naoto nearly snorts into their tea. Souji-senpai looks very much like an awkward child, unsure of what he’s allowed to do and what is proper behavior; Naoto is reminded of how he couldn’t sit still at Kanji-kun’s party, always up and moving and playing the role of co-host with ease. They would never say it to his face, but it’s sort of nice to see Souji-senpai safely out of his element.

The cake itself is a success, earning the seal of approval from both Nanako-chan and Teddie in the form of delighted cheers. Souji-senpai smiles at them, apparently content to watch, and it takes Kanji-kun reaching over Nanako-chan’s head and lightly poking him in the side before he remembers that there is a piece in front of him, too.

“You made this?” he asks quietly, no louder than an awed murmur.

Kanji-kun rubs at the back of his head and turns away to hide the smile of pride and the faint hue of crimson that warms his features. “W-well, you made mine, so I just…” He clears his throat and jerks a thumb over to where Naoto is sitting on Kanji-kun’s right. “Naoto and I both made it, and they’re the one that found the flowers, all I did was—“

“We made it together, yes,” Naoto finishes. They smile over at Kanji-kun in reassurance, then turn to Souji-senpai to smile a little wider. “You made mine as well, it was only right.”

“Yeah,” Kanji-kun adds with a fervent nod. His face is practically radiating heat with how red it is, but he presses on, gaze glued to the tabletop. “You keep spoilin’ all of us, so we figured it was our turn to spoil you for a change.”

Souji-senpai’s eyes go impossibly wider, and he ducks his head to hide the way his cheeks have gone bright and warm with a blush of his own. He stuffs a bite of cake into his mouth to avoid responding, and his lips curl faintly upward in a happy smile around the tines of his plastic fork.

  Once everyone is finished eating and all the washable dishes have been set neatly aside, Nanako-chan pulls a thick, flat package wrapped in sunny yellow paper from the pile of gifts along the wall. She hurries back over to her spot at Souji-senpai’s side at the living room table (where Naoto had adamantly kept him seated while the rest were cleaning up) and plunks down next to him on the floor. She holds the box out to him with an expression that could rival the first true day of summer.

“Open this one first, Oniichan!”

Souji-senpai smiles at his little sister – the one just for her, full of softness and pride – as she pushes the box into his hands.

Rise-chan squeals in delight. “Yes!” Rushing over from the kitchen, she scoops up as many of the presents as she can in her arms and excitedly brings them over to the table for easy reach. Yosuke-senpai grabs the ones she misses.

“You have to open mine second, Senpai,” she gushes as she comes back to her seat, face split wide in a beaming grin.

As small as the low table is, there isn’t much room for so many people crowding around it, let alone people plus gifts, but they make it work somehow. Yosuke-senpai is pressed up against Souji-senpai’s left side, his proximity to his boyfriend acting as both subtle affection and also a bit of a grounding point. Nanako-chan, of course, is seated on Souji-senpai’s right, and the three of them together are practically squished into the space of one side of the table with most of the rest of the IT filling up whatever remaining room they can fit themselves into. Dojima-san wisely sits slightly apart from the group at one of the kitchen chairs, which frees up the couch for Yukiko-senpai and Chie-senpai to claim as their own. Yukiko-senpai pulls the stack of packages closer to the two of them, silently appointing herself in charge of handing them over once Souji-senpai is ready.

“Actually, wait.” Naoto cuts in before Souji-senpai has a chance to do more than fidget awkwardly and blink at Nanako-chan’s present like it’s something sacred. They lean back and stretch out their arm towards where the cobalt-colored envelope lies at Yukiko-senpai’s feet. Daintily, Yukiko-senpai bends forward and picks it up, handing it over to where Naoto can reach. They nod their thanks, then slide the card across the table to Souji-senpai, who looks no less bewildered than he did before.

He takes it with a questioning tilt of his head and carefully looks it over as if he’s not quite sure what to do with it. (There is a part of Naoto that wonders if he’s just wary, or if he’s genuinely confused as to why he’s just been handed a card. Either one is entirely plausible, and neither one is something Naoto would ever wish on their friend.)

Slowly, taking care not to rip or crease the envelope, Souji-senpai tugs the card free from its paper housing. His face twitches slightly, like he’s habitually suppressing a startled smile, but there is mild amusement in his eyes that Naoto can see from their seat two people away, as he takes in the blue-and-black emblem on the front of the card. He opens the cover; his entire body stills.

Naoto watches as Souji-senpai’s expression melts into something almost unreadable, something lost and unsure but speckled with the tiniest blooms of disbelieving hope. Once again they liken his countenance to that of a child afraid to break an illusion, confused and maybe a little sad and scared to believe that they are deserving of something nice. It wrenches at Naoto’s heart.

(“Wrong name on the birthday card, you know?”)

