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the-hilda-librarians-wife · 1 year ago

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Sketchbook Week Day 4 - Dreaming of Bumping Into You (Chapter 1)

Summary: When Johanna is woken up in the middle of the night by a strange phone call, she knows she has to ask Kaisa what is happening. She just doesn’t know which is more concerning; whether it’s the words being said or the way her best friend sounds while she’s delivering them

Notes: Written for @sketchbookweek Day 4 - Secrets

Cw: mentions of drug/alcohol use. Nobody actually uses either, they’re just fucking stupid

Listen, with the amount of songs I make sketchbook edits to in my head, I have no idea why I decided to write fanfic inspired by Why’d You Only Call Me When You’re High, but when the inspiration strikes you can’t argue with it yk

Read it on ao3

“Arch sorceress Pilqvist is a disloyal, unreasonable woman. It is beyond me how she has reached such a high standing inside our order when her skull is so thick I hardly think hurling a crystal ball at it would even hurt!”

Kaisa took a deep breath. The very woman who was being slandered right in front of her had taught her that filling your lungs with air was the best thing you could do when you wanted to lash out. Not that it made the anger go away, not at all. But at least it made it so one couldn't get any impulsive words out, at least not until after one big exhale. After which you could always inhale again and stop yourself from getting cursed, punched, fired, or in her current case, probably all at once.

“Tell me again how you think insulting my mentor is going to make me help you, Ingrid.”

Her voice had been calm. Slow. The appropriate tone for a library, which, even though her boss seemed to have forgotten, they were inside at the moment. Yet the witch immediately looked angry, the red that had been steadily rising on her neck reaching her sharp cheekbones.

“You must!” She shot, glaring at how Kaisa kept her demeanour purposefully disinterested, eyelids heavy and shoulders slumped over the library cart she was walking around with for reshelving purposes. Ingrid didn’t quite like how the librarian made her follow around while she did her duty either, but that was their bad for only hiring one person for that entire building. “Matilda is the only witch who ever managed to create a spell like that with so little side effects. With the amount of trolls walking around town these days, we need it more than ever! Witchkind’s safety is at stake!”

The librarian rolled her eyes, though she didn’t think the other witch saw it. Recent… changes brought to the town by Frida and her friends had made it increasingly easy to tell apart the bigoted ones amongst them all. No matter how little interest trolls seemed to have on witchcraft and its practitioners, there were still some witches who insisted that just because their magics didn’t mix, that they shouldn’t coexist.

Which was just as bullshit as it sounded.

The Committee had called upon Tildy one day, and she’d even showed up much to everyone’s surprise. They’d explained their worries, which meant that five minutes in it wasn’t a meeting anymore, but a sass session for the older woman to make them realise how stupid they sounded. They didn’t, of course, which only meant Tildy refused to give them her prized protection spell and they didn’t give up on their quest to secure it. Leaving Kaisa in her current position.

“It’s her spell.” Kaisa said as she parked her cart between two shelves and began looking for the correct place for an eighteenth century poetry book. Her opinions on the matter were exactly like her former master’s, of course. She hadn’t witnessed Hilda show off her shifting powers like a party trick when she dined at her house just to turn around and say that trolls were dangerous. But if Tildy hadn’t come through to them, great at turning people to her side as she was, then Kaisa wasn’t going to be the one to make them see the other side of things. Besides, she was tired. The last thing she wanted was to begin a moral argument in the final leg of her already tiring work day.

There was also the issue that she didn’t actually know that spell, but hey, she didn’t need to admit that to the people that employed her, did she?

“I’m not going to spill it if she didn’t want you to have it. I’m sorry, but you’ll have to look somewhere else.” She finished, not sorry in the least but trying to keep some semblance of politeness.

Ingrid twisted her lips like she’d tasted something sour. The truth, probably. Or her own stupidity. She ran a hand through her short blonde hair to make it fall back into place.

“Hm. Lineage secret, is it?”

Nah. It was a protection spell. Tildy would probably give it to anyone who asked her nicely, if they didn’t want it for idiotic and prejudiced reasons. She’d likely made Kaisa learn it at some point, but gods knew she’d long since forgotten it.

“Yes.” She lied. “Of the utmost secrecy.”

Ingrid hummed again, and Kaisa thought she got a chill in her spine when she did so. It got draughty in the library during that time of the day, she supposed. “I see.” She said in a whisper. “I suppose I’ll just have to find it… someplace else.”

The other woman walked away, all of Kaisa’s discomfort disappearing alongside her. She breathed a sigh of relief at no longer having Ingrid’s analysing stare locked on her face like it had been for the entire conversation, finally free to listen to her songs as she worked.

For some reason, though, she still felt eyes on her all the while until she finished for the day. No matter how many times she looked behind herself, she still saw nothing, so she figured it must be the lingering unease at having been so close to one of the Committee’s most unpleasant witches (she and her sister were almost tied in Kaisa’s listing, but Abigail still took the crown for that whole Void business). Kaisa let the music blast through her headphones, getting lost in it as an antidote for those moments of stress and whispering along to the lyrics.

”The mirror’s image tells me it’s home time…”

…......

A couple years before, when Hilda (whose name she did not know at the time, of course, but a blue haired girl is hard to miss even at such a large library) began showing up to ask for books and advice, so did her mother. It took them an embarrassingly long time to realise that Kaisa was the librarian who Hilda always talked about and that Johanna was the mother the girl mentioned when they were together, but once they did, it took the two women no time to bond over their fondness for the girl and her group of friends, over their routines, their tastes and struggles. After Johanna had made her promise to never again give her daughter any dangerous magical devices, that was.

They had become, at the very least, friends. And Kaisa thought that with no small amount of weight to that statement, because she really couldn’t remember the last time she’d been so sure she could call someone that. But there was a line, you see. Most friendships didn’t have that line, that boundary just within eyesight that they were sure that once it was crossed, it would no longer be a platonic friendship but a romance. Most friendships didn’t have it, because when friends trusted that that’s what they were, and that was how they would be free to express the extent of their love to its fullest, then all you can see, all around you, is that friendship, as far as you can reach.

Not them, though. Both of them were very aware of that border, well aware that their love for one another was extremely capable of taking another shape, one that would actually let them breathe freely and satiate the longing inside them.

There was a line. They were aware of the line. And they kept tip-toeing on it and jumping back each time. Scared of what would happen if they crossed it. Scared of what the other would think.

Personally, Kaisa would love to rip the blasted line out of the ground and use it as something more interesting. An aisle for one of them to walk towards the other on, for example. She’d had quite enough of catching herself sighing yearningly at the window on sunny days and squealing when her phone pinged with a message from her. And that was to say nothing of the embarrassing (-ly frequent) daydreams. She felt she’d had quite enough of pining being a woman almost in her thirties.

The thing was, taking the first step wasn’t something Kaisa was willing to do. Not right now, at least. Johanna might only be a couple of years older than her, but she felt like the woman was aeons ahead of her. She was mature and well resolved, independent and capable of taking care of herself, her daughter, and however many magical creatures there currently were in her house. How could Kaisa, in all sincerity, offer herself up for a woman like that in her current state, knowing she’d end up as nothing more than another source of trouble for her?

No. Kaisa was willing to wait. She rather thought Johanna was too, judging by how that line kept being played with. They’d get to crossing it, well and properly. But first, she wanted to get a little closer to being the person she thought Johanna deserved. A little braver. A little more put together. A little less worried about what people who didn’t give a single damn about her well being thought of her. And she was making progress, she really was. But until then, that uneasy friendship would be more than enough. She’d take it and be grateful it was even being offered, making sure to show her appreciation for Johanna’s presence in her life every single day.

Which was why when the woman showed up at the library that morning, wringing her hands together in anxiety and with a frown between her eyebrows, Kaisa immediately dropped what she’d been doing to go talk to her.

“Hey, Anna, good morning.” She greeted in a soft tone of voice, making her startle slightly upon noticing Kaisa’s presence. The librarian had approached her from behind, but even so she thought the behaviour was slightly off. She was never this jumpy, was she? “Everything alright?”

There were a couple of moments when Kaisa genuinely wondered if she was talking to the wrong person. Maybe there was some bizarrely accurate Johanna lookalike in town now and she just hadn’t been aware. The point was, a full twenty seconds must have passed in which Johanna said and did nothing other than stare at Kaisa with that same frown she’d walked in with.

“Johanna?”

“Yes, I’m fine.” She answered at last, but her voice didn’t sound at all certain. “I’m… it’s alright. Thank you for asking. But what about you?”

Kaisa quirked an eyebrow. As soon as Johanna had been broken out of her unexpected stupor, she’d begun leading them to the library’s break room, where the workers could go should they need some water, coffee, or just to sit down and not to interact with people for a bit. So essentially Kaisa’s personal personal winding down and chugging coffee corner. They’d been there many times before, chatting until after the library’s closing hours about anything at all. However, when Kaisa was about to sit down on one of the ancient armchairs, she turned back to see that Johanna was still standing by the doorway, looking at her feet and shifting her weight between them.

“Is it okay if we stay out here?”

Her lifted eyebrow melted into a frown as Kaisa walked out of the break room again.

“Well, sure we can, but what’s going on?”

“Nothing.” Johanna said, too quickly. “We’re okay, I promise. I just popped by to ask you if you were fine.”

Kaisa’s heart did a flip inside her chest. Which was very uncomfortable, considering a structure tied to so many vases wasn’t supposed to be moving around much at all. The words sounded reassuring, but they hit her as anything but. When she saw Johanna walk in like that, she’d assumed something had happened and that she could help, even if only by listening to her. Now the thought at the forefront of her mind was that she’d messed up somehow. Because she hadn’t even considered that they might not be fine, but now she sure as hell was doing it.

“What, me? Sure I am.” She closed the break room door behind herself, figuring that if the idea of going in there made Johanna uncomfortable she should eliminate the possibility altogether. “I mean, I am normal. I woke up at the normal time and came to my normal job that I do every day. Little pissed that I just had to ask a group of teenagers to be quiet, but that’s it. I’m not sure I understand your question.”

Johanna still wouldn’t look at her, which was off putting. Kaisa was the one who liked to look away when they talked, only because it made it easier for her to concentrate on the conversation, but she could always feel Johanna’s eyes on her. This time, Kaisa actively tried to catch her gaze, wondering if looking at her eyes would give her any explanations to the way she was acting, but without success.

The woman cleared her throat. “It’s just… last night, when you called me. You sounded a little… out of it. And I wanted to check that you were fine and safe.”

Kaisa blinked. Stared at her. Continued staring at her until Johanna finally looked at her face and saw her own confusion reflected back. She looked a little embarrassed, a light pink colour painting her cheeks and the bridge of her nose.

“I didn’t call you.”

“What?”

“Johanna, I didn’t call you. As far as I’m concerned, the last time we talked was when we went to the bake shop two days ago. When was this call?”

Now, the librarian wasn’t trying to gaslight her. She didn’t think Johanna was crazy, much less a liar. But neither was Kaisa an amnesiac, so she’d probably remember calling the woman she was head over heels for; there had to be a logical explanation for this.

“Roughly at three in the morning, I think.” Johanna answered, looking uncertain in the face of Kaisa’s conviction even though she sounded actually sure of the time she was informing. Kaisa snorted.

“Well, I have no idea who that was, but I can assure you you’re not looking at them.”

“But it was your voice.”

“Anna, I go to sleep at nine thirty and wake up at six. I do that religiously, because otherwise I become a massive bitch come morning.”

“Well-” Johanna looked like she was getting uncomfortable in a different way now, being put in the spot like that. Kaisa softened. She’d assumed that assuring her that she wasn’t responsible for whatever that was would make the situation easier on her. But come think of it, being phoned by a stranger that could pass as one of your closest friends couldn’t be too soothing either. “I thought you might not remember because, well, you sounded-”

Kaisa nodded for her to go on once she looked insecure about whether she should finish that sentence. Johanna did so with a whisper.

“Affected?”

Johanna looked at her expectantly, making Kaisa feel bad that she could offer her nothing other than even more confusion. She’d need to make herself more clear if she wanted anything out of the witch.

“Sorry, affected by…?”

“Well-” Johanna rubbed her neck, looking around them, and the ceiling, down again. Everywhere but at Kaisa. “I don’t know. Alcohol. Drugs. Something like that. Not that I’m judging!” She put her hands in front of herself immediately, and if she took the chance to really take in Kaisa’s face she’d see how that possibility was even weirder to her than it was to Johanna. “But I was just worried about how you might be. So. Yeah.”

Kaisa wanted to be helpful. She really did. But Johanna had just asked someone whose ideas of reckless behaviour ranged from waking up the dead to skipping dinner to eat jorts, and nowhere in that spectrum was partying hard and using any sort of substance. It was hard to even take her worry over her seriously, which was a shame, since under any other circumstances Kaisa would have been over the moon with such a treatment.

“Johanna. Look at me.” She did. “Under what circumstances can you imagine me getting high at three a.m.?”

It was her right arm instead of her neck that she rubbed in anxiety this time. “Well, none, but-”

They stared at each other, Johanna with an anxious look and Kaisa with a compassionate one. Eventually, she sighed.

“You’re right. It must have been a dream.” Her shoulders slumped. “Oh, gosh, this is so embarrassing. I’m sorry, Kaisa.”

Her friend laughed, glad that apparently there wasn’t even a problem to be solved. Maybe now they could have their coffee and some regular chatting.

“Don’t stress about it. I should be flattered you’re dreaming about me.”

Kaisa walked back into the break room, heading straight to the coffee machine to brew a new batch. In doing so, she failed to notice how Johanna still lingered by the doorframe, watching her for any signs of untruthfulness or discomfort.

Through gritted teeth, the woman whispered to her own ears only. “You have no idea…”

…......

Kaisa got deja vu often. She supposed it was a mix of her brain loving to make associations and the fact that all witches had some future telling abilities, even if hers were quite weak, so she supposed there were some things in her life that she had seen before, even if at the back of her mind, a simple suggestion made by that more magical part of her consciousness.

That particular image, however, she was very sure she had seen before, and when, and where. It had been at that same place, at the same time, the very day before.

This morning, however, when Johanna spotted her, she clutched her purse strap closer to herself, making Kaisa halt her approach. She only ever did that when she was scared.

Was she scared of… Kaisa?

The thought hit her like a knife between her shoulder blades, but she still put on a smile for her. She didn’t get any closer, though. It was best to let Johanna approach her.

She didn’t. She stood there, two metres away like she was talking to a stranger. The knife twisted inside her.

“It happened again.” She said, sounding surer than she had the day before. “I was awake. I checked. Nothing happened when I pinched myself and my fingers and clocks looked normal. I wrote a note saying it was real and it was still there when I woke up this morning.”

Kaisa sighed. “Anna, I don’t know what to tell you. I didn’t call you. I certainly didn’t get drunk, or high. It must have been a prank of some sort.”

Johanna’s mouth twisted, like she was trying to bite something back. “Yes. It must have been.”

The witch dared to take a step forward; only one, though, because Johanna immediately tensed. Someone else might not have noticed it, but Kaisa couldn’t not.

“Are you… angry at me, Anna?”

Her voice was harsher than Kaisa had ever heard it before when she answered. “No. Why would I be angry at you for something you didn’t do?”

“I have no idea, but you sure as hell sound like it right now.”

“Why do you look tired?” Johanna snapped, shoulders squared back though the displeasure at acting like that was written clearly on her face. Kaisa gaped.

“Because I am borderline anaemic and wake up every day at six, maybe? You can’t really be mad at me right now, Anna. I know it must be weird to be prank called in the middle of the night and everything, not to mention whatever the hell they’re telling you to get you this worked up, but I didn’t do anything!”

Her stare grew harder, those brown eyes suddenly reminding her solid mountains, peaks so high one couldn’t ever hope to reach. But then moisture began to gather at the corners, and Johanna looked down quickly. Just not quickly enough for Kaisa to not have seen it.

“You never do, do you?” She whispered and walked quickly out of the library, leaving a befuddled librarian behind herself.

…......

One of the things Johanna missed the most about living out in the wilderness was the quiet. Since they’d moved to Trolberg, she’d hardly ever managed to have a single night’s sleep that was as peaceful as when the only sounds that could be heard during the night were of the owls and cicadas, the forest’s own little lullaby for its only two human inhabitants to hear. It wasn’t like Trolberg was some big metropolis where they were subjected to the noise of traffic jams and drunken yelling in the early hours of the morning, of course. But it wasn’t the same. There was always an odd motorcycle, or the footsteps of their upstairs neighbour, the sound of a television when someone in their building turned to it after having trouble sleeping.

And, for the past two nights, there had been the blasted ringing of their landline.

The first time, she’d found it beyond weird. Nobody ever called them at that time of the day (well, night). But the phone would have kept ringing had she not picked up, and she didn’t want it to disturb Hilda. So Johanna had dragged herself out of bed, mumbling and rubbing at her eyes, and walked to the kitchen to simply tell whoever was at the other side of the line that they had the wrong number and hang up.

It didn’t go like that, however. Because as soon as her ear was on the speaker, a voice she knew slurred her name.

“Kaisa?!” She’d whispered with urgency, figuring from the time of the call and from her clearly subdued voice that something was wrong. “What’s the matter?”

She hadn’t answered for a couple of seconds, but Johanna knew she was still there. She could hear her breathing.

“I’m in love with you.” Kaisa sighed eventually, in a dreamy voice. “That’s the matter.”

Since the whole point of picking that call at all was not waking Hilda up, Johanna had to make a lot of effort to be silent when she choked on air at that statement. Her face heated up immediately and she gripped the phone’s handle, looking around herself to make sure there was no one near and listening. As if that would help. If either Tontu or Alfur really wanted to listen in, there would really be nothing she’d be able to do about it.

That was not how she’d imagined this conversation going.

“What?” She whispered into the microphone. “Kaisa, that’s lovely-” She mentally slapped herself. What kind of reaction to ‘I’m in love with you’ was that? Kaisa deserved better. But then, Johanna had also thought she deserved at least a face to face confession, though she should probably consider herself lucky to be getting one at all. “- but why are you telling me this right now?”

“I can’t tell you this.” Kaisa continued, which Johanna hardly thought could be considered an answer to her question. Her voice was distant, the cadence unlike it had been in any of the times they’d been together previously. Still, Johanna knew it to be her voice. She’d recognize it anywhere. “I can’t tell you that I want you close at all times. I can’t tell you that you’re the most beautiful person I’ve ever met. I can’t even tell you I want to know everything about you. Because I’m not… not ready. You deserve someone better than me, and I’m not ready.”

Her tone wasn’t emotional. For all that she was saying, she didn’t sound like she was making a confession, but like she was listing facts. Johanna was sure her face must be completely red at that point, her heart picking up a speed she wasn’t entirely sure was healthy. She still had just enough reason to be able to tell that none of that sounded normal.

“Kaisa, love, tell me what’s going on.” She urged. They’d hung out not a full 48 hours before. Kaisa had been acting normally around her and showing no signs of wanting to confess an avalanche of deeply buried feelings. Something had to have happened.

“I know it’s selfish of me, but I want to be with you anyway.” Another string of words that sounded like they barely had any thought given to them as they were pushed out of Kaisa’s mouth. It wasn’t an answer. The witch had probably not even heard her. “I want to wake up with you and cook with you and come home to you at the end of the day-”

Oh, gods.