Not anymore.

Naoto may not be able to see the inside of the card from where they sit, but they know exactly what’s written on every square inch of available space within.

We love you, Souji-senpai! in looping, glittery pink.

You’re the bear-y best, Souji-sensei! in wobbly blue.

I’m glad we’re friends, Souji-kun, in elegant crimson.

To Souji-kun – best training buddy EVER, in vibrant neon green.

Welcome to the family, Souji, in professional, ballpoint black.

 Souji-niichan, Souji-senpai, My Souji – written in cheery purple and pastel yellow and metallic sunset-orange, with Naoto’s own message of Thank you for existing, Souji-kun in long strokes of deep, rich indigo down in the corner below “Margaret’s” brilliant gold.

Best Friend, Partner, Leader, Brother; each and every signature preceded by words of endearment, words of praise, words of thanks, and every single one containing a deliberate emphasis on the only name that matters.

Souji-senpai’s gaze sweeps across each iteration of his name as if he’s never seen it written before. Shakily, he brings the fingers of one hand up to ghost along the paper, trailing over the words as he reads them one after another. Little by little, the blankness of his expression gives way to bewildered realization. He lets out a short, sharp exhale as he reaches the bottom of the card – a huff of baffled laughter escaping from his chest. His eyes are wet when he finally looks back up at the people around him.

“I…”

He trails off, swallowing uncertainly and blinking twice in rapid succession to keep the rising flood of feeling at bay.

“…Thank you,” he whispers, and in those two words is the entire weight of everything Souji-senpai cannot find the proper words to say.

Nanako-chan, embodiment of all things pure and good that she is, leans against her brother’s side and wraps her tiny arms around his waist. She mumbles something into his shirtsleeve that Naoto cannot hear, but whatever it is causes Souji-senpai to drape his arm over her shoulders and pull her in for a hug. He ducks his head and buries his face against her hair, but just before he does there is a faint gleam of teeth – an actual, albeit watery, grin.

The moment of stillness dissipates. Teddie, not to be left out of hugging his “sensei”, launches himself across Yosuke-senpai’s lap with a wordless, weepy cry to join in on the embrace from Souji-senpai’s left.

Yosuke-senpai squawks, Nanako-chan giggles, and in an abrupt burst of noise and movement there is suddenly an odd dogpile of hugging limbs where Souji-senpai used to be as Rise-chan and Chie-senpai loudly throw themselves into the mix, followed close behind by Kanji-kun. Yukiko-senpai cackles with glee from her place on the couch. After a moment she must decide “why not?” because she hops up like a spring, still laughing, to add one more body to the fray. Eventually, Souji-senpai snakes out an arm and drags Yosuke-senpai over against him as well.

Naoto watches their friends and teammates pile on top of their leader with an amber-colored glow behind their ribs. It starts like a drop of liquid sunlight and slowly spreads throughout their veins until their entire body feels warm. This is exactly what they’d wanted, what they’d all set out to do from the start, and if there was ever a moment in their life where Naoto has felt prouder of their Pack of Imbeciles they cannot call it to mind.

They watch for just a few moments longer before sliding over to join as best they can, ignoring the sound of Dojima-san taking at least a dozen pictures on his phone.

The group hug ends a short time later, once Nanako-chan grows impatient enough to poke her brother in the side. “Oniichan!” she calls from somewhere beneath the mountain of people. “You still have to open your presents!”

Souji-senpai chuckles, loud enough to be audible even past the muffling by Rise-chan’s arms. “Okay, okay,” he relents, and rolls his shoulders back to straighten his spine. Like the well-oiled unit the IT has become, they all fall gently away from their leader’s form.

It’s like a long-dead battery has finally been recharged. The Souji-senpai that emerges from the cluster of people is lighter, surer, with a telltale crinkle at the corners of his lightning-bright eyes. The group must feel it, too, because there is an aura of something clicking into place and suddenly everyone seems just that much more alive.

Nanako-chan digs the yellow-wrapped package from before out from under the table. “This one first,” she says resolutely as she places it in front of her brother. Souji-senpai smiles.

  One by one the gifts are carefully opened.

There is a handmade scrapbook from Nanako-chan and Teddie, with a glossy azure cover and cat sticker decorations. It’s full of empty grey photo pages – ready and waiting and perfect for someone to paste in a lifetime’s worth of future memories. The best part, though, the part that makes Souji-senpai positively beam, are the pictures already glued onto first few page of the book.

There is a picture of Teddie and Nanako-chan working on the banner together, the table in front of them covered in crafting supplies and an ocean of deep blue paper.

There is another of Souji-senpai and Nanako-chan in the kitchen, Nanako-chan standing on a chair to look over her brother’s shoulder as he teaches her how to make Valentine’s chocolate.

Four pages in all are filled to the brim with candid snapshots; some from the IT members’ phones, some taken with an actual camera, but all of them featuring someone that Souji-senpai holds dear.

The very last one in the book before the blank pages begin is the one that had been taken on the first day of school, when everyone had gathered after classes had ended to commemorate the start of a new term. The Investigation Team stands grouped in front of Tatsuhime shine with Souji-senpai squished happily between them all at the center, Yosuke-senpai at his side and pointing to the third year bars clipped to Souji-senpai’s collar.

(Naoto thinks is might very well be Souji-senpai’s favorite of the bunch, as it’s a personal reminder that he never has to leave.)

Next up is Dojima-san, who pulls familial rank over Rise-chan to hand his nephew a plain white gift box with a simple silver ribbon. Inside is a small camera. “Nothing flashy,” he explains, “just something to help fill up that new scrapbook of yours.” He ruffles Souji-senpai’s hair in a very paternal gesture of affection, and the grin from earlier flashes briefly across Souji-senpai’s face once more.

Dojima-san takes his leave after that, pausing on his way out of the room to give his daughter a quick hug and making her promise not too stay up too late. He gives his nephew one final pat on the shoulder and then heads off deeper into the house.

After that comes Rise-chan’s gift – which Souji-senpai nearly drops back into the box in shock when he opens it. Inside is a stunning, midnight blue yukata with a faint pattern of thin vertical striping in a barely-lighter shade that only shows when the light hits it just right. It’s of high quality, clearly handmade and absolutely gorgeous; a testament to Tatsumi-san’s extraordinary skill.

 Souji-senpai nearly chokes. “Rise,” he says, voice cracking and eyes wide. “Thank you, but I can’t—“

“Senpai,” Rise-chan calmly interrupts. She places her elbows on the tabletop and leans forward, lacing her fingers together in a very deliberate motion. She smiles at him, and when she parts her lips to speak her voice is downright dangerous in its sweet, adamantine calm. “You know I adore you, but if the next words out of your mouth are that you can’t accept my present then I’m afraid I’m going to have to stop you right there.”

Not even giving him a chance to respond, Rise-chan leans further over the table until she’s practically in his face. “One,” she starts, holding up a finger, “I know you don’t have one you feel comfortable in, you told me so, yourself. Two…” She holds up a second finger. “This one is super masculine and it’s going to look so flattering on you.” Another. “Three, the summer festival is coming up in a couple of months and you promised Nanako-chan you’d go with her. Isn’t that right?” She turns towards the little girl in question, who answers with a gasp and an excited tug on Souji-senpai’s sleeve.

“We can dress up together, Oniichan!” Nanako-chan whispers, loud enough for the entire room to hear.

Rise-chan shoots her backup a wide grin before switching that razor-sharp focus back to the boy across from her. She holds up another finger. “And four, it was a custom order so you can’t take it back anyway.” Her smile stretches to show a hint of teeth. “Understand?”

Souji-senpai closes his mouth with an audible ‘click.’

“Good,” Rise-chan chirps, straightening up from her subtly threatening posture. Her expression softens. “You need to let people give you nice things, Senpai.”

There is a moment of awed silence where everyone just… stares at her, collectively unable to process how effectively and completely she had shut their leader down.

(Naoto represses the urge to applaud.)

But then Rise-chan is slipping back into her usually bubbly self and holding out her hand to Yukiko-senpai for another gift to pass off, leaving the rest of the partygoers somewhat questioning their reality.

The next present to be opened is from Chie-senpai. The box is wide and rectangular, wrapped in glossy green paper, and as Souji-senpai peels the wrapping away to reveal a plastic model set, Chie-senpai awkwardly rubs at the back of her hair. “W-well, it’s not as fancy as Rise-chan’s, but I know you like making those and I thought, hey, his shelf could use a few more decorations, right?” She shrugs. “The guy at the shop said it was vintage, too, so… ya know…”

Souji-senpai chuckles and looks up from reading over the box to fix Chie-senpai with a fond expression. “I think I’ve actually seen this show before,” he says in a voice laced with quiet mirth. “Thank you.”

Chie-senpai turns away to hide her answering grin. “Okay, enough of that, Yukiko’s is next!” She grabs at a pale pink box with tiny scarlet speckles patterned across it, and hurriedly hands it off to Rise-chan to slide across the table. 

Yukiko-senpai’s present is a (very nice) traditional calligraphy set, complete with several different brushes a small stack of practice paper. “I wasn’t sure if you had any prior interest in this,” she explains, “but you seem to like quieter activities and I thought you might find it relaxing if nothing else.”