“I want to be someone you can call yours-”

Kaisa was high, wasn’t she?

“Kaisa, where are you?” Johanna attempted once more, even though the confessions didn’t stop coming from the other end of the line. “Do you need to be picked up? Are you safe? Are you home?”

Nothing. Well, not nothing. A lot, really, but only a lot of sappy feelings that had nothing to do with Kaisa’s current state at all.

It must have gone on for half an hour. Johanna didn’t know how to make her stop, and figured that at least she knew Kaisa was fine as long as she was speaking to her on her phone. There was of course also the fact that she’d waited for so long to hear those things that she was too selfish to hang up now, even if these were far from the circumstances she would have preferred. After she’d seemed to run out of things to say, Kaisa asked in just as distant of a voice.

“What do you think?”

Johanna took a deep breath. She’d sat down on the floor at some point, the landline’s cable extended to allow her to do so.

“I think you need to rest, my dear.” She uttered softly, still worried. “We can talk about it when you’re better.”

The line went silent. Kaisa had hung up.

Johanna still sat there, cradling the phone’s handle and looking straight ahead with an unfocused case for a few more minutes. She had no idea how to process what had just happened. Kaisa had just said everything Johanna could have asked for in her most self centred fantasies, and more. But she didn’t feel ecstatic like she should. She felt hollow. Because of the context, she felt foolish, even. That night, she’d gone to bed and her only thought had been ‘what now?’

But then she’d showed up at the library, and Kaisa had acted exactly as she would have any other day. Like nothing had happened. Like she hadn’t gotten high as a kite and declared her undying love in the dead of night. And she’d been so sure of it too, without any signs of any unusual activities the night before, even. Johanna had let herself be convinced it was only a dream. That would have made sense, right? Only in dreams did people’s crushes confess to them like they were writing a love letter. In Johanna’s case, only in dreams did people confess to her at all. She should have known better.

Except it had happened again the night after that. Johanna had made sure to check everything that could give away that she was dreaming, but everything around her looked perfectly… real. Except for Kaisa. Her voice drifting from the phone, saying how much she craved to have her near, couldn’t possibly belong to reality. And yet, it did.

Not that any of it had helped matters when she’d come to talk to Kaisa about it. Depending on what substance she’d been on, it would have made sense for her to forget what had happened. That wasn’t the issue here; had it all been handled differently, Johanna should have been happy to wait for as long as the witch needed for her to actually admit her feelings. But all she’d been met with was vehement denial. Maybe she was ashamed, but going so far as to imply that Johanna was wrong, or lying? Implying that it could be a random prankster had her at the end of her rope. As if Johanna could ever mistake Kaisa’s voice for anyone else’s. At that point it was as entangled in her mind as the sounds of the forest or of her pencil on sheets of paper.

All of that only allowed her to arrive at one conclusion. That it was deliberate.

For the third night straight, Johanna forced her legs to take her to the kitchen. Her head hurt; it had been difficult to fall asleep again after the calls, leaving her exhausted physically as well as emotionally. She hoped it would be something different this time. That maybe Kaisa had come to her senses and would admit that she was drunk, or high, or just plain sorry.

She hoped for anything other than what she got.

“I’ve fallen for you harder than I thought I could. I didn’t know I could like someone this much.”

Johanna groaned. Groaned. Because somehow her biggest dream had turned into a nightmare in the matter of three days. Was loving her such an embarrassing thing that it could only be mentioned in the dead of night? No, that wouldn’t make sense. Kaisa would at least act coy if that was the case, give her the slightest indication that she did mean what she’d said or that she even remembered what she’d said. For her to sound like that, to say all that, and to vehemently deny it only left Johanna with one conclusion.

For two nights, she’d withstood that. It had to be some sort of joke, and a cruel one at that. To force her to hear everything she wanted, only to see that it changed nothing come daylight. It was torture. And it was clever. Clever because it hit exactly where it hurt, because it would drive Johanna insane while leaving Kaisa safe in her bubble of plausible deniability. All that was left to assume was that Kaisa had actually found out that Johanna had feelings for her and was using it to make fun of her. Maybe she wouldn’t do it when she had full control of herself, but apparently whatever she was using to make her sound like that made the allure of the prank too sweet for her. And then, come morning, she must remember it and deny ever using anything at all, either because she knew what she was capable of under the influence or because she was well aware of the game she was playing and wanted to continue at it.

It was a joke, and Johanna was at the butt of it. She had to remind herself of this. Because otherwise, she’d never have been able to finally, on that third night, hang up on Kaisa while she uttered the most lovely words Johanna had ever heard.

…......

Everything had changed since the last time they’d talked. Johanna didn’t invite her out anymore. She didn’t stop by the library to see her ‘just because’. She didn’t go anywhere Kaisa frequented at all, at least not while she was there. She didn’t even answer her texts or pick up her phone. And the worst part was, Kaisa didn’t even know what she’d done. She knew she needn’t worry for the other woman, since the trio was at the library often and that gave Kaisa a chance to ask Hilda about her mother. Given that the girl had taken to glaring at her before saying Johanna was fine, thank you very much, she was left to believe she must have screwed up somehow, even if she couldn’t figure it out.

She’d resisted all of two weeks under these circumstances before she’d caved. Her mind screamed at her that she was being stupid all the while her feet were taking her to the apartment complex where she’d spent so many enjoyable evenings drinking tea and giggling over nothing, but she ignored it. Johanna should be the one to reach out to her and tell her what she’d done to deserve being ghosted like that, should look at her in the eyes and tell her how Kaisa could be better for her. But she hadn’t done so, and Kaisa couldn’t take it anymore. She wanted her best friend. And if that meant swallowing her fear and her pride, well. She’d been the one to screw up in the first place, hadn’t she?

Probably.

At least she’d resisted the urge to buy flowers before heading there. The art of toeing the blasted line lied at the mixed messages peppered in every gesture that could be interpreted as romantic, and she rather didn’t think there’d be anything mixed or up to interpretation about giving another woman a bouquet of white roses.

Kaisa knocked on her door, knowing that the woman must be home since it was still early enough for her to have interrupted her self-imposed work hours. She’d managed to sneak away from the library earlier than usual precisely for that reason, even if Johanna didn’t go out much either way. Her voice came from the other side, a soft ‘coming!’ muffled by the wall between them. When the door was opened. Johanna was wearing a carefully crafted serene expression. Which melted away immediately at the sight of Kaisa.

To the witch’s absolute horror, Johanna stepped away from her.

“Oh.” She breathed, her voice guarded. “It’s you.”

What the hell is that supposed to mean?, she wanted to scream. Instead, she frowned and nodded. “Yes. Hi, Anna.”

“What do you want?” Johanna snapped, crossing her arms. She didn’t sound or look pissed, though, only sad and even scared as she looked at Kaisa’s feet rather than her face. And tired. Very tired.

So was Kaisa, if she was honest. She hadn’t woken up feeling truly rested in weeks.

“Well-” Kaisa struggled for something to say. Johanna had always been the more well spoken between the two of them. She’d truly thought that she’d arrive here and only have to listen to her explain what was going on. Having to actually voice anything hadn’t been part of her plan. “Isn’t it obvious?”

The woman’s face snapped to her at that, anger in her eyes. Kaisa had never seen her like this. But then, she supposed, she’d never hurt the woman before either.

“If you’re going to tell me the same thing as the last times, just give up.” She stated, making sure her shoulders were set back, voice a lot less unwavering than she would have liked. “I’m not going to let you treat me like this.”

Kaisa gaped at her. “Wait.” She lifted a hand, suddenly feeling anger rise up in her own chest. “This is still about the prank calls you’ve been getting?”

No matter how strongly Kaisa felt she was the one who should be offended here, Johanna’s furrowed brows and pursed lips told her very clearly how affronted she was that Kaisa would have the gall to react the way she did.

“Stop it. I won’t hear you out if you’re only going to lie either. You should be going.”

“Yes, I really should, shouldn’t I?” Kaisa snapped, surprising both of them with the fire in her voice. She truly wasn’t able to help it in the face of Johanna’s coldness. For her friend - and calling her that now felt like a mockery to what they had - to toss her away like that without even hearing her out, she could only have been looking for a reason to fight with her. Just waiting for an excuse to get rid of the witch. Well, Kaisa wasn’t about to get in her way.

She turned her back to her and walked back the way she came with all the certainty she didn’t feel, letting the hurt drive her away. She’d thought Johanna was the better one between the two of them. She thought that she’d at least have been given a reason, an explanation, or a proper conversation instead of just being accused over nothing for the woman to justify throwing their friendship away to herself. Didn’t matter, though. Not anymore.

The sound of her shoes on the building’s staircase was loud as she stomped away. Loud enough to drown out the sound of Johanna’s sniffles.

…......

The phone rang, like it always did, at three in the morning. The headache that had been her companion for many days now screamed at the sound. Johanna was already awake, of course. Her body had developed some sort of pavlovian response and she now always woke up exactly at 2:55 a.m., anxious about her daughter being startled out of her slumber by the ringing.

She got up from the couch wearily, and picked it up. After a couple of seconds of looking at it, she actually brought it to her ears. After the third time, she’d taken to leaving it on the counter for about half an hour, before placing it back onto the hook. It wasn’t like Kaisa was ever interested in what she had to say, anyway, so it didn’t really matter, and Johanna was afraid she’d ring again if she just hung up on her. But she’d actually showed up that afternoon. Hadn’t acknowledged what she’d been doing, sure, hadn’t apologised or offered a semblance of an explanation. She’d even yelled at her, considering the standard low volume that her voice usually had. But maybe that meant she was willing to rethink, willing to maybe take a step back and undo this mess. Maybe she’d come to her senses at last, maybe she’d stopped using whatever had been making her act like that.

With foolish hope, Johanna dared to listen to her voice one last time.

“Hi, Johanna.” Said the dreamy, far away voice. So not sober, then. “I love you. Every time you smile at me I feel like I’m flying-”

She wanted to scream. Nothing had changed. Nothing would change. And Johanna was exhausted, from this dance, from this heartbreak, from not knowing when was the last time she had slept peacefully without being woken up by this blatant and cruel ridicule.

She listened. Johanna actually was pathetic enough to listen to twenty more minutes of Kaisa saying exactly how she felt every time they were together, because she wasn’t sure she’d ever hear that voice again. And when she could finally bring herself to, she put the phone handle on the kitchen counter, and opened one of the kitchen drawers.

The scissors were exactly where she always left them. They were only ever used to open up food packages, but that didn’t matter. They managed to cut the landline’s cable just fine.

…......

It had been a long time coming. Truly, what had led her to believe a woman as lovely as Johanna would want to give her the time of the day? Maybe she’d enjoyed it for a couple of months. She might have only been doing it to be charitable, making an awkward loner like Kaisa feel like she had someone to rely on. But it hadn’t lasted, because how could it? Kaisa was who she was, and nobody could stand her for long. Eventually, people realised they couldn’t change her. They realised she was too annoying, too boring, too offputting to stand. And if Johanna had chosen that way to break them off, did she really have the right to be angry? She’d probably been giving her signs she didn’t want Kaisa nearby for ages, but Kaisa never took a hint, did she?

It made sense, now. Johanna didn’t blush when Kaisa complimented her because she liked it. It was because she made her uncomfortable. Her eyes didn’t widen when Kaisa asked her out because she was pleased. She’d merely been caught without an excuse to refuse. She didn’t tease Kaisa about her quirks because she found them charming. They were either attempts at getting her to change her habits or straight up jabs, hidden behind sweet words and a honeyed voice.

There was no line. There had never been a line. Kaisa was just delusional and pushing for something she’d never have. Kaisa was unlovable. She knew she was unlovable, and had accepted that a long time ago. It was her own fault for letting gentle touches and soft spoken affirmations convince her otherwise, her own fault for being so utterly incapable of making alright decisions, her own fault for only ever having bad ideas.

Gods, she was drained.

#Being a Gomens and ofmd fan means I am now traumatized by gays who are in different stages of noticing and dealing with their feelings #and refusing to talk about it.#Angst day in sketchbook week means I get to get it out of my system <3 #sketchbookweek #sketchbook ship #sketchbook ship hilda #sketchbook ship fanfic #kaisa hilda fanfic #johanna hilda fanfic #cw: drugs #cw: alcohol #my fic #fic: dobiy

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augment-techs · 10 months ago

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what i watched/read in january

Saint Maud: 5/5 Quite the parlor trick that I spent the whole buildup to actually seeing it believing it couldn't possibly be as psychologically intense and questionable as people were making it out to be and--what do you know? I was actually drawn in an surprised. Especially by the "demonic possession" and "angel wings" leading up to the final scene.

Grabbed: Poets & Writers on Sexual Assault, Empowerment, and Healing, ed. by Blanco, Moro, Moustaki, and Albo: 5/5 This was all very moving and left me with much to think about. It didn't just take points from the female pov, but also the male and--I think?--trans and nonbinary. The poetry in itself was a surprise, the essays and confessions something more what I was thinking of. It was hard to choose my favorites from the lot, but the poem by Michael O'Mara using Pink stands out the most.

Shades of Blue: Writers on Depression, Suicide, and Feeling Blue, ed. by Amy Ferris: 5/5 Okay, I'm not going to lie, I read through this entire book and while all of them were deeply meaningful, the one that stuck in my brain was the one that included a knock-knock joke-- "Knock knock/Who's There?/Boo./Boo who?/Just boo, you dope. You're a ghost." -by judywhite-- Which...is kind of horrible, and yet stupidly endearing?

Frankie Drake Mysteries, season 4: 4/5 Okay, I really, really, really wanted to love this season, which is apparently the last we're getting from this series, but, like, apparently they HAD warning that they weren't getting a fifth season, had time to wrap up most loose ends and STILL left us with this COMPLETE BULLSHIT ENDING?! WTF?

My Neighbor: Art Inspired by the Films of Miyazaki: 3/5 I mean, some of this was very good, but this was not at all what I was expecting and it was kind of a let down that I had to order this from out of state from my library. I thought this was an essay AND art collective.

Humans, by Brandon Stanton: 5/5 I'm always reading and rereading this, and it never gets old and is always giving me something new to notice and think about. On this particular reread, the photos and people that stood out the most were a small child in New York in a lion costume who was quoted saying, "There's nothing hard about being four;" then a group shot of two boys and a girl I think in the Middle East, one of the boys saying, "We let her pick," while all three smile, holding up a kite with Barbie on it; and then a picture of a man just sitting against a building with a really beautiful anecdote he gave about reading tarot cards to make a living in New York city wherein he believes in the card, but not in the way fortune tellers do, "I believe in them like you'd believe in a poem. I believe in their aesthetics."

Eat a Peach: a Memoir, by David Chang: 5/5 Being a chef and restaurant owner and believing in the work while also having mental illness. I haven't read this kind of memoir before from the Korean immigrant perspective and this went much better than I would have thought. Mostly because I did not expect this to be so FUNNY in some places. I thought it would be lyrical (which it was) or quite philosophic (which it was) but the book cover--which was beautiful--kind of made me think this would read like a Sisyphean tragedy. Which it really wasn't. And also some of his analogies--especially the one about a Hogwarts Culinary Dark Arts Class--are going to be stuck in my brain for a while.

Calling Doctor Laura: A Graphic Memoir, by Nicole Georges: 3/5 Oh to be a young queer woman at the turn of the century whose mother is almost certainly an untreated narcissist with BPD and whose girlfriend was most definitely cheating on her while she worked out trying to get the truth about her not-actually-dead father while sifting through very unpleasant memories of neglect and emotional abuse. Not a fan of the art style, but the story was at least honest.

Cheshire Crossing, by Andy Weir & Sarah Andersen: 5/5 TEN-THOUSAND blessings on writers who both admit to writing fanfiction on their opening introduction AND an art style where the cast was presented as 80% poc, INCLUDING Alice & Dorothy themselves, while presenting Wendy as queer. YES TO ALL OF THIS.

How to Be an Artist, by Jerry Saltz: 4/5 Actually a very good collective for advice and practice, though I might disagree with some of the rules...just...a bit.

The Wendy Project, by Osborne & Fish: 4/5 A story of young grief in the aftermath of an accident. A modern retelling of Peter Pan, but without the explanation of separating grief and breakdown from reality...such as it is. I was actually rather pleased to see the more "human" Peter ignored for the sake of the Wendy.

The Girl Who Married a Skull and Other African Stories: ratings run from 1/5 to 6/5 depending on the artist and story. My favorites of the lot were The Disobedient Daughter Who Married a Skull, by Nicole Chartland--which was beautiful and did NOT end in marriage, but did end in love--and Concerning the Hawk and the Owl, by Meredith McClaren--which was incredibly lovely and had very little NEED of words.

Kimi Can't Communicate vol. 16, by Oda Tomohito: 5/5 Best parts about this would be: -Tadano playing the sports festival and getting crushed on HARD by Manbagi, Katai, and Komi. -Maeda, the school's top sprinter, having a thing for GILFs. -Suteno not giving Tadano a single thought and getting his headband taken without Tadano even blinking. -EVERYONE (bar Komi and Manbagi) feeding Tadano lunch. -The first time Tadano pats Komi on the head = KOMI WANTS MORE!! -Return to the Cat Café, complete with Manbagi getting a little pervert tomcat and Tadano once again pulling in the prettiest kitty in the area by being himself. -Shousuke and his Dad have a Father-Son day--and it becomes very obvious that Shousuke totally deserves Hitomi as the only curse he'll ever get. -Emoi Awards. -Tadano saves Manbagi's goldfish. -The whole voting process for the Culture Festival--once more, Komi is made to be the golden idol. -The Rehearsal of Najimi's play and The Cold-Blooded Princess. -It might be for the play, but Komi finally tells Tadano, "I like you."

The Vincent van Gogh overseas history DVD: 3/5 I suppose this is useful in terms of understanding and reference, but I didn't much care for the directing and editing style.

Big Trouble in Little China: 5/5 I FINALLY get to watch the movie with the women that have green eyes sacrificed to a dragon spirit in the name of a dark sorcerer cursed for over a thousand years in San Francisco. I haven't seen this movie since I was in kindergarten and should never have watched it to begin with. It is infinitely more entertaining and unpredictable than most anything coming out of the industry today. I had totally forgotten that Samantha from Sex and the City and Steve Stronghold from Sky High were acting here. I cannot believe John "Halloween" Carpenter directed this.