The only two presents left in the pile are Kanji-kun’s and Naoto’s; Yosuke-senpai had grabbed his own small, brightly-colored package when he and Rise-chan had brought everything over from the wall and has been sitting there with it tucked safely away on his lap ever since the group hug. While Souji-senpai is thanking Yukiko-senpai, Naoto, casually as can be, reaches back and snags the two remaining packages from down by Chie-senpai’s feet before anyone else can. They quietly set Kanji-kun’s gunmetal grey gift box on the table and slip their own bag into their lap to ensure they don’t go quite yet. They pretend not to see Rise-chan’s knowing smirk from over on their right.

Like with Rise-chan’s gift before, Souji-senpai nearly balks as he lifts the paper top from the box to reveal the star-speckled swath of fabric within. Naoto finds themself leaning forward to get a better look at it, since they’ve seen most of the work in progress but haven’t yet seen the finished product. It’s beautiful.

Random spatterings of white and silver rest against a rich, phthalo blue background like a sea of unnamable constellations in a cloudless twilight sky. The material itself sturdy, looking almost quilted from where the weighted innermost layer has been stitched securely in place. Souji-senpai runs his hands across the top of the blanket and follows the trailing lines that his fingers leave in the short, soft microfiber with his eyes.

Souji-senpai looks back up at Kanji-kun with a quiet smile and the bridge of Kanji-kun’s nose flushes pink. He ducks his head to hide it.  “U-uh,” he stammers, weak in the face of his senpai’s expression. “Pick… pick it up.”

Their leader does so. His eyes go a little wide with, frankly adorable, curiosity. “It’s… heavy?” he asks, head tilted to the side.

Kanji-kun nods. “Yeah, it’s weighted. S’possed to like, help with stress or anxiety or somethin’…” He trails off, still recovering from the look Souji-senpai is giving him. Naoto can tell he’s flustered; it isn’t the first time he’s forgotten how to speak around their friend, and with as much thought as Kanji-kun had put into making that blanket perfect, there is no other reason for him to be downplaying his own work as if he hadn’t known exactly what he was doing from the start. Naoto jostles him lightly under the table and merely offers a teasing arch of their brow when he glances at them indignantly.

A rustle of movement pulls both their attention back just in time to watch Souji-senpai finishing draping the blanket over his shoulders and pulling it close around himself like a happy child. He doesn’t grin again but his expression when he looks over and catches Kanji-kun’s eyes is positively radiant. “Thank you,” he says, glowing, golden warmth coloring the sound of his words. For a moment his eyes look less like rain clouds and more like shining silver.

Kanji-kun can do nothing but blush harder in response.

“Right, okay, so uh. My turn then, I guess.” Yosuke-senpai gives Kanji-kun an odd, sidelong glance as if he isn’t sure what to make of his kohai blushing over his boyfriend. (Then again, with as astute as he is, Naoto would be completely surprised if Yosuke-senpai wasn’t at least partially aware of just how many people tend to do exactly that. Souji-senpai, on the other hand, appears to be utterly oblivious.)

They watch Yosuke-senpai’s body language as he hands over the package he’s been guarding for the past half hour. He gnaws at his lip nervously, spine rigid and arms locked as Souji-senpai gently pulls back the wrapping paper and withdraws a dvd box set. It’s precious, they think, how even six months into their relationship, Yosuke-senpai still acts as if he’s asking out his crush for the very first time.

Souji-senpai lets out a short exhale, lips pulling into that devastating smile of undying affection that exists for Yosuke-senpai and Yosuke-senpai only. “This is…” He looks back up at his partner with an expression so bright it could illuminate even the blackest corners of Yomi itself. “You remembered.”

Yosuke-senpai laughs quietly. “Dude, of course I did.”

“Oi! Lovebirds!” Chie-senpai calls from the couch, sending Yukiko-senpai into a fit of sniggering. “Quit with the eyes and show us what it is already!”

With a huff of laughter, Souji-senpai turns the box forward and holds it up for everyone else to see. “My Neighbor Totoro,” he says, voice still laced with happiness. He taps his index finger under the colorful stripe at the top of the box, which reads Special Collector’s Edition.

 “Ah man! That movie’s adorable!” Kanji-kun exclaims, apparently having already gotten over his earlier blushing.

Souji-senpai nods. He brings the box back down to stare wistfully at the cover once more, expression going soft. “It was my favorite movie as a kid,” he admits, almost too quiet to be heard. “But I… haven’t actually seen it in forever.” He sighs, and the sound is just a little sad. “A neighbor friend and I use to watch it all the time; I gave him my copy when we moved away from each other.”           

No one says anything for a moment or two – the only sound coming from the shifting of cloth as Yosuke-senpai scoots impossibly closer and slips his hand inside the edge of the blanket still around his boyfriend’s shoulders to link their fingers together.

It’s Teddie that breaks the stillness.

“Ooh, ooh! We should all watch it together, Sensei!” he says, volume just barely on this side of a shout. Yosuke-senpai winces from the proximity of to his ear.

Nanako-chan lets out an excited gasp. “Can we, Oniichan?” she asks hopefully, and tugs on her brother’s sleeve until he shifts to look down at her.

Souji-senpai huffs another laugh. He reaches up to oh-so-gently ruffle his little sister’s hair and says, “I’d love to, but we might have to wait for another night.” He hums. “It’s already getting kind of late.”

And he isn’t wrong. A quick glance at their watch tells Naoto that it’s creeping up on 8:30 – likely close to Nanako-chan’s bedtime.

 Honestly, it’s probably getting pretty close to everyone else’s bedtimes, too. It is still a school night, after all, and every one of them has been up and going since early that morning, heading straight out after classes had ended to get everything set up. It’s been a long day for all of them. (And Naoto sheepishly reminds themself that they’d barely slept the night before due to a predictably racing mind.)

With a collective groan of protest, the group slowly begins picking themselves up out of their seating arrangements and gathering together any last bit of party mess they can find. Souji-senpai has a brief stare-down with Rise-chan, who gives him a Look as he goes to make a grab for discarded wrapping paper, but eventually she gives in and finally allows him to join in the cleaning.

It takes another ten or fifteen minutes to get everything squared away, with anything they’re unable to take back with them being set neatly off to the side until later. Little by little, the team says goodbye to Nanako-chan, goodnight to Souji-senpai, and starts to make their way out the door. Yukiko-senpai and Chie-senpai go first, then Rise-chan and Kanji-kun, then Teddie as he hurries to catch up to them, until the only ones left are Naoto and Yosuke-senpai, who is quite obviously spending the night.

Naoto steps away to call for a ride, since theirs is the furthest distance to go. As they do, Souji-senpai waves Yosuke-senpai on ahead, giving his boyfriend a chance to go get his things settled for their sleepover while Souji-senpai helps Nanako-chan get ready for a bath and bed. (Naoto feigns nonchalance as they wait for their call to go through and eyes Yosuke-senpai closely while he gathers up his stuff to take upstairs with him. They spot the way he dips his hand inside his school bag like he’s checking for something and then nods to himself as he apparently finds it, pulling his hand out and slipping what looks like a tiny, gift-wrapped box into his pocket. Naoto hides their triumphant smirk as he waves them goodnight and heads upstairs; they’d had a feeling the dvd wasn’t his only present for Souji-senpai.)

The living room is quiet as they finish up their phone call, momentarily left alone. Carefully, unwilling to break the late-night stillness of the liminal space the house has become, Naoto pads back over to the low table and slips their hidden gift bag out from underneath.

They’re just about to turn around and go wait beside the door when Souji-senpai comes back into the room. He gives Naoto his tailored smile as he spots them. “Sorry about that,” he says, voice low in the sleepy silence. “Is your ride on the way?”

Naoto nods.

Souji-senpai’s smile stretches just slightly, pleased, and he steps over to join Naoto at the table. “I’ll wait with you until they get here.”

They sit beside one another now that there is space enough to do so without squishing more than one person to a single side of the table. For a moment neither of them speaks.

It’s Souji-senpai that eventually breaks the quiet. “Thank you. For everything.” He tilts his head and looks down at the tabletop to hide the happy crinkle at the corner of his eyes. “Nanako told me you were the one that planned this out.” Shyly, he glances back up. “I had fun.”

Naoto doesn’t really know how to respond. Objectively they do, obviously, but it’s been a rare thing in their life for someone to thank them for something they’ve done. Not only that, but Naoto will be the first person to admit that they aren’t the best at handling social situations; they’re too blunt, they’ve been told, too tactless and frigid.

But even without that prior track record of not being good at this kind of thing, even without being unaccustomed to being in this kind of position, completely divorcing the current setting from all past experiences, this is Souji-senpai. Naoto’s face feels as though it’s on fire.

They swallow to clear the dryness from their throat. “Y…you’re welcome.” Awkwardly they fidget with the bag in their hands, unable to handle the full weight of their friend’s gaze. The paper crinkles audibly under their grip. “Ah, uhm…” Face still blazing like a sunburn, Naoto shoves the bag forward, two-handed, and holds it out for Souji-senpai to take. “This is for you,” they mumble, hiding their flush behind the brim of their hat. 

Careful hands, calloused from months of holding a sword, delicately take the bag from Naoto’s grasp. “You didn’t have to get me anything,” he says, curiosity and mild confusion coloring his words.

Naoto chances a peek back up at him to see Souji-senpai still holding the bag, blinking over at them with a questioning expression.

They blink back at him. “Of course I did,” they say, quietly incredulous.