Disney's A Twisted Tale Anthology: -What if Snow White Learned Magic: 3/5 -What if Mulan became the Emperor's Advisor: 4/5 -What if Remy met Colette First: 5/5 -What if Anastasia had a change of Heart: 4/5 -What if Jim Hawkins joined the Pirates: 2/5 -What if history wasn't Quite Right about Robin Hood: 4/5 -What if Eric met Ariel after she rescued him: 3/5 -What if Tinkerbell was working for Captain Hook: 3/5 -What if Naveen had to get home to Maldonia: 5/5 -What if the Triplets visited the Witch: 3/5 -What if Madam Mim and Merlin wet to school together: 3/5 -What if Belle had to take her father's place at the fair: 3/5 -What if Hercules's first day as a god didn't go as planned: 2/5 -What if Bambi didn't want to be a Great Prince: 5/5 -What if Aurora knew about the curse: 4/5

Komi Can't Communicate vol. 15, by Oda Tomohito: 5/5 -Isagi is introduced with a HUGE arc to become Student Council President -Isagi has poor communication/OCD/Extreme germaphobia and touch aversion -Ase presents and comes through as Isagi's Truest Friend -Tadano sees Pretty Cat Komi -Yamai gets Komi to play Twister with her...in the school hallway...and passes out when she gets EXACTLY what she wants -Hitomi initiates a Shousuke/Ai + Hitomi & Yamada "date night" complete with coffee drinks, prize games (Hitomi won Ai a stuffed panda) and a movie at the theater -Ai had fun~ -Isagi plays Rock/Paper/Scissors/Hammer/Helmet against the entire class and WINS -Najimi insists on Isagi keeping the hammer (she's too good not to have it) -The previous Class President is utterly TERRIBLE at her job -The class take glamor shots together in an effort to get Isagi to smile for her election photo; but only managed to get a very on point shot of her menacing Najimi (which works better) -Isagi forgot to choose her campaign representative, but as usual, BLESS TADANO, "Don't worry about it. We don't care who you pick." -Isagi wins after a truly heartfelt speech from Ase. -Time for school physicals; Tadano is a half inch taller than Komi (who is SO GLAD) -Manbagi stresses about her crush on Tadano -Komi and Shousuke are forced by their mother to invite friends to dinner; Komi invited Manbagi, Ase, and Tadano...Shousuke ONLY invited Yamada, but Hitomi being Hitomi invited herself and Ai -Tadano gets to shine as the most polite person on the planet by being the ONLY PERSON at the table to say Yamada Sanjurokuro's name correctly (which may or may not lead to yet another crush on him; bringing his fan club up to, what, twelve now?)

Komi Can't Communicate vol. 14, by Oda Tomohito: 5/5 -The only thing that keeps sinking into my brain about this particular issue is the entire fair situation wherein Tadano, Komi, Manbagi, and Katai get sucked into working at Agari's aunt's food stall by Najimi. -Fushima continues to cheer on Katai/Tadano from the sidelines (and me along with her). -But the kicker is Manbagi finally warming up to Tadano and Hitomi & Onemine & Sasaki & Sato FREAKING OUT -Komi is just glad they get along -Hitomi is glad that Tadano continues to be Tadano and does not understand the concept of ANYONE having a crush on him. This precious boy.

Komi Can't Communicate vol. 13, by Oda Tomohito: 4/5 -It was fucking MAJESTIC to see Nakanaka playing around with an umbrella after sunset like a gun, running aground of the Four Monarchs, an out of town city woman playing dead when she said, "BANG!" to be polite--and her running away as fast as she could with the Monarchs finding the situation quite interesting but the woman on the ground wondering when she could get up again. -Najimi sets up a horror challenge at Katai's WITHOUT ASKING HIM--but it's fine. His friends are proud of him and he is so SOFT.

Komi Can't Communicate vol. 11, by Oda Tomohito: 5/5 -Summer vacation wherein the Komi and Tadano family end up at the same outdoor game park. -Hitomi continues to be Shousuke's unwanted but entirely necessary cheerleader. -Komi unlocks a kink by seeing the rim of Tadano's underwear. -Nakanaka/Yamai is VERY encouraged by Sukida (and myself as well). -The Four Monarchs are introduced to the class and it is SO fucking funny watching them fail to impress or scare ANYONE in this new class. Especially Tadano; it is so awesome.

3 Generations DVD: 4/5 A lesbian, poly, trans family making their way through the son's transition and the messy secrets the mother left behind in an effort to get written permission to start testosterone. I'm a little sad that the main actor wasn't actually trans but...Elle Fanning is still Elle Fanning, so the acting was *chef's kiss*.

Pawn Sacrifice DVD: 5/5 I already wanted to punch Bobby Fischer when he was alive for being both a genius and the biggest fucking asshole, but Toby Maguire was a fucking majestic BEAST in this piece illustrating opposite Liev Scheiber just HOW MUCH chess players during the Cold War did not inspire envy. Every actor in this film was a blessing, but DAMN, these two are awesome.

Little Panic: A Memoir, by Amanda Stern: 4/5 Oh, holy shit; I knew the 80s were terrible for women, but to have an anxiety disorder on top of a learning disorder in New York's East Village at the time was nothing short of just AWFUL.

The New York Regional Mormon Singles Halloween Dance: A Memoir, by Elna Baker: 4/5 This is useful in being a funny and darkly honest commentary/critique of diet culture, New York single life, religion, growth, and cues into life in-between. But All the way through I could not help but feel a little bit irked by the author.

From Boys to Men, edit. by Ted Gideonse & Rob Williams: 5/5 My fourth time reading this and it gets better every single time--especially in that these are queer men of all ages, races, and types, and just feels NICE. -The Story I Told Myself, by Soehnlein: inventing the self through playing with the little people in your head to make some pretty awesome soap operas -Sleeping Eros, by McAllister: considerations on divorce and brotherhood and a father who might have also been gay -Preppies are my Weakness, by Dolby: the essay that basically promises that those you're attracted to at ages 14-17 are Your Type (interestingly, for those of my mutuals reading this; I kept picturing Billy Cranston and Jason Scott, even though Jason would NEVER treat Billy like that). -Barbie Girls, by E.K. Anderson: Mid-80s realizing the politics of "romance" at age 11 and meeting a kindred soul at summer camp -Signs, by R.C. Green: exploring sexuality from the POV of an inner city, poc athlete that had a LOT of anger and internalized homophobia -And much, much, MUCH more.

A Gift From a Ghost, by Borja Gonzalez: 6/5 This is such a beautiful graphic novel for the consideration of how the future is a reflection of the past and how the past has little touches of understanding the future. Possibly it is also a thought piece on reincarnation? Dimensions and time spotting? Either way, the choice for the characters to be faceless and wit the looks of very pretty mannequins while building up the surroundings and wardrobe was MAGNIFICENT.

Change the Game, by Kaepernick: 4/5: A graphic memoir about the growth of a black football player from a white family who would eventually take the knee in protest to racist, sexist, political lashings. Not my favorite art style, but I can appreciate the lighting and line technique.

Goodbye: A Story of Suicide of Hailee Joy Lamberth: 2/5 A good attempt at humanizing and rationalizing, but for me, personally, it was a little too bright, shiny, sanitized...And not to mention a bit self-indulgent.

The Books that Changed My Life, edit. by Bethanne Patrick: 5/5 I have my favorites in the writers and in the books they chose and in the essays they wrote on them. But Gillian Flynn, Margaret Atwood, Peter Coyote, and Sofia Coppola's choices were my favorites.

Komi Can't Communicate vol. 4, by Oda Tomohito: 5/5 -Komi and Tadano try and say each other's first name...and fail SPECTULARLY. -They swapped kitty keychains (a tabby and an ebony) -Inaka makes her first appearance in a Subway parody -Nakanaka/Yamai is establishing itself through Tadano trying to teach them "Komi Speak."

#reading lists #movie lists #my humble opinion #reference

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proofthatihaveaheart · 2 years ago

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March 2023 Wrap-up

i read a lot this past month and i am very happy about it. italics for favorites

THINGS I READ:

Books:

Delusions of Gender: How Our Minds, Society, and Neurosexism Create Difference by Cordelia Fine - A thorough and well-researched book on how society shapes our understanding of male and female, and how the view of biological differences in our brains/minds is flawed. This book would have benefited from a trans and non-binary perspective to add additional layers (there are a couple brief mentions of trans people), but it still has a lot of interesting things to say and claims to debunk about gender differences so I liked it.

Devotions: The Selected Poems of Mary Oliver by Mary Oliver - A collection pulling together more than 5 decades worth of Mary Oliver poetry. The way she writes about nature and humanity and life resonates deeply with me.

Die Vol. 1: Fantasy Heartbreaker by Kieron Gillen and Stephanie Hans - gorgeous + stunning dark fantasy comic, i am attached to these characters and excited to see where they go. great start

Legends & Lattes by Travis Baldree - a warm and cozy fantasy. It’s not my usual fare but I enjoyed it a lot for its descriptions of food (I want everything Thimble made), sapphic romance, and warm community feelings.

The Nutmeg’s Curse: Parables for a Planet in Crisis by Amitav Ghosh - This is a very erudite book on how the extractive and exploitative philosophy of colonialism has led to our current climate crisis (among other crises). It’s also a powerful book as Ghosh challenges Western ideas and calls for a return to vitalist forms of thinking. Really good.

The Thirty Names of Night by Zeyn Joukhadar - A beautiful book about a Syrian American trans man working through his identity and body, and discovering the history of his family and homeland through a queer woman’s journal. Richly detailed, lots of bird imagery, I’m a fan.

What Moves the Dead by T. Kingfisher - I loved this book. It’s got an unsettling atmosphere, fungi, delightful characters, a slow and creeping build. And the writing manages to be funny. All-around excellent book.

The World We Make by N. K. Jemisin - Excellent follow-up to the first book. I love these characters and I love the world-building and themes.

Victory of Eagles by Naomi Novik - I’m loving the Temeraire books more and more. Really enjoyed the character work in this one and how it explored the consequences of their actions, not to mention all the politics.

Fic (Arcane):

Saltwater by Ollie_Ollie_Oxenfree (Cait/Vi, WIP): "'Oil and water'...and what? She's the oil?" Ekko laughed. "Bullshit. She's salt. Stir her up and she'll melt right into you." [Immediately following the end of Arcane Ep 9. As the cities descend into war, Caitlyn and Vi seek refuge, grappling with the aftermath.] [I don’t normally rec WIPs but this fic is SO GOOD! The nuance it explores with Caitlyn and Vi both in their personal struggles and in their relationship is just incredible. And I really like the writing, the way the dialogue flows and crackles, it’s beautiful fic. Mind all the warnings tho.]

THINGS I WATCHED

TV:

The Last of Us season 1

The Legend of Vox Machina season 2

THINGS I PLAYED

Video games:

League of Legends - still playing this, really excited that I finally got enough Microsoft reward points to get rp and buy the Arcane Vi skin <3

Legends of Runeterra - extremely into this silly card battler

#monthly wrap up

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waynetechdadoftheyear · 2 years ago

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Words of love

Manic Panic- When I first found out I got you as my Secret Santa I was super stoked! I have fallen in love with your work time and time again as this past year has gone on through your drabbles, banter, and even our DND sessions. I am not always attentive and honestly, I have ADHD so bad that I'm not sure which browser in my head is running, how many, or where the music is coming from, but you never hesitate to welcome me into the fold and shenanigans that the Bat Fam is getting into. I value your friendship and I love how you encourage everyone's muse around you. You are such a bright light wrapped up into a Dark Knight here to save everyone from their writer's block and bullshit. I'm not the only one who feels this way and on down you will see the others that have reached out to add to my little love fest here! Happy Holidays Bat Dad. We love you and your brooding face!

J. -

God, I'm so not good at this mushy gushy stuff, BUT! It's Christmas, and part of a present, soooo…

I know I've told you time and time again how happy I am that we stumbled across each other, how grateful I am to have you as a writing partner and friend, and how incredible your writing is, but here I am, telling you one more time. (And I'll probably still tell you like a bajillion times more.) What you do? It's special. You really do have this innate ability to encapsulate Bruce's character— you give him life, and you bring a uniqueness to him through your words that cannot be replicated. And I think that comes from your own experiences on the other side of the screen. You're such a talent, and it doesn't hurt that you're so kind. And funny! That's always a win in my book.

Anyway, I don't want this to turn into a long, rambling tangent about how great you are, which it very well could, so let me just say that I adore you, I hope that you have an amazing Christmas, and I look forward to cooking up more stories with you.

Love, -J.

BOY WONDER - OKAY SO. I'M NOT SURE HOW I'M GONNA SUM UP HOW MUCH I LOVE YOU IN ONE PARAGRAPH, BUT WE'RE GONNA TRY. You are so special to me literally my best friend, the person who can make me laugh when I'm raging or wanna cry, and the one I know I can always count on to be in my corner no matter what. You're literally so talented like… sometimes I'm legit baffled by the beauty that is your writing. And now I'm not exaggerating No matter what character you're writing, whether it be a canon or oc you put every bit of that talent into them, and you dive in deep, getting to know them and expanding and it's just sdfjklsdf AWESOME okay. I love it. And I love every single connection we've ever made. Part of why I try to drag your ass around with me wherever I go but seriously. You do so much, not just for me but for everyone you come into contact with. You're generous and always quick to uplift and encourage people. And I for one would be completely lost without you. I'm pretty sure this is for your SS gift so MERRY CHRISTMAS and I love you and I can't wait to see your reaction to reading how much other people love you as well. xoxox GUNFIGHT - Bruce. Old Man. Your creativity is off the charts my guy. Reading your stuff is always an absolutely amazing experience no matter what character it is from. Your drabbles, to poetry, to replies, the writing always flows in a way no one else can match. Though some may try. But also your edits are cool af and bantering once in a blue moon is always fun. MEOWY CATMAS - Waynetech is one of the most supportive people I’ve met in this site, always encouraging others and sharing their work. He goes out of his way to make everyone feel welcome and included and he’s even nice to people who write the same character he does. This community could use more people like him.

BELIEVES IN LOVE - What can I say about Wayne Tech? They're a beautiful writer that captures Bruce so fantastically. They truly build a world and suck you right into it making you feel every last emotion and allowing for you to see the scene so well it's like you're watching a movie. They are also such a lovely friend and I'm so grateful that I've met them.

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marc-spectorr · 2 years ago

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So I want too talk about Stevens book shelves and him with books in general. I know at least half of those books are about Egyptology and the other half are french poems. I also imagine a 3rd of them are about gold fish because I feel like Steven is the kind of person who researches things before he dose them. So I know he dose his best to try and take care of the Gus's. (There will be more about the fish later.)

In the first episode I think there is a clip of Steven going through a Egyptian mythology book and highlighting things. I don't doubt he writes notes in the margins like the dad did in journey of the center of the earth. I like to think he sticky tabs things too especially things that amuse him. He probably goes through stationary very fast.

His bookshelves are chaotic. Not to mention all of the books stacked on his desk. I can imagine trying to organize his bookshelves with him and he gets fussy by the end of it because he knew where all of his books where in his little stacks everywhere. But, If you tried to find anything it would probably take all night. That would probably lead to your first couple fight tbh.

He also probably has notebooks filled with all the info on god's and goddesses, and I can see him making his own hieroglyph codex ect. He's a really good note taker.

Long story short if you let that man wonder into a bookstore he would have credit card debt in a millisecond.

(I'm putting my fish nerd Glasses on. -i really want a tank of cherry barbs and peacock gudgeons but, I digress- If I remember right goldfish need to be in really big tanks so they grow and move around freely. -in my head there like the midsize version of koi fish- Gold fish get really big I think some can get to be at least 10 inches or more. I'm just really happy to see the gold fish in a nice big tank instead of a bowl. Or some small bullshit tank from Petco/PetSmart. Don't get me started on Betta fish or hermet crab housing it's horrible honestly. I've wanted a fish tank for a while can you tell lol 🤣. )

Anyway I know you're filling down and if I could hug you through the screen I would. I hope my ramblings made you smile today 😊 take it easy Callie 🧡

hiya hi sails! it's always lovely hearing from you :))

there's something sooo cozy about steven's flat despite how chaotic it looks with all his books lying around (and this is coming from me, a neat freak haha). but going back to what you said, i'm pretty sure he writes little annotations on the side/post-it notes. imagine finding his favorite poetry book and reading the lines that he highlighted bc they remind him of you. also, idk why, but i'd find great pleasure in organizing those books in a more orderly way lmaoaoa. it'll be his own library in the comfort of his home 🥺

hehe i agree, steven def did his research before getting gus 😌. i'm still soft thinking about how gus 2.0 has a friend with him in the tank. hopefully there'll be a third one once steven and marc are cool with jake sksksk (but i'm forever picturing him adopting a cat, and at first, the other two are worried that their fish might get eaten or something but turns out the sweet kitty is alright just watching them swim around in the tank)

#asks #vermillionsails

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ashintheairlikesnow · 4 years ago

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Would lowkey kill to see Kauri attempting to write poetry in his relationship with Jake era (omg Jake helping him/being the one to write it down) I always forget that he was a writer and loves poetry and I love him 10 times more every time I remember

CW: Some references to past trauma, forced illiteracy, some brief internalized victim-blaming/slut-shaming, Kauri’s low self-esteem

Takes place after Worth the Risk and Kauri’s first glimpse of his own past

“This is fucking stupid. I can’t fucking do this.” Kauri picks up the notebook, hard-backed blue with little golden stars twinkling on the cover, and throws it full-strength across the room until it smacks into the wall and drops to the ground, open to his own scrawling, struggling handwriting.

Chris, wrapped in a big fuzzy blue blanket and curled up in an armchair playing a game on his phone or texting Laken or maybe both, flinches and looks up. “Kauri?”

Kauri looks away from the earnest concern in those huge green eyes and kicks ineffectually at the coffee table, hissing when he doesn’t actually miss and his toes connect with the hard wooden leg. “Fuck. Fucking-... bullshit, I’m an idiot trying to do this, just-... god damn it. I should know better.”

There’s a silence, and then Chris asks, softly, “Know better than, than... than to what? What were you, um, you doing?”

Kauri’s jaw is set and for a second he considers lying. He’s a good liar, after all, and Chris is always so ready to believe him, he wouldn’t even question it. Safer to lie, hide the ideas inside his head, talk instead about something soft and surface-level.

Safer to be stupid, always.

But he’s trying not to do that anymore.

He’s trying.

“Writing,” He says, finally. “I was... trying to-... write something.” The words are ground out of him nearly against his will. He glares at the notebook lying open on the floor, the scrawling handwriting of the fucked up slut still thinking he can be anything else. Looping and childish, too big almost to fit within the lines.

“Oh.” Chris pauses, and then brightens, setting his phone aside and straightening up. “You, you sad you think that you used to, to, to, to write, didn’t you?”

“Yeah.” Kauri’s head hurts, a sharp punishing ache. How dare he think in metaphor and simile, how dare he try to build the villanelle, how dare he remember vaguely arguing with someone in a coffeeshop over old poetic forms being superior to poems that don’t even try to fit within a rhythm, and he just-

This is so-

He’s so stupid, thinking he could just pick it up again like it hasn’t been a decade or close, like he’s still whatever stupid shit lived in his body before he-

signed up for this-

followed a fucking hot guy outside in the dark and got thrown into a van and made into Kauri.

“Well, my... my professor for, for, for, for Playwriting says... says writing is a muscle. You, you have to exercise. And you can’t do the, um, the, the, the-the heavy weights until you start with, with small ones.”

Kauri snorts, derisive, but it’s not because Chris is wrong - of course he’s not wrong. Part of Kauri knows it, too, that he used to write all the time, around the pounding inside his skull he knows that he used to scribble lines on napkins and paper towels and the margins of his study books, bringing together the poem itself only later, usually alone or with a boyfriend on the other side of the room. He used to be able to do this.

He used to do this all the time.

“I wish Owen had wanted someone who could write a fucking poem,” Kauri says, voice breaking on the tears that threaten. “Maybe then I’d still be able to.” He pushes himself to his feet and stomps over to scoop up the notebook almost violently. “Why are you taking Playwriting, anyway? I thought you wanted to do set design.”