But Souji-senpai shakes his head and huffs in amusement. He looks pointedly around the room, gesturing with one hand towards the banner that still hangs over in the corner before turning back to them with a raised brow. “You… You threw me a party.” He chuckles, and the sound is one of perplexity – a wordless reminder that Souji-senpai still doesn’t understand just how much he’s worth to people.

Naoto frowns. “All of us did, I was just the one that asked you for a day.”

A pair of dust-colored brows arcs over a knowing silver gaze. “Which still makes it your idea.” He smiles just a little wider, and Naoto knows he’s won this round.

“Are you going to open it or not?” they ask in lieu of a proper response, giving their friend a flat look that they’ve been told can rival his own. Souji-senpai simply laughs once more in that breathy not-chuckle that he does when he doesn’t feel like making much sound.

As gently as he did with all the other packages that night, he slips a hand into the bag and slowly withdraws the tissue paper obscuring the inside from view, setting it aside as if it, too, were something to be respected. He slips his hand in a second time and gingerly slides the gift out into the light.

The book is hardbound, with a faded, wine red canvas cover and a charcoal grey spine that one upon a time was purest, deepest black. It creaks and crackles faintly where Souji-senpai holds it – old and tired but still in one piece despite the age and the creases where years of open pages have worn down the hinge. The words on the spine are nearly gone but the black-filled imprints on the cover still remain and Souji-senpai’s lips quirk as he brushes a thumb across the title.

“The Murders in the Rue Morgue, and Other Tales By Poe.” He lights up, shoulders rolling back and chin tilting, as he looks up at Naoto in delighted, innocent glee. It tugs at his expression, pulling the corners of his mouth, his eyes, etching excitement into his outline even as he sits perfectly still. Once more, Naoto is struck by just how young their friend looks when he isn’t carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders.

He looks right – like a child on their birthday, starry-eyed and completely unaware of the monsters in the dark. For the second time that night, Naoto thinks they can see the ghost of the little boy Souji-senpai could have been, if Fate been just a little less cruel.

Sound reaches them, pulling them back into the room and away from the feeling of their heart squeezing in their chest. They blink over at their friend as he murmurs off the titles of the short stories, imprinted in that same aging black on the book’s back cover.

“Purloined Letter… Mystery of Marie Roget…” He looks back up at them, grey eyes practically shining like leftover rain puddles on a sunny summer day. “Inspector Dupin, right?”

Naoto’s own eyes widen. They sit up just a little straighter, lips parting in a quiet exhale of surprise. “Inspector C. Auguste Dupin, yes,” they reply with a nod. Nostalgia prickles, bittersweet, at the inside of their ribs; Naoto feels it sticking to their bones, their lungs, leaving them with the warm sweep of fond memories with the after-image of long-gone grief. They blink, and it flutters away.

Souji-senpai watches them carefully, tilting his head to the side as if he were a cat. Naoto takes a deep pull of air through their mouth, lets the feeling of their chest expanding ground them in the present.

Are you alright? he asks without words.

They smile at him. I’m alright, they answer back.

Naoto’s voice is strong and steady when they finally speak aloud.  “My grandfather gave it to me when I was little,” they explain, gesturing towards the book with a dip of their chin. "He used to read it to me before bedtime. It’s what made me want to be a detective myself someday, even when I was still too young to really fully understand what my parents actually did for a living. I loved it very much.”

Their smile grows wistful. Taking another deep breath, Naoto lets it out slowly and lifts their gaze from where it’s drifted out of focus to the dusty photo albums in the back of their mind. They meet Souji-senpai’s curious, worried eyes and smile wider. “Which is why I want you to have it.”

Souji-senpai presses his lips between his teeth, brows pulling down into a shallow furrow. “Are you sure?” he asks, soft as a whisper. “This seems like it’s too important to give away.”

You’re important, Naoto thinks but doesn’t say out loud.

Instead, they simply nod. “I still have the memories attached to it; I don’t need the physical copy to help me remember.”

Souji-senpai seems to understand. Slowly he pulls the book closer to himself with reverence, excitement still there, still gleaming behind his eyes, but softer, gentler. He slowly holds it against his chest as if it were a priceless treasure and fixes Naoto with a look of gratitude deeper than any person his age should be capable of.

A familiar tightness begins to bloom in Naoto’s chest. It’s warm, insistent, soft like fine-spun cotton even as it expands to fill their ribcage and press against their heart. It’s rightness, home – so intense that it steals their breath away in the gentlest manner possible. They swallow around it, nearly choke.

“You were right,” they murmur, because that’s all that they can do in the face of that desperate if only, if only, if only whispering different lifetimes into their skull.

Souji-senpai gives them a quizzical look, tilting his head again with a quiet, “hm?”