“I, I do.” Chris shrugs, eyes on Kauri, watching him walk back towards the doorway that leads to a hall and then to the kitchen. “But I thought-... I, I, I figured-... maybe if I learn how to, to write a play, it would help... visualize. For, for, for set-building. You, um. You know?”

Kauri exhales, slowly, and then nods. “Yeah. I get it. That’s a good plan - I mean, not that I would know, I’m a college fucking dropout, right?” He laughs, bitterness in every word, in every sound.

“No,” Chris replies, simply. “You, you were... abducted. We were, um. We, we, we were stolen. Your words were, um, were stolen, too. That’s what Dr. Berger-”

“Fuck Dr. Berger,” Kauri snaps, and leaves the room before Chris can make any more sense and possibly break apart Kauri’s determined self-loathing while he still wants to soak in it.

Hating himself for what he can’t do - or what he’s been told he can’t do - is so much easier than trying to do it anyway.

Everything was easier than trying to get better.

So why is he still trying?

Notebook clenched in white-knuckled hands, Kauri climbs the stairs like a man moving to the gallows, one by one, his thoughts a swirling morass of self-hatred, and then he moves into the bedroom he shares with Jake here and stares at the rumpled covers on the bed.

He sleeps here every single night, wakes up to the same face pressed red on one side from the pillow, hears the same deep voice rumbling good morning, feels the same arm slide over his waist, the same scratchy stubble rubbing his jaw when he’s kissed.

I have generally found, in my work, the fucking therapist’s voice echoes inside him, that when you begin to do the work to rebuild, you will find yourself dedicated over time to reconstructing not just a room, Kauri, but the entire city that was once leveled. Does that make sense?

He’d told her it didn’t.

Kauri spent years dodging therapy whenever Nat didn’t talk him into it, and he hates going. He hates having to spill all the darkness inside him to someone who never stops being so goddamn calm.

But the first time she’d said, have you ever heard about the effect that solitary confinement has on the human mind? He had told her he didn’t know, but he’d started crying, too, and hadn’t been able to explain why.

Part of you knows, Dr. Berger had said gently. Part of you always knew.

He had never really wanted to know the person who had inhabited this skin, or try to be him again. But standing here looking at the evidence of the life he is slowly building - his clothes in a crumpled heap on the floor by the bed, his toothbrush in the little cup in the bathroom, a picture of he and Jake in a frame by the bed now, the very small silver ring he wears sometimes even though they’re not and they probably won’t but it kind of feels good to wear it sometimes...

He wonders if Liam Harker wanted a life like this one.

---

“It’s really dumb,” Kauri mutters, pulling the pillow over his face, burning red with embarrassment. “I didn’t even really mean for you to see it-”

“It’s not dumb,” Jake says, gently. Kauri feels the dip in the mattress as he sits down, feels the warmth of his hand resting on Kauri’s thigh through the blanket. “I’m sorry I read it. I didn’t know what I was looking at. If it was supposed to be a secret-”

“No. I didn’t. I forgot I left it out on the dresser. It’s not your fault. It’s so fucking stupid. I don’t know why I even-”

“Kauri.” Jake’s voice sharpens, a little. “Stop. Stop calling yourself stupid. You’re not, and you never were, and you don’t have to repeat what that asshole told you about yourself anymore, remember?”

Kauri swallows, hard, a lump in his throat he can’t quite breathe around. “When does it stop being his voice,” He asks, muffled, “and start being my own?”

“When you let it,” Jake says, rubbing his leg soothingly. “Just like my dad’s voice. You’re not stupid. You’re one of the smartest people I’ve ever met in my life. I’m sorry I read it, but that’s because it wasn’t mine to read, not because it was dumb, or bad. It wasn’t.”

Kauri hesitates, then pulls the pillow to the side, looking at the sincere affection in Jake’s face, his slight smile. “Yeah? You’re not just-”

“Saying that? No, I’m not. I mean, I’m not, like, a poetry person-”

“It’s not even a real villanelle, anyway.”

“I have no idea what that means. I just... I thought it was pretty good, actually. When I realized-... I put it down when I realized you were writing about-... you know. Yourself.”

“Liam,” Kauri says, hoarse, barely able to pronounce the name. “I wrote-”

“Yeah.” Jake takes his hand, pulls it to his lips, presses a kiss to Kauri’s knuckles. “I know. It’s really good, Kaur. You should keep writing. I promise I won’t look at any stray papers I find anymore, yeah?”

Kauri takes a breath. He feels almost dizzy, in a way that is both terrible and wonderful. The way you open yourself to the people you love is a horrible, amazing risk. The way you spill the darkest parts of yourself, not things you’ve done wrong but the things you are afraid of allowing back into the light, in case it washes them all away again.

But the light he lives in now isn’t cold, and it isn’t taking him away from himself. The light he lives in now is sunlight.

“What?” Jake’s eyebrows raise slightly. “What’s that face for?”

“Jake. What if-... what if I ask you to? Read them?”

Jake’s lips press together, and he nods, smiling slightly, closing his eyes and leaning his forehead against Kauri’s hand. He’s always warm, Jake, even on the coldest days. He’s always warm. “I’d be-... be fucking honored, or something that sounds less bullshit than that, but I mean it. I’d be... I love you, Kauri. Seeing inside your head is what I want to do for-... for forever.”

“Maybe I’ll ask then,” Kauri says, and pulls Jake’s hand and then Jake himself, the taller, larger man settling on top of him, holding himself up on his elbows, careful not to rest all his weight. “I love you, too, you know.”

“Yeah.” Jake kisses the tip of his nose. “It’s pretty fucking great.”

Kauri’s eyes glimmer, but he closes them so Jake can’t see, and kisses his forehead. “It’s nice to think that I’m lucky and mean it.”

“I think you should read your poem to Dr. Berger,” Jake says, and when Kauri groans, he pulls back. “I mean it. She should know.”

Kauri wants to argue, but he looks into Jake’s eyes, and sighs, and says he’ll think about it.

---

AN APOLOGY

I am built from the hollow air left after your heart stopped beating

Your hands still gripped tight to the life they were ending

I know you thought of home but I don’t know where your home is

The sound of my voice is a green valley that only sends back screaming

Covered in smoke and dust that I told myself smelled like cologne

Pathways that remember your laughter silent in the years that followed

Have I done enough to build a life you would have enjoyed living?

I am built from the hollow air left over when your heart stopped beating

The heat of their hands as inevitable as a river tore down every foundation

Their cruelty buried you so deeply that only I remain

I don’t deserve the love that should have been yours to receive

The sound of my voice is a valley echoing back your screaming

I owe you an apology for walking around inside you

Crumbling ruins with my touch and calling it preservation

I’m sorry for every blade of grass growing through our bones

Am I nothing but hollow air from when your heart stopped beating?

Wildflowers grow inside me from soil windswept over ash

Is that life worth everything not quite dead so deep below?

Is Kauri Grant good enough to make up for Liam Harker’s loss?

In the valley of my body, does anyone but me still hear you screaming?

I owe you an apology and have to hope the life I live provides it

I wish I could ask for forgiveness from the shape of you

We’re both ghosts, in the end, mosaic pieces shattered in shadows

I’m sorry that I’m all that’s left.

I built myself from hollow air in the shape of a heart still beating

The sound of my voice will always carry the echo of yours screaming

Tagging: @burtlederp , @finder-of-rings , @endless-whump , @whumpfigure , @astrobly @newandfiguringitout , @doveotions , @pretty-face-breaker , @boxboysandotherwhump , @orchidscript @cubeswhump , @whump-tr0pes @whumpiary @moose-teeth @whumptywhumpdump @wildfaewhump

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pillage-and-lute · 3 years ago

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Eskel is a Fanboy (Part 2, Electric Boogaloo)

This is a second part of this. Which in turn was inspired by this.

Please note, this is less funny and a little deeper than the first part, despite the title. Discussions of FEELINGS, hardcore, but also the trials. Brief mention of hypothermia.

Read it here on Ao3

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Geralt arrived late that year. Vesemir had been pacing the corridors, a worry line between his brows, for the last week. The snows were getting worse and worse and innocent snowflakes joined other completely harmless snowflakes until a very un-harmless amount of snow had piled on the track and the passes.

Lambert, alongside Aiden (another reason for the creases on Vesemir’s brow) lounged in the great hall, completely unconcerned.

“He’s stayed later and later every year,” Lambert said, lazily. “He keeps lingering with that bard of his. Why should this year be any different?” His eyes were half closed as Aiden played idly with his hair.

“If he doesn’t get here in the next two days he’ll be too late,” Vesemir snapped.

“I recognize I’m the outsider, here,” Aiden said. “But I don’t always winter with my troupe, and Lambert occasionally spends winters away...”

Eskel shook his head. The constant bickering was impacting his reading and he’d long ago marked his place in his book and set it aside. “Not Geralt,” he said with certainty. “He always winters at home.”

Aiden levelled a chilly, yellow gaze. “You love him.”

“He’s my brother in arms.”

“He’s special to you.”

Eskel wanted to growl and snap, but Aiden wasn’t saying it in a malicious way. There was no threat or accusation in his words. If there had been it would have been pure hypocrisy, what with the way Lambert currently lay in his lap. Eskel had spent a week pretending not to see the pairs’ furtive kisses.

“He is special to me,” Eskel said at last. “I found him, after his second trial, was given special allowance to be away from training to help him. Whatever happened, with the mutagens, he was deaf and blind for nearly two weeks. And had as much strength as a kitten.”

Vesemir’s pacing gained a sharper edge. “I wish I’d killed the mage that called for that second trial.” He said. Lambert and Eskel made eye contact, they were familiar with the self loathing in Vesemir’s voice. Lambert was angry at the world and his whole situation, but they had all forgiven Vesemir years ago. There was no choice but to mend bridges with a pack so small. Still, they rarely talked about it.

“You killed the mage that called for his third,” Eskel said, quietly.

Aiden’s head jerked up. He’d been a witcher, albeit a different school. He knew the trials, he knew the pain, but three trials... “They tried...?”

Eskel nodded his confirmation. “Geralt survived, and the mages who ran the trials wanted to see how many he could take.”

“So I split his throat on my knife,” Vesemir said. There was no satisfaction in his tone, but just an empty statement of action.

“I didn’t know it was you that killed the mage,” Lambert said. “I just knew one had been killed for the suggestion. I heard they made the witcher drink hemlock as punishment.” There was a warmer light of respect in Lambert’s eyes than usually shone there.

“They did,” Vesemir said. “It didn’t kill me.”

That was it for conversation that night, but Eskel went to bed thinking about Aiden’s words.

He’s special to you.

Geralt was special to him. There was an understanding, something gentle and kind between them. Geralt and Eskel lived their separate lives and had lovers and adventures. But for three months of the year they had each other.

Eskel had sometimes wondered if there was something wrong with him. He never gave his heart to anyone. Sex meant nothing and love didn’t happen, and he could only love Geralt for three months at a time.

Except that wasn’t true at all, because of course Eskel loved Geralt all the time. It was only a softer kind of love than he read about in poetry. He didn’t need fiery passion and desperate declarations of love. He had a steady love for Geralt, as sure as the beating of his heart. It was as good a love story as any, but now Geralt had his bard and a tiny, hidden part of Eskel whispered “If Only.”

If only he and Geralt could lounge like Aiden and Lambert, to pet each others’ hair and share small kisses in the corners. If only Eskel really had Geralt for those three months. He had no doubt that the feelings were mutual, but something in their lives had been built apart, and it would take something powerful to shape them anew.

The next evening brought a blizzard. And Geralt.

It took both Aiden and Lambert to shut the door behind Geralt with the way the wind blew in around him. It curled and flickered shards of ice through the air that melted in the heat of the hall, dampening Geralt’s old, black cloak. Which he was holding around himself like a cocoon. Vesemir took Geralts cloak for him, which revealed what he’d been holding.

Huddled against Geralt, nose red and face pale, was a young man in a blue cloak.

Geralt bundled him in front of the fire without a word, pulling away the damp cloak and hanging it to dry. Vesemir brought blankets as Geralt pried the instrument case from the man’s hands.

A lute case.

Eskel’s pulse picked up. This was obviously the bard. This was Jaskier, Oxenfurt’s most prodigious poet. He’d studied with Rumi and Alighieri and Li Bai. In just a few years he’d reformed witchers’ reputations. They’d all been treated better these past few years. More money, less tar and feathers. Eskel went to sit beside Jaskier to beg him for stories but Geralt met his gaze, smiled softly, and shook his head.

Eskel restrained himself. Jaskier was clearly staving off shock from the cold, as well as hypothermia. Instead of doing what he really wanted to do (lay himself prone at Jaskier’s feet and worship his skill with words) he put on a kettle for tea.

Aiden and Lambert make eye contact with each other, nod to Geralt, and leave. Vesemir also makes a tactful retreat. This time was just for Eskel and Geralt. And the bard shivering on a pile of cushions next to the fire.

“He had a hard time on the Killer,” Geralt said, quietly.

“It’s called the Killer for a reason.”

“He begged me to come, I told him it would be too dangerous,” Geralt whispered. “He followed me and I couldn’t make him leave, that’s why I was late.”

“Vesemir’s been worried,” Eskel said, staring at the fire. He sat on the cushions, beside the bard, without taking his eyes from the coals. Geralt sat on the other side of Jaskier, rubbing carefully over the bard’s chilly hands, pulling off the woolen mittens and gently warming each knuckle.

“I had to go slower for him,” Geralt said. Between the two of them, the bard seemed mostly asleep. His eyelashes flickered on his cheeks, struggling to stay open.

“You can sleep,” Eskel whispered. “You’ll wake up, you’re cold but not in danger.” He took the other chilly hand. “Just sleep.”

Blue eyes slipped closed and Eskel took the kettle off the fire so it didn’t whistle.

“He was so desperate to be here, he wanted to see the Keep,” Geralt said. “And I wanted him to come. To meet you.”

“I did make you promise I’d get to meet him,” Eskel said, sitting back down and resting a hand on Geralt’s shoulder. “I think I’ve read everything he’s ever written.”

“That’s not why I wanted him to meet you,” Geralt said.

Eskel’s breath caught. They were talking about it, sort of. “I know,” he said.

The bard curled up a little, like a nautilus shell. Geralt lay down on the cushions behind him and Eskel made himself comfortable. Sleep and warmth and the smell of the pine fire lulled him slowly to sleep. Just as he was drifting off, Jaskier reached out in his sleep and placed one hand, less chilly than it was, on Eskel’s arm. It stayed there until the morning.

“So True Love’s Waste wasn’t inspired by a person?” Eskel asked over breakfast, mouth full of porridge.

Jaskier shook his head, gulping down hot tea. “No, I was out on a bender with some friends and we saw this washerwoman’s cat trying to catch a soap bubble, right?”

Eskel nodded, entranced.

“It was so totally focused on catching this soap bubble, it’s eyes were all wide and determined, like all it wanted was the bubble, but when it caught the bubble...”

“It popped,” Eskel laughed. “And you wrote a poem that has been deemed the best love poem of the last hundred years about it.”

Jaskier chuckled. “Art is more trite and derivative than people think.”

Eskel reached out and touched Jaskier’s wrist, looking into those heavily-lashed eyes. “Your work could never be called trite, or derivative.”

Behind Jaskier, Eskel saw something flash in Geralt’s eyes, and he stood from the table, clearing his plate, but then Jaskier was telling a story about Rumi, his former professor, and Eskel’s attention was diverted.

The next week passed in peace, for the most part. Repairs to the keep were ongoing, but halted when the snow was heavy. Vesemir kept them training and the library, neglected by all but Eskel, kept Jaskier busy. At mealtimes and in the evenings Eskel and Jaskier chatted about art and music and life on the Path. But Geralt was subdued, something tired and sad gleaming in his golden eyes. He wouldn’t talk about it, and he fled when Eskel tried.

It hurt, that Geralt suddenly wouldn’t talk to him, but Eskel knew the white wolf better than anyone, so he cornered him in the training yard one afternoon and pinned him down.

“Talk. To. Me,” he panted, grinding Geralt’s shoulders into the flagstones.

“Nothing to say,” Geralt grunted.

“Bullshit.”

“Nothing!”

“You keep hiding! It’s not nothing!”

Geralt kicked his feet up, flipping them both over and freeing himself. He stood over Eskel who was still laying on the ground. “You can have him,” he said, beginning to walk away.

Eskel snagged his ankle, bringing his idiot wolf down to the ground without remorse. “You’re stupid.”

“I’m not, he adores you. You have so much in common, it makes sense.”

Eskel remembered the conversation of the year before. Please don’t take my bard.

“I’m not taking your lover boy from you,” he snapped.

“He’s not my lover boy.”

“He would be if you would only ask him.”

“He deserves better.”

“He wants you.”

“He wants you,” Geralt howled. “He looks at you like you got out a ladder and personally nailed the moon to the sky. Every time you talk he hangs on your words.”

“He looks at you the same way,” Eskel said, quietly. “And I...” He paused. This was so close to the thing they never talked about.

“You don’t look at me that way,” Geralt whispered.

“But I feel it all the same.”

The admission rang in the empty training yard, despite it being barely a whisper.

“I want you to have him, to be with him, because the two of you are made for eachother. It was obvious to me before you’d even met. I just wish,” Geralt stopped, his voice growing tight.

“What do you wish?”

“I just hate that it hurts so much. I love you both, I do, so so much, and all I want is you two happy, and you’ll be happy together, but I just wish it didn’t cut me out.”

Eskel rolled over and bumped his forehead to Geralt’s. There were tear tracks in the dirt there. “It doesn’t have to. That’s a silly rule and you made it up for yourself. I love you both and he loves us both, so you can have us both.”

Geralt sat up, bringing Eskel with him, then pulled him into a kiss that burned. It was a simple press of their lips together but Eskel felt like he’d been struck by lightning.

“Oh,” came a quiet voice from the nearby doorway. Jaskier was standing there, cheeks flushed and eyes wide. “I’ll just--”

“Stay,” Eskel said, chuckling. He pulled Jaskier down to sit on the flagstones with them. “I think Geralt has something he wants to tell you.”

Geralt looked nervous. He swallowed a couple times, eyes darting over Jaskier’s face. “I...” He said. “Um, what Eskel means is that... um, I”

“Oh you great big oaf,” Eskel said. “Jaskier, he loves you, he’s absolutely mad about you. He just can’t say it because he loves me too and it’s taken him the better part of a century to tell me.”

Jaskier beamed, his blush growing. “And you?” he said.

“I’m not sure I love you yet,” Eskel said. “But I think I will.”

“I think I will too,” Jaskier said, then he leaned in and brushed a soft kiss to Eskel’s lips, off center, so it brushed his scar and part of his cheek too. Then he kissed Geralt the same way.

“Aiden’s going to be so pissed that he lost the bet,” Jaskier said, as if he hadn’t just rocked both witchers’ worlds with a mere kiss. “He bet Lambert you wouldn’t figure it out until next week.”

“You knew,” Eskel said, touching the tips of his fingers to where his face was still tingling from the kiss.

“They way Geralt talks about you, well...” Jaskier said, smiling at Geralt. “And then the way you talk about him,” he smiled at Eskel. “And the way you both look at me, I knew. I just wasn’t sure you knew.” His smile shifted into something bashful and a little insecure. It was an odd look on his normally confident face. “And it seemed too much to assume you both would really want me, I’m not all,” he gestured at his shoulders and arms, obviously comparing their builds.

Eskel couldn’t help but let out a little chuckle. “We don’t care about that,” he said, carding his hand through Jaskier’s hair and revelling in the way the bard leaned into his touch. “I’ve seen Geralt with a face full of pimples, and I mean full, and that was back when he was calling himself Geralt Roger Eric du Haute-Bellegarde. It isn’t about looks.” He trailed his eyes across Jaskier. “And even if it was we wouldn’t find you wanting.”

“He’s right,” Geralt said, pressing a little kiss right behind Jaskier’s ear. “We find nothing about you wanting.”

“You both are going to leave me wanting if you’re not careful,” Jaskier whined, borderline laciviously. He leaned back against Geralt and pulled Eskel closer, kissing Eskel’s cheek chastely in spite of his words. When he turned to kiss Geralt’s cheek too Eskel nuzzled closer, feeling Geralt’s arms pull him into the pair of them.

“You have to promise to write me into your poetry, after all this,” he said.

Jaskier laughed, head tilting back and eyes crinkling at the corners. “As if I haven’t already,” he whispered.

Three months later the great bard Jaskier debuted his latest poetry anthology. Silver and Steel was praised by academics across the continent, although the line about being eaten alive was highly debated. Jaskier’s sudden penchant for high collars might have answered the questions, but he wasn’t about to give away the secret.

#jaskel #geralt x jaskier x eskel #this is stupid but happy #less funny than the first bit #but more cute #the witcher #jaskier is a famous bard #eskel is his fanboy #geralt loves them both very much

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pascalpanic · 4 years ago

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Cigarette Daydreams

Pairings: young Javier Peña x young f!reader

Inspiration: Cigarette Daydreams by Cage The Elephant

Summary: Javier drives all night in the rain, wondering what went wrong and where. How he lost you, the one woman he’d ever loved.

W/C: 5.4k

Warnings: language, talk of death, lots of talk of sexual content but nothing explicit, lots of angst, emotions are running high here, talk of poor mental health. this handles some heavy topics so please be warned. set in the 60s so there’s a really brief mention of being drafted.

A/N: So this is a song I like but it’s really emotional, as is this fic. I just wanted to explore what Javier would’ve been like when he was young. It’s not necessarily all in chronological order but I kind of think it makes sense... let me know if it doesn’t. thank you to all my friends/beta readers who helped me with this one, like @leonieb, @feelingmadclever, @theteddylupinexperience, and a bunch of others :)

Javier smoked his first cigarette with you. It would become a lifelong addiction: the cigarettes, that is. You, on the other hand, were a yearning he could never satisfy. An addiction is something you can feed; you can dull it by giving it exactly what it wants. Javier wanted you, still wants you desperately. The difference is that he cannot have you.

It’s been years since he last saw you. Since he last heard your enchanting laugh, smelled the warm scent of your hair product as he kissed the top of your head. He thinks about you all the goddamn time. What life would be like now if you hadn’t gone your own way. He misses you like hell, but he’s sure you’re off and married and conquering the world in your own way. He’s never tried to find out. He’s too scared it’s true.

Laredo was more of the place you told people you hailed from. The name was recognizable, easily: oh, you’re from the place where A&M’s other campus is located? Exactly, you’d respond, and it was much less of a hassle. In reality, you and Javier both grew up in a small community out in the farmlands near Laredo.

You’d grown up with him. Everyone in the town knew you, and they knew Javi equally as well. He was an interest of your community: from the day you took those standardized tests in second grade, everyone knew that Peñita was going places, but his temper held him back. His emotions consumed him.

He was blonde as a baby; you’d seen in photos, scattered around Chucho’s house. His hair gradually grew darker as he grew older, and your classmates all teased him. You didn’t remember a time where his hair was lighter than a dark blonde, being a child yourself. But it was an evolution that matched him, you had come to realize in your adult years.

Not only was he smart, he was a born athlete. Javier was always a bit smaller than the other boys, but damn was he quick. He could run and run and no one could match him. That’s what made him so successful in early football training. From the start, Chucho enrolled him in football, despite Alejandra’s weak protests. She gave in when she saw her baby in a helmet and massive shoulder pads, grinning at her with one front tooth.

You and Javier were not in the same circles as children. He played with the boys on the field, always the running back when they played football or the offense when they played soccer. He had a temper, though. If there was ever a scuffle on the soccer pitch, you could bet Javier was one of the fighters. You, on the other hand, sat in the shade of the elementary school building, reading book after book.

His mother was beautiful. She had long dark hair that smelled of something exotic and warm, and she had a smile with a dimple in one cheek. She brought treats to your class on his birthday, which was in November. She read books to your class on her assigned story days, Javier cuddled into her side. He adored her.

Alejandra Peña died when you were in sixth grade. You can remember the way the class was silent the next morning, Javier’s desk empty. You nearly threw up from the emotion when you heard that she was gone. Your eyes blurred with tears. The loss was inconceivable to your twelve-year-old brain.

You rode your bike past his house that night. There was a lamp on in the room you knew to be his. His silhouette paced back and forth through the small, second-floor bedroom. You didn’t know what you could do or say, and so you rode off through the neighborhood.

His hair grew even darker after that. What had been a dark blonde became a light brown as middle school progressed. His anger flared up. He would throw punches when the kid acting as referee made a call Javier deemed to be bullshit.

You were something different. Javier found you fascinating the first time you truly interacted, seated together for a class. You were fourteen then, his face just starting to grow a bit of dark hair on his jaw. You were absorbed by your books, hardly talking to anyone and even sneaking it under the table during lectures.

One day, he called your name to catch your attention. You didn’t notice it, lost in your own world. He snatched the book from your hands and slammed it on the table. “Hey. Princesa, we got work to do.”

You frowned. “Give it back, Peñita.”

“Only after we finish this assignment. I don’t want homework tonight.” He stuffed the book in his backpack and tossed you a pencil.

“I won’t do it until you give it back,” you bartered coolly, crossing your arms and sitting back in the chair. “And I have more willpower than you. That’s a fact.”

He glared at you for a moment, the both of you staring the other down. It lasted quite a while, more than you expected. Javier broke first, handing you your book and grumbling over the worksheet.

You became better partners after that. Javier even apologized for it two weeks later. You forgave him, and something about his smile made your heart flutter around in your ribcage.

That started the friendship. You’d walk together in the halls, chatting about your parents and sports and homework for the night. Then middle school became high school and things changed between you, even though nothing you did was different.

Javier had always been a good athlete. He became the first-string running back for the high school, leading them to state his freshman year. When you walked together in the halls now, there was an expectation from the others. Boys and girls only walked together if they were couples, and a star football player was a coveted date.

You’d explained that to him. “Javi, as much as I love you, and you know I do, people are gonna think we’re together. I don’t want you to have to deal with that,” you’d pleaded. “I’d be ruining your chances. I think it’s better if we walk separately now.”

Javier nodded. He had to play along. He couldn’t let you know that in the past few months, he’d begun to feel things for you he’d never felt before. He had dreams about you at night, the kind where he’d wake up to damp sheets. He’d noticed your body changing, and his changed too. He thought about you when he’d lie awake at night, his hand in his boxers. The hormones were beginning to pump through Javier’s blood in a way that may have never really ever stopped.

From then on, you’d walk alone in the hall. Your nose was buried in a book at first, navigating it alone. Then you’d made friends, and you’d talk with people as you slammed your locker shut. You’d give Javier a wave, leading him to be roughhoused by his teammates who took him in as one of their own.

You became different from him. You were known for being an artist and a writer. You embraced the loving spirit of the 60s’ culture and made warm oil paintings of fields and flowers, wrote poetry that won awards, and even wrote a collection of short stories. You weren’t a hippie, but you were artsy. Javi became a bit of a jock.

The pressure grew to be too much in the middle of Javier’s junior season. It was the end of fall. You were both 17. You’d stopped maintaining a friendship now, far from as close as you’d been in the earlier days. You waved at him in the hall and that was it. It changed when the stress of being an athlete pushed on Javier’s brain until it popped. He quit the team, spending his time after school in his bedroom at home. He no longer proudly wore the team’s t-shirts or his letter jacket.

You heard about it through rumors. You didn’t talk to Javier. He kept his head down in the halls now. There were dark circles under his eyes. He’d sit in the library for hours, forcing himself to cram knowledge into his brain. If he wouldn’t be going to college for football now, he figured, he’d better get smart fast.

You’d sat at a table across the library as you worked on your chemistry homework. You glanced up. Javier looked down. He’d been looking at you. You stared at him until he looked up again. “Can I sit with you?” You’d mouthed, and he nodded. A small smile graced his face.

Packing up your textbook and papers, you dragged a chair over. “Hi, Javi,” you said. Your voice was quiet and painfully soft.

He smiles a little. “Hey, princesa.”

It’s quiet for a moment, the both of you staring at your papers and pretending like you were working. You weren’t. “I missed you,” you finally admitted after the silence passed.

His heart skipped a beat. “I missed you too. Probably more than you missed me.”

You shook your head. “I was wrong. I liked walking with you in the halls. I miss that, I miss us,” you admit, your hand resting over his. He looked up at you with the big brown eyes you’ve always loved, and your smile softened. “Your hair is so dark now, Peñita.”

He nodded a little. “It just keeps going. I don’t know if it will ever stop.”

“You’re funny,” you chuckled and retracted your hand. “How have you been? I heard about the football thing.”

He sighed softly. “It was too much. Not me, not anymore. I hated it.”

“Who are you now, then?” You asked quietly.

He looked up at you. “I don’t know.”

You’d smiled. “I can help you find out.”

That’s how your friendship began again.

It wasn’t a friendship for long, not with how you noticed Javier had changed. His hair was that warm, dark, chocolate color, his nose finally fit his face, he’d grown stronger and leaner and taller. He’d acquired a different sense of confidence, a different posture and walk. But it was clear: he was still your Javi. The one who stole your book all those years ago.

You’d grown even more beautiful over your time apart, he noticed. You’d become self assured and confident too and it showed. You had a little mean streak, and Javier loved it more than life itself. He got a little weak at the knees when you’d tease him.

He’d become a social outcast, essentially abandoning his place in the social hierarchy that high schools provide. When you knocked on his door a few days later, Chucho answered, slightly confused. “Hello.”

“Hi,” you said, smiling apologetically. “I’m a friend of Javi’s, I’m here to study with him.”

The older man was a mirror of Javier many years from now. He had a strong nose too, and a worn face. It made lines when he’d smiled. “I didn’t know Javi had many friends anymore.”

You shrugged. “Well, I think you’re right. But… I’m here.”

Javi jogged down the stairs, frowning when he saw his father at the door. You came inside and studied and Javier couldn’t help but to beam at you. Studying wasn’t much of studying. As you’d sidetracked the work and started conversing, Javier leaned in as if he was going to kiss you. You stopped him, but kept his face close. “Not now, Javi. I want it to be perfect. But I do want to kiss you.”

He’d panicked when you’d stopped him, but your words reassured him, and he breathed a chuckle. “Sneak out with me tonight.”

You agreed.

12:30 A.M. rolled around. You pocketed a pack of your dad’s cigarettes and a lighter and rode your bike to the pond nearby.

Javier sat there waiting. He was wrapped in a leather jacket, jeans covering his long legs as he sat by the side of the pond. Crickets chirped and birds called and when he looked at you, your heart fell apart in your chest. It never really glued itself back together. Not even to this day.

You sat next to him, and he put an arm around your shoulders. You couldn’t wait any longer, and you leaned in and kissed him and he was absolutely perfect. His soft lips pressed back against yours, those hands buried themselves in your hair. You broke away a second later and both of you grinned at each other. It was only seconds more before he pulled you in for the second kiss you’d ever had in your life.

That night was not only Javier’s first kiss but the first time he smoked a cigarette. You pulled one thin stick from the pack and placed it between his lips, lighting the end.

He was a natural at it, unlike you, who’d tried before and choked and spluttered on the smoke. You were better at it now, able to handle yourself. He breathed in and out and passed it to you, and he looked so effortlessly cool and sexy and beautiful that you didn’t take a drag, you grabbed his face and kissed him again.

You were so many firsts for Javier. His first kiss, his first cigarette, his first fuck. You’d done it in the back of his truck, on a hot night where you parked in a field far from the town and rolled all of the windows down. You finally got to feel his strong body, got to feel his passion for you as he tugged on your lip with his teeth and pushed inside of you. It was sheer bliss for both of you, even if he never made you orgasm that night.

It didn’t take long for the two of you to figure that out. Javier was a natural, his hands wandering and feeling everything your body had to offer until they found just the right spot to make you cry his name into the hot Texas night. You snuck out with him often, smoked and fucked in his house when Chucho was gone, or by that pond.

You talked a lot after. You were the first he opened up to about his mother. He missed her like hell. He told you that he wanted to work in some kind of law enforcement. He thought drug enforcement might suit him. You opened up about your own trauma to him, and he held you as you cried into his body. He’d kissed your forehead and told you he promised that nothing would ever happen to you when he’s around, and it was completely believable because Javier was like some deity to you. He was strong and warm and loving and kind and beautiful and you thought, truly, that he could do no wrong.

He never betrayed that trust either. Javier was a wonderful boyfriend to you in the daylight hours too. You’d study together, go on bike rides or just drive around in his truck. You spent almost every weekend with him. Chucho adored you too, loved your humor and kindness and most of all, your love for his son. Your family didn’t like Javier much, so you simply avoided your house with him.

Javier was so proud when he first pulled up your driveway in his truck soon after you began again. He worked for the Villafañes down the road as a farmhand, a summertime assistant to the aging man who lived there. He saved his earnings all summer and split the cost with Chucho. He’d had it for 8 months and it had been on the verge of the junkyard the entire time.

It was a piece of shit, and you both knew it. It was a deep red, rusty and broken down. The shocks were terrible and made it bounce like a bull in a ring. It didn’t matter, because it was his.

He’d pick you up in that truck and drive all night. The two of you sang along to the radio, then would talk, then make out in the backseat and drive again. You loved Javier, and you admitted it quickly. He said it immediately after you.

People looked at you like you were crazy when you held Javier’s hands in the hall. Wasn’t he a mental case? Who would give up something like he had, and for no apparent reason? You didn’t give a shit, even if your friends told you Javier was no good. They didn’t know him, didn’t know that his middle name was Fernando and he hated it and that his mother’s favorite gem, ruby, was yours too, that Chucho told you Javi wanted to marry you someday or that Javier loved to nudge your neck with his nose after sex, both of you warm with the hot Texan air flowing through his open windows.

You told them they didn’t get it, and they said you were the one who didn’t. You’ve got everything going for you. Why risk it with the nut job?

Javier remained a pariah, an outcast, but you didn’t give a shit. You called out his name in the hall and waved, sat with him at lunch and laughed until you choked on the terrible school meal. You were loud and affectionate, and it brought Javi back from the fringes of high school society he’d been banished to.

Javier worked in fields and barns to earn money, building his muscles. You worked in customer service, building your restraint. Your town had opened a drive-in restaurant a few years before, complete with roller-skating waitresses. Being a skilled skater, you signed up.

It was fun, but a pain in the ass some days. Customer service was rarely enjoyable.

The highlight of the summer after your junior year was Javier pulling up to the restaurant every few days. “Peñita!” You’d squeal and put in an order for just what he always wanted- strawberry milkshake, double patty cheeseburger, large fries.

“Hey, Princesa,” he’d mumble back with a small smile, leaning in for a kiss. He looked like a Texan James Dean, white t-shirt cuffed and worn jeans. His dark hair was gelled back, though much of it fell loose from his long day of hauling crops for Don Villafañe. This coolness was contrasted by his shitty truck, dust caking the windows, and the fact that he was far from blonde now.

You’d fold your arms over his open window and kiss him, tripping over your skates in your excitement. He’d laugh and tease you, and he’d always give you the cherry off the top of his milkshake. You began telling your coworkers to put two cherries on top, so that he could have one too. He still gave both to you.

During your senior year, Javier gave you his class ring. It was large and bulky on your fingers, thinner than his, but it made you beam with pride as you walked through the halls. You’d cried when he gave it to you, promising he’d replace it with a diamond someday. You knew it would never last that long.

Senior year was uneventful. You went to prom with Javier, wearing a peach colored dress. Javier wore his father’s tuxedo with a tie to match your color. The photo was awkward but sweet, the two of you clearly in love. You graduated equally uneventfully, and the two of you spent the night in his truck, out in a field, promising sweet nothings through the sound of skin slapping skin. “Here’s to the class of ‘66,” Javier murmured into your neck.

You had big dreams, and Javier’s were far different. He planned on attending Texas A&M, not far away. You’d earned a fantastic scholarship at a small liberal arts college in Upstate New York. You both knew these things, but Javier seemed determined to make it work. He knew the two of you loved each other; shouldn’t that be enough?

You felt guilty the entire summer. You had anxiety attacks quite a bit, felt that you were leading Javier on. Then, another part of you thought, he must know. He must not believe you could pull off a long distance relationship with only letters and phone calls.

Javier passed the summer blissfully unaware. He was young and in love: he thought there was nothing that could go wrong. You still spent time together, more than you ever had, in fact. Something gnawed away at your insides as the time passed.

On the rare days neither of you worked, you’d find somewhere deserted and sit with your legs dangling from his tailgate. You’d nick liquor and cigarettes from your parents and share them, laughing and talking. Planning a future you knew wouldn’t come.

The day before you left, you spent the day with your boyfriend. You had a picnic dinner, complete with some stolen beers from Chucho’s refrigerator. You sat on a blanket in a nearby field, watching as the afternoon dwindled down to an orange-hazed sky.

As the sun set, tears formed in your eyes. “Javi?” You asked him softly, your voice cracking.

“What is it, princesa?” He returned, pulling you closer into his side. The tall grass swayed around you, and you bit your lip to stop from choking out a sob.

“I love you, Javier. And I always will.” But as you said the words, your actions said otherwise. You removed your class ring from your finger, placing it in his palm. “But, I think… I think we need to be our own people for a while. Maybe someday we’ll meet again. Maybe things will be different, but I’m going to New York and you’re staying here. Fuck, you could be drafted, and I-“

Javier stopped you, pulling away and looking at you in the face. His eyes showed his heartbreak. “I thought we were gonna get married, be together forever.”

You choked out a sob. “Javi, I want to. I do. But I can’t. I can’t live that kind of life.” You wanted to travel, to do things, to live freely and be whoever you wanted. Javier wanted to stay in Laredo and work in law enforcement. The two weren’t compatible.

“There’s nothing stopping you,” he begged, taking your hand in both of his. “Please, I’d move to New York with you, or you could go to A&M with me, please,” he asked, his eyes welling with tears. “You’re the love of my life, baby.”

You couldn’t look at him. The emotion was too much to bear. “Javier,” you whined and pulled your hand from his. “Please don’t make this harder than it has to be.”

His heartbroken stare makes you cry harder into your hands. You stood, ready to find your way to the road and walk home.

Javier caught you by the waist, then removed your hands from your face. “I-I understand. I do. But… kiss me one last time?”