Naoto exhales sharply, a breathless facsimile of a watery laugh. “The other day, on the riverbank; you were right.” Their gaze drifts lower until Naoto’s eyes are resting on the aging cover of the book in their senpai’s careful hands. “I think we would have been wonderful childhood friends...”

Their words trail off into silence. There is more that they could say, whole volumes of things that remain unspoken, that rattle around in the cotton-filled gaps between their ribs and stick just at the back of their throat. But they don’t. They don’t need to.

And looking over at Souji-senpai’s answering smile, they know he’s heard them anyway.

“Thank you, Naoto,” he murmurs, an ocean of meaning hidden below the surface.

Naoto’s breath hitches at the sound of phantom waves. “You’re welcome, Souji.”

Souji-senpai grins.

[osakaso5]

Tamaki Yotsuba 12 SONGS GIFT Rabbit Chat Part 3: Tell Us, All Stars! 1

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 4 | Part 5

Riku: Tamaki, happy birthday!!

Sogo: Happy birthday, Tamaki-kun. It's good that you stayed safe and healthy for a whole year. Let's keep doing our best together.

Momo: (* ’ U ^)ノ+。*∞ Happy Birth Day ∞*。+\(^ U ’ *)

Yamato: Tama, congrats.

Nagi: HAPPY BIRTHDAY!

Gaku: Happy birthday. I look forward to 12 SONGS GIFT, too.

Ryunosuke: Tamaki-kun, happy birthday!

Mitsuki: Tamaki, happy birthday!! Let's make you an extra huge King Pudding!

Iori: Yotsuba-san, happy birthday.

Tenn: Happy birthday, Tamaki Yotsuba.

Banri: Happy birthday, Tamaki-kun. We'll have your party after the 12 SONGS GIFT live. 

Rinto: Thank you for the invitation. Happy birthday.

Kaoru: Happy birthday. Treasure that youth of yours.

Yuki: Tamaki-kun, congratulations.

Tamaki: 

Tamaki: Thanks everyone!!

Yamato: You just had your screening, right? What kind of song did you pick?

Tamaki: "Four Leaf Ring", a really good song

Mitsuki: Great to hear!

Tamaki: Seriously, it's so good. Once it comes out for karaoke, Rikkun needs to sing it for Tenten and Yukirin needs to sing it for Ban-chan. And Nagicchi needs to be there, too.

Riku: I kinda get what kind of song it'll be now, but I think I'll be too busy crying to sing it.

Yuki: I'll probably start wailing, too.

Nagi: I will most likely sob very loudly, as well.

Tenn: 

Banri: 

Tamaki: Everyone, buy "Four Leaf Ring"!!!

Ryunosuke: Of course! Just you wait!

Momo: Do your best at the solo live, too! You'll make it a great concert for sure!

Tsumugi: Everyone, thank you for gathering here to celebrate Tamaki-san!

Tamaki: Thank you!!

Tsumugi: You'll get to celebrate your actual birthday with all of IDOLiSH7, but...

Choices/outcomes:

1. Is there anything you’d like to tell TRIGGER?

Tamaki: Thanks for celebrating me. Get along, you three. And don't make Ryu-aniki do all the cooking.

2. Is there anything you’d like to tell Re:vale?

Tamaki: Thanks for celebrating me. I'll lend you Ban-chan sometimes as thanks.

3. Is there anything you’d like to tell the managers?

Tamaki: Thanks for celebrating me. You guys should all go to karaoke with our manager sometime!

Tamaki: Thanks, everyone!!

Tamaki: 

Tsumugi: Tamaki-san, now that it's your birthday, do you have any questions for everyone that you normally couldn't ask?

Tamaki: We're doing the thing we always do, right! I came up with a thing!

Iori: He took this so seriously that he neglected our lessons in favor of writing lists on his notes.

Tamaki: At first I tried to come up with a different question for all of you, but then I decided to ask all of you the same thing!

Sogo: You spent all our time together coming up with questions, too. What did you decide to ask?

Tamaki: What ranking do you all think I'd get the first place in!?

Gaku: What does that mean? You're not gonna ask how you rank among the people we like?

Tamaki: I'll be depressed if my ranking's anything but 1st! Think about this seriously, Gakkun!!!

Gaku: Is it that depressing?

Tenn: Ryu, tell Gaku that you like him the second most out of TRIGGER.

Ryunosuke: Gaku, I like you the second  most out of TRIGGER! 

Gaku: Yotsuba. My bad. 

Tamaki: Do you get it now!?

Gaku: I get it. That hurt...

Ryunosuke: Don’t worry! I like both Tenn and you the most, Gaku!

Gaku: Thanks.

Yamato: I see. Tama wants us to tell him rankings he'd take the first place in. That's such a Tama thing to do (lol)

Tsumugi: Well then, let's get started! Anesagi-san, go ahead!

Kaoru: "No.1 King Pudding Lover".

Rinto: Anesagi-san, I was going to use that!

Gaku: So was I!

Yamato: I guess that one's all used up, huh!

Tamaki: You guys!!! Stop talking like King Pudding's the only thing I care about!!!

Kaoru: But you do like it, don't you?

Tamaki: I love it...

Kaoru: Since it's your  birthday, I'll make it even better just this once. "No.1 Hunk Candidate and King Pudding Lover". 

Tamaki: Yay! My  ranking got longer! 

Iori: So you prefer a long title...

Sogo: Why did you call him a candidate instead of just a hunk?

Kaoru: Sorry. My standards for what constitutes as a hunk are strict. I called him   a candidate because I see potential in his future. 

Kaoru: Keep eating King Pudding for a few more years and grow up handsome, okay. But remeber to eat your greens, too. Happy birthday. 

Tsumugi: Thank you, Anesagi-san! Okazaki-san, you're next! 

Rinto: Right... 

Rinto: "No.1 Totally Unexpected Encounter!" 

 Momo: I totally get this one! I always run into Tamaki at the weirdest places, like other talents' waiting rooms, or the convenience store near the TV station! 

Iori: I often find him at strange spots after school... I can understand loitering around the school canteen or the shoe racks, but I have no idea why he'd be at the incinerator or gym storehouse. 

Tamaki: Yeah. It's 'cuz I'm busy 

Nagi: Do you go to those sorts of places for a specific purpose? 

Tamaki: Nope

Mitsuki: He's just following his instincts!  

Tsumugi: Thank you for a unique ranking! Banri-san, go ahead! 

Banri: Tamaki-kun is the "No.1 Guy Who Has Potential"! 

Banri: He's still young, so I think his talents will grow even more in the future. When I'm with him, I can feel how much he's grown over time, and it makes me happy. 

Tamaki: Thanks, Ban-chan!! I'm gonna get taller! 

Tamaki: I'm sure I'll get taller! 

Tamaki: I'll be bigger than Ryu-aniki! 

Ryunosuke: I'd like to see you become bigger than me. 

Mitsuki: Nobody's gonna be able to stop Tamaki if he gets that big... 

Tenn: Not physically, anyway. 

Tsumugi: Thank you, Banri-san! Yuki-san, go ahead! 

Yuki: "No.1 Idle Talker." 

Yuki: Everyone comes over to greet us or tell us their thoughts on our performances, but only Tamaki-kun will come up to tell us "I found a pillbug that doesn't curl into a ball even if you poke it"

Tamaki: I like that you listen to me till the end, Yukirin. And I like that you laugh at my stories a lot, too. 

Sogo: I listen to you until the end, too. 

Tamaki: You always interrupt me to ask if you should laugh

Sogo: That's because the last time I just listened  to you silently, you told me  that I should've laughed at the thing you said. I don’t  want to get it wrong...

Yuki: You two are so hilarious ^^

Tsumugi: I see, that was a surprising ranking! Thank you, Yuki-san! Momo-san, you're next! 

Momo: To me, Tamaki's the "Absolute No.1 Person I Envy for Being Able to Do Body Checks on Ban-san"!!!! 

Banri: lol

Tamaki: 

Tamaki: It's pretty great!! 

Momo: I'm so jealous!!! When I saw you leaning on him the other day, I felt the seed of jealousy grow inside me... (´; ω ;`)

Banri: I don't mind if you do it too, Momo-kun. 

Momo: I wouldn't dare!!! (@_@;)

Yuki: Tell me that  I can do it, too. 

Banri: You do it before you even get a permission. 

Tsumugi: 

Tamaki: Since you get jealous, I do it even more when you're around, Momorin. 

Tsumugi: That's exactly the kind of ranking I'd  expect from you, Momo-san! Next up is Tsunashi-san! 

Tamaki: Wait a sec! 

Tsumugi: What is it? 

Tamaki: I feel like celebrating, so instead of cake, I'll eat King Pudding! 

Tamaki: I'll chat while I eat

Yamato: There's no pudding in the fridge

Tamaki: Huh!?!?!?

Mitsuki: Yamato-san's just trying to tease you again. 

Yamato: 

Tamaki: Ah, it was a lie! That scared me!! Geez, Yama-san!!!! 

Yamato: Sorry! Your reactions are so funny that I couldn't help myself. 

Tsumugi: Let's continue once Tamaki-san gets back! 

Tenn: I'll go make some tea. 

Momo: I'll go get some Momorin~! 

Riku: I wanna have a snack, too! Tamaki, let's split a pack of popcorn! 

Nagi: I shall print out cosplay business cards. 

Rinto: I'll go wash my bathtub. 

Tsumugi: We'll chat more later, everyone!