You stared at him, tears staining your face and his cheeks equally damp. You nodded and Javier cupped your face, kissing you slowly and lovingly. It was tender and bittersweet. It was not the way you’d kiss him at the drive-in restaurant or in the back of his truck. It was not the way you’d sneak a kiss goodbye in front of Chucho. It was desperate. You both knew what it meant. Maybe that’s why it lasted so long.

You broke away and pressed your forehead to his before finding the dirt road and beginning the walk home. You needed to finish packing, and was getting dark. You didn’t dare to ask Javier to drive you home. You feared you might change your mind if you were around him a second longer.

Javier never saw you after that. It was partially serendipitous and partially out of effort.

When he returned home on winter break or for Thanksgiving, he contained himself to Chucho’s house, or he’d see one or two friends he still had. That was about it. If he knew you weren’t in town, he’d go out and have a good time. It would all go downhill if you were there, and he knew it, so he resigned himself to long nights with his father.

You wanted to see him again. You drove past his house many times when you were home from New York, seeing the light on in his old room again. Every time, you stopped just a little longer than you should have at the stop sign yards from his house. You contemplated pulling into the driveway and begging him to take you back. It never happened.

Once or twice, you even caught a glimpse of dark-chocolate hair through the front windows of the house. It made your heart stop and your eyes tear up.

You moved out of town when you graduated. You started a career near your college, far from your hometown that was almost considered Laredo. Your wish was fulfilled.

Javier’s was too- well, only partially. He stayed in Laredo. He worked in law enforcement there for a while before he got picked to work with the DEA. It didn’t matter what kind of job he got. He didn’t have you, and that made him miserable.

You’d been the one to save him. Now he didn’t even know if you still had the same last name you did when he slipped his class ring onto your finger, when he murmured your full name and promised one day that he’d get you a gorgeous ruby and diamond band instead of that class ring and he’d change that last name to Peña.

Javier got a new truck recently. It’s nice. The first car he ever bought that wasn’t used, actually. It’s a deep red, the same color of his first car. Ruby, he named it.

He thinks about you all the goddamn time. Nothing could change that, not time or hookups. He sighs as he thinks about the years since you’ve seen him, while he drives around in the pouring rain. Why? How?

He never slept around in college, too lovesick and still hoping you’d call and want to meet with him, would want to rekindle what you’d had.

He forced himself to get moving after that. He had a few girlfriends when he worked for the Webb County Sheriff's Office. He even got serious with one.

Lorraine was beautiful and kind and funny. He loved the way she’d shotgun a beer and then kiss him, her lips tasting of the fermented liquid. She was a good time, a great partier. He asked her out and things went well, he supposed.

She wanted different things from Javier. He’d been starting to grow restless, wanting to leave Laredo. Lorraine, however, wanted to settle down. She wanted the whole thing: a big ranch-style, a fireplace in the living room, four or five babies with Javier’s brown eyes, running around and laughing.

As much as he wanted it, he couldn’t. He nodded along and played the game, telling her that he’d do that for her. He’d provide for her and give her all the kids he wanted. He’d be a good father and a great husband and everything would be good.

It was more to himself that he said those things. He wanted to believe they were true, really, but he had the feeling you’d had years ago. He wanted her, wanted such a calming life, but at the same time, he didn’t want it. He wanted to get out and do things and feared being fenced in.

He proposed to Lorraine. Got her a nice diamond ring and everything. She’d cried and kissed him and he’d forced himself to smile but it wasn’t genuine. At least she didn’t know that.

The wedding was planned. It was going to be a grand affair for the town, nearly everyone invited. Everyone was like family to the members of the town. Lorraine got an expensive, fluffy white dress and Javier bought a tuxedo.

The ceremony was supposed to start at 5:00. Everyone sat patiently as the clock ticked past it. They didn’t know a thing. They didn’t know Lorraine was pacing the church basement, her heart clenched in fear. No one had seen Javier. Not even the groomsmen.

Then it became 5:10, 5:30. At 5:45, Lorraine’s mother began to quietly tell the church that the ceremony wouldn’t be happening today. The disgruntled attendees left, wondering what happened.

Javier had ran. He drove out of Laredo, straight for Dallas. He wanted out. He’d left early in the morning, not even saying goodbye to his father. He was already on a plane to Washington D.C. when the bride realized she was no longer getting married today.

He got a job working for the DEA. They’d offered him one a few months ago, but he’d declined. He wanted to stay in Laredo with Lorraine, he’d bluffed. Things hit the fan when he began training for the new job.

He fucked every woman in sight. He didn’t care who they were: if they wanted him, he wanted them. He never stopped smoking, developed a love and almost dependence on whiskey. When he went to Colombia, he paid for his first ever escort.

It was what he deserved, he told himself. The one woman he’d ever loved left him. He had left the one person who ever gave a shit about him. Ruined her life and left her with a sense of anxiety whenever she was in that church’s basement as she remembered.

He doesn’t deserve attachment. He doesn’t deserve someone caring for him. That’s why he sleeps around. That’s why he’s left so many lovers in the dust.

Stop thinking about that, Javier tells himself. He whips a U-turn, opening the window and hanging a hand out of it. It forces himself to return to reality, to get out of his goddamn head and to not crash this new truck. The rain pelts his skin and he frowns. It never rains around Laredo, and it’s the one night he’s in town.

He pulls into the old drive-in restaurant, thinking back to the happy days. He can still see your baby-faced grin as you skated over to him, long legs pushing you along. He could nearly taste the strawberry milkshake on his tongue. It’s closed for the night, since it’s in the early hours of the morning now.

He jumps as a car pulls into the spot next to him. He looks down, knowing that whoever it is will likely recognize him. Everyone recognizes him around here. He’s not in the mood to talk.

“They’re closed,” a voice calls out from the other car, and Javier’s heart stops. He’d know that voice anywhere, even if it spoke a different language.

He looks up and his eyes meet yours for the first time in twenty years. They’re still just as beautiful, still glimmering. “Peñita,” you breathe out as it clicks in your mind.

He’s aged beautifully. His dark hair is neatly pushed back, though it’s a little shorter than he used to keep it. His face has lines now, heavy from the stress of his job. His eyes look weary and tired.

You get out of your car. Javier does the same. You look at him, standing there, with a new truck that’s the same color of his very first piece of shit pickup. “Nice truck,” you comment.

He smiles softly. “Thanks. It’s new.”

You walk around the front of your car, eyes wide in disbelief. There’s hurt on his face and you know you’re the cause of it. “Javier… I missed you.”

He looks down at you, now standing right in front of him. “I missed you more.”

You throw your arms around him and hug him tight. Your eyes water with tears as you squeeze him, wishing this moment would never end. He hugs you back, those arms still strong and protective.

He presses a soft kiss to your head. He mutters his nickname for you quietly. His voice is different now, huskier and deeper. It’s a beautiful sound. His lips are buried in your hair but you can hear it all the same. “Princesa.”

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manonblaqkbeak · 3 years ago

Text

Everything Will Be Okay

Hello, hello. Hope you’re all having a good weekend. Here I am again with yet another Rowaelin fanfic (what a surprise lol). It’s on my ao3 under the name of novicewriter94.

“With their eldest child being eight and the anniversary of Aelin's parents death coming up, Aelin is worried that history will repeat itself. Rowan tells her that everything will be okay, and that they will spend the night as a family. “

2102 words

Sitting on the edge of her bed, Aelin was about five seconds away from setting the stupid shoe on fire. At twenty weeks pregnant with her forth child, Aelin's feet were well and truly swollen. She tried one more time to get the rutting shoe on her foot, failed spectacularly, and threw it at the closest door just as Rowan came out of it.

Her mate merely blinked and picked up the offending shoe, glanced at it and left it in the closet and crouched in front of her, taking her tender foot in his warm hand and began to message it gently. It was a familiar and welcome sight, but right now Aelin was too grouchy to appreciate it.

After long minutes, however, Aelin sighed as the tension in her feet faded away as did her grouchiness. When he was done, Rowan placed her slippers back onto her feet. “I have to go to a meeting with a Melisande adviser, I can't go wearing slippers,” Aelin told him. Although that meeting was the last thing she wanted to go too. She had been exhausted this last week and right now all she wanted was to go to sleep.

“You're four months pregnant and the Queen, I think you can wear slippers wherever and whenever you want,” Rowan said casually.

“Well, when you put it like that,” Aelin said, a small smile on her face.

Glancing at his wife, Rowan's eyes were open and understanding and he took her hands in his own, running his thumbs against her knuckles soothingly. “I know that the anniversary of your parents death is coming up,” he started to say and Aelin tensed up again. “But nothing will happen.”

“You don't know that.”

“No, I don't, but I'm confident that nothing will happen.”

After a moment, Aelin said, “Elentiya is eight, Rowan.”

“I know.”

“She's eight years old,” Aelin said, “and she's scared of worms, Rowan. She loves gardening, but hates worms. She nearly punctured my ear drums last week when one touched her. I was placed in Arobynn's hands at eight and Elentiya is just the complete opposite of me at that age.” Not that she resented her daughter for that, not at all, but just thinking of how different their lives were at that age just hurt like hell.

At eight, Aelin's whole life changed—and Aelin was terrified of the same thing happening to her family. Everything in Erilea was perfectly fine, she knew that, but Aelin could not shake this dreadful feeling that something was going to happen.

“Nothing will happen,” Rowan promised again. Removing his hands from hers, he placed them on her belly, their baby kicking. Another small smile graced Aelin's face at the movement and Rowan moved forward to kiss her stomach.

Pulling back, he gave her a smile and told her the one thing that would calm her frantic thoughts. “For our forth child, I see a fine-boned daughter with silver hair and clear blue eyes.”

A wide smile broke out on Aelin's face. “Another girl?” Rowan nodded. “I don't mind either way, but I would really like another girl.”

Rowan kissed her stomach again. “I'm sure Elentiya will be excited, she was complaining the other day how about her brothers 'stink'.”

Aelin's answering laugh made Rowan smile, happy that he could help her in any way.

When Aelin's laugh faded, she kissed Rowan's cheek. “You still haven't told me how you know what our babies look like.” Each pregnancy, he told her what he envisioned—and each time he was correct.

At first, Aelin thought it was just strangely accurate guesswork when Elentiya arrived with her golden hair and pine green eyes, she was too ecstatic about her arrival to think much about it, and when she gave birth to Norrin and his silver hair and Ashryver eyes shined brightly in the early afternoon sun, she did wonder but again was far too ecstatic to question it too much. However, when she gave birth to their third child, Alder, and he came out with Rowan's silver hair and pine-green eyes, she knew that there was more to it then guesswork.

Rowan gave her a bright smile, the one that crinkled his eyes. It was one of her favourites. “It's a secret.”

Aelin rolled her eyes, but didn't say anything about keeping secrets from her, considering that she used to do the same thing—not anymore, however, but still.

Aelin did feel a little better, but her dread didn't disappear completely. Rowan knew that too and kissed her lightly on the lips. “On that night, we'll have the kids with us, and they'll keep you distracted with all their stories and terrible, never-ending jokes—”

“Their jokes aren't that bad,” Aelin interrupted.

“They are, and I love that about them,” Rowan finished. “And you'll be too distracted to let those thoughts through.”

“Will there be cake?”

His smile brightened even more. “Of course.”

Aelin smiled and kissed him, knowing that everything would be okay, even though the feeling of dread still lingered. She would not be afraid. She would tell herself that each day until the anniversary passed.

X X X X X X

The day of her parents death arrived and Aelin had been on edge all day. She didn't go to any meetings, instead she spent most of the day in the library that Rowan gifted her years ago with Alder. Her current youngest child was two but would be a little over three by the time that his newest sibling would arrive.

Tucked away on a window seat, Aelin read aloud to him. He was her little bookworm, he loved books and often wanted to go to the library. Her son would often ask Aelin to read to him and not just the children's books, but history, mathematics, poetry, the arts, anything. She knew that when his reading skills grew more that he would always have a book in his hands.

Aelin finally left the library in the afternoon, Alder on her hip with a thick history tome that he wanted her to read to him in her other arm, eager to see his Uncle Aedion. Her cousin had arrived (for “no apparent reason” which she knew was bullshit) to stay here for a few days, so she left to get ready for an early dinner with him, listening as Alder babbled on about his favourite parts of the stories she read him, how he couldn't wait to see his Uncle, with Aelin listening with rapt attention.

Aelin found Rowan walking to the library and took Alder from her when their youngest stretched his arms out for his father to carry him, saying that he would bathe him and for Aelin to enjoy a nice, quiet bath before dinner. Linking her arm with Rowan's, Aelin thought of which tonics she would use for her hair for tonight, Aelin truly was happy that Aedion was here, shit excuse and all.

X X X X X X

After bathing Norrin and Alder, Aedion arrived at Elentiya's room and Rowan's heart swelled at how excited all his children were to see their uncle, but when Aedion started towards his and Aelin's chambers to have dinner on their balcony, Elentiya stayed behind, a curious look in her pine-green eyes.

Rowan tucked a stray hair behind her pointed ear and before he could ask if she was okay, she surprised him by saying: “Mama's been sad all week.”

“She has.” Elentiya was more observant than most eight year old's should be, her observation skills reminded him of Elide's.

“Is it because of her mama and papa, because they're dead?” Rowan remembered clearly the day that Aelin had to tell Elentiya why she had no grandparents, how that even though her parents were gone, Evalin and Rhoe loved Elentiya wherever they were. That Rowan's parents loved her, too.

The how and why Aelin's parents were dead was not known to any of their children, not yet.

“It is. They've been gone for a long time as you know, but she still misses them dearly. She was your age when they passed,” Rowan told his oldest. “So tonight, she'll be a little sad, and will probably smother you with all her hugs and kisses.”

“That's okay, I like mama's hugs and kisses.”

Rowan smiled. “Good, because you're probably going to get a years worth tonight.”

Elentiya surprised him even more when she raised her arms, silently asking him to carry her. She had stopped when she was six and a half, claiming that she “wasn't a baby anymore” and that she no longer wanted to be carried.

So with a full heart, Rowan lifted her up, his firstborn tucking her head into the crook of his neck. Planting a soft kiss on her forehead, Rowan went to his chambers and tucked Elentiya closer to him.

X X X X X X

Elentiya-Fenrys, Norrin, and Alder got more than a years worth of hugs and kisses, and Aelin still had plenty to give them as they all snuggled in for the night, the quilt and blankets tucked up high against them. Rowan stayed atop of the bedding, dressed in leather armour, ready to stand immediately in case of action. He knew nothing would occur, but his plan tonight involved staying awake to keep a watchful eye on everything.

The kids had spent the night drawing, playing Aelin's pianoforte (a little badly, if Aelin and Rowan were being honest, but they had fun, and that was all that mattered), dancing around, singing (again, a little badly), playing at hand shadows, playing whatever games they made up on the spot. An argument had broken out between Elentiya and Norrin about who Uncle Aedion loved more (Aelin had to tell them about half a dozen times that he loved them equally before they finally decided to listen). It certainly was a loud night—but he knew that it worked; he did not see any fear in his Fireheart's eyes.

Elentiya was cuddled against Aelin's right side, her head tucked underneath Aelin's chin. Alder on Aelin's left, with Norrin cuddling him, his shaggy silver hair sprawled on Aelin's bare arm. His wife's arms were wrapped around them. Their children talked to Aelin's swollen belly, all three excited to meet their newest sibling—with each of them giving name options.

And Norrin provided the perfect distraction when he asked his mother how babies ended up in women's bellies. Aelin turned to Rowan for that, a coy smile on her lips as she innocently asked Rowan if he knew the answer to their son's question, claiming that the details were a “little foggy”.

Truthfully, Rowan wasn't expecting to be asked that question for many years. Aelin looked ready to start laughing as Rowan took a minute too long to respond. Eventually, he gave a basic answer without giving too much away—and without the sordid details.

Since none of their children looked scarred from his answer, he supposed that he was successful—until the time to give a proper answer arrived.

But now it was time for bed and as Aelin lowered the flames in the hearth, Rowan reached over and kissed his children on the forehead goodnight, telling each one that he loved them very much. He kissed Aelin on the lips, promising him that she would see him in the morning and that he loved her, to whatever end. He kissed away the few tears that fell, the first of the night, telling her that everything would be okay. Kissing her once more, and pressing a kiss to her covered belly, he wished her a goodnight and Aelin finally closed her eyes and tucked their children impossibly closer.

Soon, her snoring filled the room and Rowan sat up straight and did not leave their rooms for anything.

X X X X X X

When the sun rose on the new day, Rowan gently woke Aelin up and as she saw that all of them were unharmed, she smiled brightly, even as tears filled her eyes.

Aelin kissed Rowan fiercely, her happiness a song in her blood.

She kissed their children awake, even as they grumbled at the rude interruption, and when Elentiya asked if they could have hot chocolate for breakfast, Aelin promised a mountain's worth of the drink.

Neither Aelin or Rowan attended their royal duties for the day, and instead spent the day with their children, and invited Aedion along, since he would be leaving the next day. Aelin's eyes were bright and full of love.

#rowaelin #rowaelin fanfiction #rowaelin fanfic

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frevandrest · 4 years ago

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Everything Wrong with Saint-Just's Introductory Scene in La Révolution française (1989)

As promised, here is an analysis of Saint-Just’s first scene from La Révolution française (1989). You can watch the scene (with English subtitles) here. It sadly misses the dramatic entrance part, but everything else is there. SPOILER: This analysis will not, in fact, cover everything wrong because there’s so much trash you can’t adequately address it in only 1000 words.

In the scene, we see a young man with that hair rushing down the steps of the Convention (in what will be his signature dramatic! style). He pushes people way without even looking at them. There is someone at the rostrum, and many people wait to address the Convention. Saint-Just doesn’t give a fuck. “I demand to speak.” Some deputies murmur a weak protest, but they are shit out of luck because it’s time to introduce a new character, and we need to know what a jerk he is. So of course he’s granted the word.

At first, nobody pays attention, but “just like you, I would die for this Republic”, seems to work. He delivers the speech (which contains maybe two lines from the actual one), and by the end, Marat claps, the Convention claps, Danton and Girondins are suspicious; Robespierre is in love. Camille, oh Camille, does he know he’s just been replaced? Saint-Just pouts slightly (my interpretation) but doesn’t show much emotion. Next scene: Louis receives news that he’s being put on trial. Good job, new boy.

As first scenes go, this is a good introduction to Saint-Just as depicted in the film. But it’s also very wrong for SJ as a historical personality (what we know of him). Which sucks, because it’s not like it’s impossible to make an unsympathetic yet historically accurate SJ, if one wants to go that route. See, Saint-Just in La Révolution française is a prop; he’s not a character with his own complexities, goals or motivations. He is just there to be pretty and evil, and to take Robespierre away from Camille.

So, why is this introduction wrong?

Let us remember that this was Saint-Just’s very first speech at the Convention. He got elected days after his 25th birthday; he was the youngest out there. Also, even with Robespierre’s support (that some claim he already enjoyed), he was an unknown; a peasant provincial from Picardie barely out of his adolescence. He wanted to prove himself and demonstrate that he was a worthy representative. Being rude and pushing people away is not really a good way to achieve that.

Here’s the thing about Saint-Just: despite all stereotypes of the contrary, he respected authority. However, he only respected authority that he felt deserved to be respected. In 1792, “monarchy” was not it. But National Convention? Revolutionary government? Of course he respected it. He fought so much to get there, and he respected the place he was given.

Throwing his weight around, pushing people away, demanding to speak when someone else is at the rostrum, disobeying order... It was really not Saint-Just. He hated commotion and fights that happened so often at the Jacobin club. Even on 9 Thermidor, when Tallien interrupted him and shit hit the fan, he continued to attempt to deliver the speech. They pushed him, and he kept trying to speak, without, I don’t know, punching someone in the face (La Révolution française Saint-Just totally would, which is, admittedly, one of the many, many many reasons why it sucks that they shortened and condensed Thermidor).

The film uses “blame Saint-Just for Robespierre’s turn to darkness” approach. SJ is there to encourage Robespierre into cruelty and cold violence, and, if Robespierre starts to doubt even for a moment, to reassure him that yes, this is how things should be done, you are right Max, let’s kill them all, but particularly Camille; I can’t stand that guy for having you first ridiculing my poetry (wait... SJ’s poetry wasn’t in the film. Why does he hate Camille, again?) Who knows. The only explanation the film provides is that Camille is Good and Saint-Just is Evil, so of course he’d want to get rid of him.

Now, let us see about the speech itself.

The Speech

The speech Saint-Just delivers in the film contains maybe a few lines from the actual speech (notably: “this man should reign, or die”). I don’t have a problem with them not replicating the speech word for word because it followed on what other deputies talked about (which we didn’t hear)*, and because nobody has time for Antoine’s ramblings about antiquity. (And it would take around 10 minutes to act, which would probably provide us with more glorious shots of Robespierre falling in love being impressed, but it would take too much of the running time. I get that.)

So, in theory, I am fine with shortening the speech and paraphrasing, as long as the meaning and content is there. Which... it did on a surface level while also missing the point substantially.

*Not showing SJ addressing what others said before him was understandable (condensing runtime), but it’s another thing that made it seem like he didn’t listen nor paid attention what others were doing. Also, it’s a missed opportunity to characterize him as a jerk full of himself, since his real speech basically opened with: “all that the previous guy said is bullshit, and here’s why”.

Speech in the film: I would die for the Republic and I would fight the enemies of the Republic. We all know the name of the enemy, and I, like none here, am ready to fight against this enemy. Louis is a symbol of traitors among us. We should not hesitate; the king is an usurper.

In short, speech in the film is, kind of, less about Louis and more about what SJ will be important later: his own sense of revolutionary righteousness and for weeding out “traitors” from the Convention.

Another issue with the speech is that it wasn’t just about the speech - it was part of Saint-Just’s introductory scene, so we had to learn about his character through the speech. In the film, SJ is rude, cruel and cares only about... well, we are not sure, because there are no motivations whatsoever, but he is there to push Max when something bad needs to be done. I feel that his rudeness during the introductory scene and the way the speech was delivered fulfil this purpose nicely. However, I am not sure that we actually understand what Saint-Just’s speech was about, except vague “we must kill the king” vibe.

The Aftermath

The scene following Saint-Just’s speech is that of Louis, a doting father, reading a book to his son. Men come and rudely tell him to send the child away. He is to be put on trial. The implication? Saint-Just’s speech won the crowd over and they decided to kill Louis, or at least put him on trial.

In reality, while Saint-Just’s speech was highly noticed (his real-life dramatic entrance into Convention), the deputies did NOT listen to him. The whole point of the speech was that Louis should not be put on trial - trials are for the citizens, which he is not. Louis’ crime is not treason - the monarchy is a crime in itself. Saint-Just argued against the trial. Yes, his speech was highly influential but presenting it in this way puts way too much weight on this newcomer’s words and implies he was the key factor behind the trial.

Other Observations

- There is a long debate among historians whether Robespierre was present for Saint-Just’s first speech on 13 November 1792. (I think the conclusion is “probably not”.) But I don’t mind this change, if nothing else, for those glorious shots of Robespierre’s heart eyes and Camille’s “wtf did this guy come from and why is Max looking at him like that?”

- Marat. It is true that he generally praised Saint-Just as an orator, but he disagreed with this speech (Marat was for trial).

- The reason why this post is dedicated to SJ’s first scene is because I was asked/challenged to write about it. It doesn’t mean that his other scenes were any better (I’d say they were worse). In fact, the entire SJ’s character was a Thermidorized mess.

- That being said, I don’t hate this SJ. I cannot; LRF was my introduction to the whole Frev thing and will always have a special place. Christopher Thompson was ok, particularly in some aspects of SJ. However, the whole thing was a mess and it should be criticized.

- Hair. I promised to dedicate one full paragraph to SJ’s hair, but I... can’t. I simply cannot. I am sorry. I tried, but the words failed me.

- This was more fun that it should have been and there are so many things I didn’t get to say (the entire performance and what this scene means for SJ as a character in the film, a more detailed analysis of the speech and comparison with the real one, etc.) But it did show that I can still vomit write 1000+ words about anything that I have any interest in, which is... good to know, I guess? (Let’s just say that I won’t be winning any SJ contest prizes for laconicism).

#la revolution francaise #saint-just #french revolution #frev #saint just #movies

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onebatch2batch · 3 years ago

Note

Heyo, dialogue prompts: 14 or 30? 😊

HI THIS WAS FROM FOREVER AGO BUUUUUT that's my m.o. so here we are. Hope you like it!!

And no, I'm never going to stop writing different versions of Frank and Karen getting together, you can't make me :)

14. “You’re never going to let that go, are you?”

Frank can practically hear David scheming, and he’s proven right when an anthropomorphic mop of hair bends into his line of sight and he says, “Hey, remember in the bunker, when we were still on the run?”

They’re both standing in David’s front yard. Frank’s van is in need of an oil change and a replacement filter and since he’s not keen on anyone else working on his getaway vehicle, he called up David to request use of his paved, suburban driveway. It’s been a few weeks since he’s managed to get over here, and David had instantly agreed on the condition that Frank stay for dinner. It’s a beautiful summer day, even if it’s a little hot, and he’s feeling a little off-kilter from the sounds of children playing all around. It’s so painfully normal that for a moment he’d regretted asking, and then David had offered him a drink. The taller computer genius doesn’t know shit about cars, so he’s alternating between fetching more beers and talking Frank’s ear off. It’s been about an hour now, and Frank has slowly relaxed into the background noise.

“Yeah,” Frank responds dryly around the flashlight between his teeth. He’s elbow deep in grease and not really interested in where this line of questioning is going to go, but David has other ideas.

“Uh huh. You know, when you got yourself on the news after that kid held Karen hostage?”

If Frank is affected by the name, all David notices is a sharp glance. “Yeah.”

“And how you freaked out and begged for my help and said she was family?”

Frank straightens and sets the flashlight down on the bumper of the car. “You got a point, Lieberman? I’m busy.”

“Yeah, I have a point. Was that all just bullshit, or what?”

They stare at each other. Frank’s jaw ticks.

“...what.”

“Thought so.”

“No, what?”

“Well you made this huge declaration and then almost got yourself killed trying to rescue her so--”

“God damn it, Lieberman, you’re never going to let that go, are you--”

David shakes his head, exasperated. “I mean, we haven’t even gotten to meet her yet and it’s been six months since Madini used her government wiles to give you a new identity--”

Frank scowls. “It’s none of your--”

The other man cuts him off quickly, hands up. To Frank’s immense displeasure, the other man looks less cowed and more placating. “I’m just saying, invite her to dinner next week. What harm is there? Maybe something good might happen to you for once, god forbid.” His friend stares him down, using every couple of inches of height to try and look intimidating. Of course it doesn’t work, but Frank is too busy thinking about having a family dinner with Karen, with his friends, like a normal person. Like a couple. He realizes too slow that David is leering at him, pleased.

“David, shut the hell up.”

“You’re blushing. Is that a yes? I’ll tell Sarah.”

Karen doesn’t question it when Frank calls her up after half a year of radio silence. She asks if it's a casual dress dinner and what kind of wine to bring, and then announces she’s got to go and she’ll see him Friday at six sharp.

He doesn’t know if that’s better or worse than her just telling him to shove it.

Friday creeps up on him, and by the time he parks outside of her apartment it hasn’t really sunk in that he’s about to take Karen Page to a domestic dinner in the suburbs. Because it’s definitely not a date, even though it kind of is. It’s the stuff he used to do with Maria and the kids all the time when he was on leave; double dates and cook outs and all that crap. He’s rusty as hell and usually shit company, but they keep asking him back. And now, he’s throwing Karen into the mix.

It’s a feeling similar to being shot in the head and waking up in a hospital room. Disorienting and uncomfortable as hell.

He picks her up in the van, leaning against the side of it as he waits. The Lieberman’s neighborhood is outside the city, about a twenty minute drive. It’s going to give them plenty of time to talk, and he’d barely restrained himself from looking up conversation starters online before leaving his place. He doubts there’s any suggestions for a vigilante-cum-construction worker who’s picking up a date he’s spoken a handful of words to for the first time in six months. He’s just considering cancelling the whole thing when the door to her building opens and she steps out.

He’s seen Karen a lot of ways. He’s seen her in pencil skirts and heels and blouses, in tshirt and jeans, bruised and bloody. He’s never seen her in a sundress with her pinked shoulders bare to the world and strappy sandals on her feet. Her hair is in a long braid over her shoulder. She looks fucking resplendant. Absolutely divine. Fucking poetry in motion.

He’s fucked.

“Hi,” she greets, coming to a stop in front of him. She’s got a bottle of wine in her hands. Her eyes punch little, individual question marks into his skin when she searches his face.

“Hey.” He inhales, bracing for her reaction. His throat closes up when he gets a whiff of her perfume. So familiar from the handful of times he’s been close enough to smell it--something soft and floral, something that makes his head swim. He thinks back to that moment so many months ago, swaying together in the elevator, her skin against his, her perfume subtle under the metallic tang of blood.

Karen doesn’t immediately go for interrogating him. She only lifts the bottle in her hand. “I brought a white, is that okay?”

Wary relief loosens the knot at the top of his spine. He nods, pushing off the car to open her door. “Sure.”

When Karen climbs in, carefully arranging her skirt around her, the dark interior contrasting with the soft yellow of her dress, Frank thinks about a conversation with Curtis all those months ago. Wonders when the kick is coming.

They spend the first ten minutes looking out separate windows and listening to the radio. After that, Karen starts talking like she’s made her mind up about the evening is going to go. She asks him how he’s been, if he’s gotten a job, how Dinah is, what the Liebermans are like. Nothing is accusatory. They could be old friends passing one another on the street, the way she’s talking. Almost like she’s talking to a scared dog. Coaxing it out of a corner.

Guess he deserves that.

By the time he pulls onto the appropriate street, it almost feels normal. They’ve fallen into a familiar back and forth that’s easy to keep up with, and when he opens her door she gives him a small grateful smile, accepting his hand on the way down.

He’s not disappointed when she lets go to straighten the fabric of her dress. He’s not.

As always, the Lieberman household is an explosion of domesticity. There’s shoes on the stairs, a sweet smelling candle burning on the coffee table, toys and books strewn over the floor. Pictures line the walls. When Frank knocks on the door, Zach opens it like he’s been waiting for them.

“ Hi, Pete!” he greets excitedly, and then his eyes land on Karen. “Who’s that?”

“Hello, I’m Karen Page.” She crouches down to look him in the eye and smiles. “You must be Zach, right?”

He flushes, twisting his fingers nervously. “Yeah. Are you Pete’s girlfriend?”

They’re saved from answering by a sudden, high pitched shriek. “Frank!!”

Karen manages to stand out of the way just in time for Leo to come barrelling down the stairs directly into Frank, hugging him tightly around the middle.

“Frank, Dad says you were here Saturday but you were gone before I left Ann’s house!!” she pulls away and waves a book at him. “I’m reading the book you told me about!”

He grins down at her. “I waited around for ya, but your mom said you wouldn’t be home until later. How’s the book, huh?”

She scrunches her nose. “I don’t know yet. I’ll let you know. Are you Karen?”

Karen laughs. “I sure am. Leo, right?”

“That’s me. Come on, my mom is in the kitchen.” She nudges Zach and then four of them head into the other room. Sarah Lieberman is standing behind the kitchen counter, chopping up a head of lettuce. When they walk in, she beams at them.

“Hey guys, welcome! Hang on, let me finish this. Pete, David’s out in the garage trying to fix the sprinklers. Can you--?”

Frank rolls his eyes. “Say no more.”

He lifts his brows at Karen, but she gives him a jerk of her head. Frank huffs and stalks off after kissing Sarah on the cheek, Leo trailing after him talking about sprinkler systems and tools. Zach joins his mother behind the counter and peers at Karen curiously. She sets the bottle of wine down.

“So Karen!” Sarah exclaims, dumping the lettuce into a bowl. “Let’s get you a glass of wine and chat. How’s that sound?”

They end up on the patio furniture. After completing the salad and sides, Sarah turns on the grill and then ushers them to the corner of the patio, refilling their glasses.

“So,” she starts, and peers at Karen over the rim of her glass. “I’m going to be forward, but I get the feeling you’ll appreciate that. What’s the deal with you and Pete? Sorry--habit. Frank.”

Karen could have guessed this was coming, even if she expected a little more subtlety. And Sarah’s right, she appreciates the bluntness. It gives her a chance to answer in kind.

“I don’t know.” She runs a finger over the rim of her glass, frowning. “I haven’t--we haven’t spoken in...a while. Six months, actually. And the last time I saw him..well, it didn’t go as well as I’d hoped. I thought I scared him off, actually.”

“How so?”

And the story falls out of her mouth, in pieces. She hasn’t spoken to anyone about Frank, about her feelings for him--the good or bad--or about that afternoon in the hospital. “--and I thought...I thought maybe he would finally kiss me.” She runs a hand through her hair, frustrated. “And then he pulled that I’m not a hero bullshit and that’s the last I saw of him. Until he called this week.”

Sarah rolls her eyes. “That sounds like him. Honey, did you know when we first met he was gathering information on David?”

“Ah, yes. I was the one who found David for him.” She grimaces. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be! We’re lucky he came looking. Without him…” she shrugs. “I would still be a widow. And my kids still wouldn’t have their father. I’m just trying to say he may do things backwards, but he ends up doing things for the right reasons. Even if it takes him time to figure that out.”

Dinner goes well. Dinner goes really, really well. Not that Frank was worried--there isn’t a person alive who can sit down with Karen Page and at the very least admire her. The Liebermans fall in love with her immediately. The kids demand that she stay for a board game after dinner. Leo brags about her science project. Zach shyly asks if Karen likes football. Sarah drills her with questions about her job. David keeps her laughing while stupid jokes and send Frank knowing glances throughout dinner that makes Frank want to throw peas at him.

Karen is charming, sweet, and great with the kids. She gets along with David and Sarah, and sends him warm, unsure smiles until dessert.

They play Apples to Apples, and the kids decimate. Karen is a close third. Frank loses terribly, but he’s still busy ruminating over the warm feeling in his chest at the cacophony of noise that surrounds him as everyone submits to another peal of laughter to notice.

“Frank,” Leo says innocently once they’ve put the board game away and Sarah has told the kids it’s time for bed. She stands in the doorway to the kitchen and looks at him sternly, hands on her hips. “Please bring Karen around more. It’s not fair that you get to hog her and we’ve just met.”

“Leo, that’s Miss Page to you.” Sarah tries for sharpness but ends up laughing. “Off to bed. Don’t forget to brush your teeth.”

“Bye Miss Page!” the kids chorus, and then it’s just the adults.

“Great kids,” Karen laughs. “Smart, too. You’re in trouble.”

Sarah sighs and pats her husband’s cheek fondly. “Yeah, we know. Somehow both of them got his brain.”

David chuckles, turns quickly to press a kiss to his wife’s palm. “At least they didn’t get my hair,” he jokes.

Karen sneaks a glance at Frank, then quickly looks away. He catches it, just briefly, as does David.

“Sarah, we should probably make sure the kids are actually brushing their teeth. I’ll tackle Leo if you tackle Zach, tag team it? We’ll be right back, guys.”

It’s quiet in the kitchen after that. Karen takes a sip of her wine and taps her fingers. There’s something on her mind, he can tell. When she doesn’t say anything he leans forward to capture her gaze. “What is it?”

“Why now, Frank?” Karen asks.

The conversation he’s been dreading. A feeling of shame bubbles up so suddenly it nearly knocks him off his chair. He scratches his neck for no reason other than to expel the nervous energy building in him.

“I didn’t want to…” There’s no use pretending like they’re talking about something else, not when she’s staring at him like that. Like she's been waiting all night for this conversation while he’s been tricking himself into thinking it may not happen. His finger dances restlessly on the table top. “I didn’t want to get you sucked back in.”

“Into what?” She arches a brow. “You?”

“Me. My life. My goddamn baggage. I know you deserve better than me.” He clears his throat. “So I wanted you to have a chance to live your life without my ghosts hanging around.”

“Frank Castle,” Karen sighs, exasperated, “please don’t tell me you’re making decisions for me. And that still doesn’t answer my question--why now?”

His expression tightens. “C’mon Karen. I’m just tryin’ to keep you safe--”

“How many times do I have to tell you--”

“As many as it ta--”

“Frank--” David steps into the kitchen, Sarah in tow. They pause, looking between the two people seated at the table awkwardly. “Oh, are we interrupting something?”

“No, David. Thank you both for tonight. I think I should be going.” Karen stands and looks at Frank. “I have loved you for two years, Frank. No amount of avoiding me or trying to protect me is going to change that. Excuse me.”

And then she walks away.

He catches up to her just down the street. As soon as he sees that familiar head of blond hair he pulls the van over and hops out, jogging to catch up. Karen glances at him and then pauses, as if waiting for something.

“Let me drive you home,” he asks. “Please.”

He doesn’t take her home straight away; she doesn’t ask. Frank drives until he finds a spot overlooking the water. The heat has finally broken and a cool breeze comes in through the open window, stirring Karen’s hair. He shuts off the engine. They sit in silence while he tries to decide what to say.

“I guess I should start by apologizing,” he says finally, tapping the steering wheel. He’s past nervous, he just wants to fix his own screw up. “I’m sorry, Karen. I don’t want to make any decisions for you. I should have--I should have talked to you about it. I should have started this conversation a long time ago.”

“So, start it.” She’s watching him, waiting. There’s a tense expression on her face--like she’s either trying not to cry, or trying not to smile. Or tell him off. He’s not sure which, yet.

Frank clears his throat. “Okay. Uh. I’m not gonna make excuses, I’m just gonna tell you what I know. I know that I have done some shit, and I’m going to continue doing that shit. I’m not ever gonna be normal. I know that you’re smart as hell, and you check me, and you’re a fucking force of nature. I know that I have been telling myself that you deserve more than some--fuckin’ vigilante who wakes up to nightmares more than he doesn’t. I know you deserve to be safe and happy. You deserve more than I can give you. But uh,” he takes her hand cautiously, waits for her to pull away, relaxes when she doesn’t, “...I wanna try.”

“You gotta mean it, Frank,” she says, voice watery. “You better fucking mean it.”

“I mean it. I swear to Christ, I mean it.”

She pulls her hand away and for a millisecond, he thinks he’s said something wrong. Then she’s unbuckling her seat belt and clamoring over the armrest into his lap. It’s not the most majestic first kiss he’s ever had (of which there are few) but her breath is hot on his lips and her fingernails scrape gently over his scalp as if entreating him closer. Frank makes a low groan that he hasn’t heard from himself in a long time--too long--and then Karen shifts and his breath catches in his throat. The heat of her, all wrapped up in his arms, her hair falling over one shoulder as she peppers his mouth, his cheeks, his jaw with the tiniest of kisses.

He could have ruined this without even knowing. He almost ruined it before it even happened.

“I do want you, you know,” Karen murmurs against the skin of his jaw, fingers grasping his shirt. “All of you.”

“I know.”

“Does that scare you?”

He pushes gently until he can look her in the eyes. “A little,” he admits. “I don’t wanna fuck this up.”

“You’re doing okay so far,” she says, smiling. “Now that you’ve pulled your self-deprecating head out of your ass.”

“Took me long enough.” He cradles the back of her head in one hand, drawing her closer until their lips meet again. They’re both uncomfortable at the weird angle but it’s not until the horn beeps once, gaining the attention of a woman walking her dog, that Karen reluctantly returns to her seat.

They work to catch their breaths, watching the water.

“The Liebermans aren’t upset I left so--...abruptly, right?”

“Nah,” Frank chuckles, grasping her hand. He finds an indescribable amount of comfort in brushing his thumb over the ridges over her knuckles. “Actually, I think they like you better for it. Sarah almost chased me out of the house with a goddamn spatula.”

“I knew I liked her. Take me home? I’ll make coffee.”

“It’s a date.”

Frank’s phone lights up that night. If he were to reach an arm over and hold it up to see, David’s text would read, WELL?? Did you get the girl, Lloyd Dobler?

But he doesn’t. He tugs Karen closer and goes back to sleep.

#kastle #kastle ff #kastle fanfic #my writing #answered #cant-think-of-anything-creative

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panda-noosh · 4 years ago

Text

lost in translation {draco malfoy x reader}

words: 11.8k

summary: draco finds a notebook filled with beautiful, painful words. he keeps it for himself. he promises he’ll give it back to the rightful owner when he eventually finds them.

genre: angst

notes: support my writing or ask about commissions! - masterlist - i literally don’t know what plot is any more okay. also i listened to i love you by billie eilish on loop whilst writing this so feel free to put that on if you want.

---

draco sees the words every time he closes his eyes.

repeated stanzas, never leaving him alone. a mouthful of words no mind should ever be able to conjure. a haunting imagination capable of driving even the sanest people out of sanity.

he found the book on a winters day at hogwarts. christmas time was just round the corner, meaning most of his friends had already fled the castle in favour of homes, somewhere out in the muggle world, where they could spend the holidays with families who cared for them as families often cared for each other.

draco decided to stay at hogwarts.

he didn’t want to - not really. his father was just being difficult, and he wanted to face the man even less than he wanted to spend the holidays with people like potter and teachers who didn’t like him because of his family name.

he is entirely on his own this holiday season, and it depresses him more than he would ever be willing to let on.

because, you see, the thing with draco malfoy is, weakness has been a taboo subject amongst his family for as long as he can remember. his father drilled into his conscience that malfoys always have their heads held high, that they must be able to cope entirely on their own in any circumstance, because that’s what strength is. needing no one. fending only for yourself. living life to get what you want without worrying about anybody else.

this is why draco doesn’t sit with the other students during the christmas feast. instead, he finds himself traipsing through the library, poking at spines of books so old the writing has been smudged and worn, the contents made up of words once spoken in england, now lost to time.

the place smells dusty. it makes him sneeze, and he grimaces when he pulls his finger away from a shelf to see it coated in a thick layer of dust which he hastily wipes on his already gravy-stained robes. his stomach grumbles with the reminder of the christmas feast waiting downstairs for him - all he needs to do is pull a chair up and dig in. none of the teachers will mind. the students might be a bit iffy, but when has draco ever cared about what they think?

instead, he slumps against the wall, pulls a book into his lap and starts to read.

he’s so engrossed in the old text that he doesn’t hear the library door opening. he doesn’t hear peeve’s taunting cackles until they’re right over his head, peeves pointed toes very nearly scraping his slicked back hair.

draco’s head snaps up. above him, the poltergeist laughs, throwing his head back.

“peeves!” draco scrambles to his feet, swatting at the poltergeist. “oh, for christ’s sake, do you ever give it a rest?”

“all alone for christmas, are you, malfoy?” the poltergeist taunts. “surely daddy can afford you a way home with all that money the dark lord’s been shovelling into his pockets!”

draco’s face burns. “go away, you annoying little roach, before i get the hoover!”

peeves only laughs harder. “what a threat that was! wait till i tell the headmaster about that one.” and before draco can say anything else, peeves has grabbed a single, tiny book from the edge of a bookshelf and dropped it on draco’s head.

it crashes against the crown of his skull and bounces to the floor unceremoniously, flipping open upon the carpet. draco makes to yell, his fury bubbling over, but his voice is lost to the sudden emptiness of the room as peeves does what peeves does best and disappears.

draco groans through gritted teeth, rubbing the spot the book bounced from. it aches a little bit, which is surprising considering the size of the book. not a textbook. not really anything any of his teachers would ask him to check out of the library. instead, it’s spiral bound, the words not typed, but handwritten in sloppy scrawl, like the author was in a rush when transferring their thoughts onto paper.

draco frowns; why should a book such as this be in the schools library?

he picks it up by the corner, as if afraid the book might bite him - it certainly wouldn’t be the first time. the book, however, makes no strange movements. draco feels no strange, magical pull coming from the pages. in fact, if he were to use his common sense, he would believe the book to be straight from the muggle world.

that alone should have been enough to deter him, but his father isn’t here, so he opens it and starts reading.

the first few pages are awkward poetry. awkward essays, a person’s thoughts and opinions filtered with the fear of someone reading over their shoulder, perhaps. draco can tell the author was holding back, but the further he flips, the looser said author seems to become. they start using words. just words, so beautiful and magical and heartfelt that draco finds himself enraptured with every one. he struggles to put the book down, curling into his tiny corner in the library, enamoured by such language. he wonders for the brief moment he is able to take his eyes off the page if perhaps the book has been cast under a spell, if perhaps there is a spell in this world that puts heaven and hell into words and has transferred it to the very book he holds in his hands.

draco has spent so long getting lost in the talents of wizards that he sometimes forgets muggles have talents and hobbies, too. there are creatives in the world who can create emotions from such small things. there are people outside the world of magic and wizardry who can do magical things, too.

he has the evidence in his hand.

---

he keeps the evidence in his hand all throughout the year.

he comes back to it after particularly stressful classes to remind himself that not all is bad; that’s the magic these poems and essays have on him. he could probably recite each one word for word, but he never does, because they belong to him now. he’s claimed them as a comfort blanket, something he needs to get through the day. he’s found an addiction within these words that he can’t let go of, not just yet, not until he figures out who wrote them.

and that’s really all it boils down to - he wants to put a face to the mind that created the world he so desperately wants to share.

it’s a tuesday afternoon in feburary when blaise asks him about the book.

“are you ever gonna share what’s in that notebook you keep carrying around?”

the question startles draco. he thought he was being so subtle. he hardly ever brings the notebook out to face the light of day, only ever reading it behind the curtains of his poster bed in the dorms.

nonetheless, he doesn’t deny it’s existence. he doesn’t want to sound stupid.

he pokes at the vegetables on his plate and, without looking up, mumbles, “not really any of your business, is it?”

blaise scoffs. “alright, be like that then. you carry that thing around like a little girl and her secret diary.”

“are you trying to tease me, blaise? because you just sound stupid.”

blaise rolls his eyes; he’s one of the few people that don’t get properly offended when malfoy fails to bite his tongue.

“and anyway,” draco continues, “i don’t carry it around. it stays in my bed.”

“oh, really?”

“yes, and that’s where it’s staying.”

“so is it yours, or did you take it from someone?”

draco pauses. “it’s mine.”

“i’ve never seen you write in a notebook before. not even in class.”

draco shrugs; he hasn’t got a very good answer to that, because the statement is true. he tends to get others to write his notes for him when he can get away with it.

blaise sighs. he leans back in his seat, folding his skinny arms across his chest. “so are you a poet now? some kind of shakespeare?”

draco raises a brow. “some kind of what?”

blaise waves a dismissive hand. “it’s a muggle thing. just answer the part you understood.”

“i’m not a poet,” draco grumbles. “the poems in the book aren’t even mine. i found it when i was in the library a few months back, and thought it was interesting.” he shrugs like it’s no big deal, like this notebook has always just been a background prop in his everyday life. “it’s stupid, really. muggle stuff.”

“so why are you so obsessed with it?”

“i’m not obsessed!” draco’s grip tightens on the edge of his chair; he’s tired after a long day of quidditch practice, and honestly, he doesn’t want to deal with his friends bullshit any longer than he has to. “now, blaise, can you start minding your own business before we have some issues?”

that shuts blaise right up. together, they eat the remainders of their dinners before draco excuses himself and leaves the table. his mind is reeling, heart thumping both with embarrassment and annoyance; he knows he’s popular amongst the slytherins. in a way, he asked to be centre of attention when he started mouthing off about the importance of the malfoy household all those years back, but it’s frustrating that he can’t even do a bit of light reading without getting asked about it. he thought he was being so subtle, keeping the curtains closed every time he read, never taking the notebook from the confines of the dorms, never uttering a word about it to-

his shoulder crashes into yours.

“shit.”

draco stumbles back, catching himself on the wall. he’s too dazed to say anything, but his anger is rising, and he’s prepared to start yelling-

but then he opens his eyes and sees you there, fumbling with a pile of posters that have spilled across the glossy corridor floor. draco blinks, glancing from you to the posters and back again.

“i’m so sorry,” you mumble. “so sorry. i knew the pile was too high, but hermione had to go to-”

“why don’t you just-” draco flicks his wand. immediately, the posters gather in a whirlwind and fly into his outstretched arms, a neat little stack, good as new.

you look up, dazed. your eyes are gorgeous, plagued with evidence of exhaustion, but riveting nonetheless. draco recognises you only vaguely, and the few memories he has of these quick glimpses have never left him dissatisfied.

“oh,” you say after a moment. “right. spells. magic. i forgot about that.”

draco narrows his eyes.

you stumble to your feet, wiping trembling hands on your robes. it leaves a streak of dirt against the black, and that’s when draco sees the red and gold lining of house gryffindor.

“sorry,” you repeat. “i mean, thank you, for - like - helping me. i completely forgot i could just-” you swish your hands in a mock gesture of wand-movement before laughing awkwardly. “weird, right? that i would - uh - forget that in a school of magic. when i’m a wizard. ha ha.”

draco nods, because he really has nothing to say. he can’t keep his eyes off you, your awkward movements, the way you don’t even flinch at the sight of him. most gryffindor’s would be hurling insults at him by now - hell, he would be hurling insults at the gryffindor’s, too, but his words are caught in his throat and he can’t even properly function.

so he looks down at the pile of posters in his arms.

“CREATIVE WRITING 101!”

you snatch the first poster off the pile as if that will stop draco from reading it. “it’s nothing. something stupid, really.”

he looks at you again. “you like creative writing?”

you shrug.

“that’s such a muggle hobby to have. where’s the fun in it?”

and for the first time this entire meeting, you scowl. you hastily snatch the posters out of draco’s arms, struggling to keep them neat and tidy in your own, but when draco raises his wand to help you out a second time, you swat his hand away and say, “i don’t need your help.”

“you’re going to drop them again-”

you’re already backing away. “you don’t need to come, you know. me dropping these in front of you wasn’t a bloody invite.”

draco blinks. “i didn’t mean it like-”

you run a hand through your hair, nearly stumbling over your own shoes yet again. draco lunges forward in his attempts to catch you, but you yell something incoherent in his direction, apologise profusely to a first year you nearly elbow in the nose before you turn on your heel and head back the way you came.

draco stares at your retreating form, unable to fully comprehend what he did wrong. he doesn’t think he said anything offensive, let alone anything that would prompt you to nearly wipe yourself out in your attempts to get away.

but then again, he isn’t really sure why he cares.

----

it’s weird how - after one brief meeting - you suddenly appear at every corner draco takes.

he never noticed you in his potion’s class before, but now he can’t avoid you. you sit at the back, a pen lodged between your teeth, brows furrowed together; despite your eventful meeting with draco only a few days prior, you don’t seem to have nearly as much interest in his sudden presence as he has with yours. he keeps glancing at you, not-so-subtly turning in his chair every now and then just to make sure you’re not some kind of illusion. nobody in the classroom is acting like anything is out of place, so maybe you have been his classmate for a while, and he just never noticed.

he finds that a little hard to believe, but he has to take reality as it comes to him, or else he’ll go insane.

he doesn’t talk to you for nearly a week, because he’s a little afraid of what you’ll have to say. he’s a little afraid you’ll say nothing at all, that you might have forgotten who he is entirely.

it’s you who makes the first move.

it startles draco nearly out of his skin. he’s packing up his stuff, ignoring goyle’s ramblings to his left, when you slip your hand in his robe pocket. he jumps, spinning around just enough to dislodge your grappling fingers, and he’s seconds away from whipping out his wand to hex you when he freezes, eyes meeting your own, heart immediately plummeting into his stomach.

you smile, wide and polite. “hello, old friend.”

“can you get out of my pockets?” draco hisses, swatting your hand away when you make another attempt to dive into his robes. “what do you want?”

“a pen,” you reply. “i broke mine.”

“i don’t have a pen.” he reaches into his pocket and pulls out his quill. “i have a quill.”

“aaaah, my bad.” you snatch the instrument from him before grabbing his hand. he yelps, stumbling a little bit. he beams bright red when the noise he just made actually registers in his head, and he makes a mental note to scold goyle for snickering behind him.

“what are you doing?” draco demands. he tries not to get too flustered at the height difference between you - your head could very easily rest in the crook of his neck, and he hates that he kind of wants to experience what that feels like.

you scribble words into his palm. “this is the time and place for the creative writing clubs first meeting.”

draco blinks. “what?”

“time and place for the-”

“why do you want me to go?”

you scowl, not once looking up from the jagged lines of draco’s palm. “i don’t, but hermione’s asked me to gather as many people as i can find, and i think you kind of owe me one after being so rude the other day in the hallway.”

draco falters; so you remember.

“i wasn’t being rude at all,” he grumbles. “you’re just sensitive.”

“maybe.” you drop his palm and shove his quill back in his pocket. “if you want to come, be my guest; it’s going to be a lot of fun. lots of - uh - writing and stuff, i can assure you.”

draco scowls. “i won’t be going.”

“okay.”

“so this entire conversation was pointless.”

you fold your arms over your chest, as if challenging him. “okay, draco. i’m not forcing you to come if you don’t want to, but - you know - i’ll save you a seat or whatever.”

and draco doesn’t understand why that is the promise that tears him down, why that is the thing that makes his mind up for him. even as he gives you no solid answer, he knows he now has plans automatically built into his schedule to see you again, no matter how much he dreads the thought of it.

he looks down at the writing on his palm, and his heart stops.

just for a second. a brief moment of death, before life is pushed back into him when his brain kicks into overdrive and he’s certain he’s going to pass away for real with how fast his heart is suddenly beating.

he blinks rapidly. goyle is saying something, and the students are filtering out, but draco is lost, lost, spiralling as he recognises the messy scrawl, smudged even though it shouldn’t be, messy but coherent, familiar and amazing.

he’s read heaven written in this exact same handwriting. he’s read heaven, and hell, and earth, and space, and the moon, and the stars, and he’s experienced an entire new existence written in this very handwriting. it’s the same handwriting that covers every single page of his sacred notebook, hidden in his pillow case back at the dorms. it’s the same handwriting that gives a form to the aches and pains and anxieties of the person who has just walked away from him, the person who’s brain draco has lived in since christmas.

----

“you’re actually going?”

“it’s the least i can do.” draco fixes the collar of his robes, ruffles his hair a little bit. “i did nearly wipe them out in the hallway a few days ago.”

“that was an accident.” pansy throws herself across draco’s bed, as she often does when she wants the attention he has never given her. he simply glares at her reflection through the mirror, silently willing her to get up and leave so he can set off for the history of magic classroom in which the creative writing club is meeting tonight.

pansy, however, doesn’t take the hint.

“i just think this y/n person is trying to get in your head,” she continues. “your head, your bed, all of the above...”

draco’s face warms. “you can think whatever you want, pansy, but i’m going whether you like it or not. in case you’ve forgotten, you have absolutely no say in the way i live my life.”

pansy rolls onto her stomach, tugs on the back of draco’s robes. “oh, you’ve made that very clear, malfoy. don’t come running back to me when you show up to this stupid muggle club and get ostracised for being who you are.”

draco clenches his jaw, stepping out of pansy’s reach all without turning round. he knows she’s right, of course - there is no doubt in his mind that he is going to show up tonight, only to be met by the usual hostile glares he gets from everybody outside the slytherin house. he brought it upon himself, and he knows that - but he’s trying to fix it. he’s trying to prove himself as a good person to you.

to the world. not just you.

he swallows and turns. pansy stares up at him, hands curled beneath her chin, that sleezy little smile on her face. draco grimaces, points to the door and says, “the girls dorms are up the other staircase.”

pansy’s smile falls. she scowls, stands up and leaves without another word. draco doesn’t care that he’s pissed her off - pansy, in recent months, has become a little bit too much. he’s given her the most wiggle room he can provide, and she has done nothing but bombard him further.

he shakes the thought of his friend from his mind as he walks over to his bed and digs around in his pillow case. inside, he finds the poetry book he so desperately cares for, flicking to a page he has marked; he’s highlighted a few passages, and he reads them over as he steadies his breathing. this is such new territory for him. if his father finds out what he’s up to right now, he’ll be getting a very stern speaking to, possibly even a back-hand to the face if his father is in a particularly bad mood.

but then draco remembers your expression, your hand digging around in his pocket, your stumbled words that somehow manage to pull together so beautifully when you want to express yourself.

he has to see you tonight, whether it’s in a creative writing club or not. he’ll take just running into you in the hallway again, but to reach that point, he has to actually leave the dorms.

he stuffs the book back into his pillow case, flattens a particularly frustrating strand of hair, and walks out the door.

---

the history of magic classroom is dimly lit.

draco has seen pictures of muggle poetry readings before; they kind of remind him a little bit of exorcisms, and the set-up he’s currently walking into is no exception.

there’s candles lit upon every desk, the lights dimmed to create some kind of ambience that draco doesn’t understand. people are sat in a circle - people in every colour of robe, though draco is the only slytherin, it seems. this makes him a little nervous, and he hovers in the doorway, eyes tracing the scene in desperate search of you.

he spots you in a matter of seconds. you’re leaning over a candle, frowning into the flame like you can’t quite understand why it’s flickering like that.

draco makes a b-line for you.

you look up only when he’s by your side, and immediately your expression brightens. those eyes of yours widen a little bit, a smile adorning your face. you straighten up, grab draco’s arm, and he’s certain he’s going to explode.

“you made it!” you exclaim. “i can’t believe you actually came, mate; full of surprises, you are.”

draco frowns, feigning frustration, like this is something he went out of his way to attend. “why are you staring at the flame so intensely?”

“i’m staring at the flame so intensely-” you put on a pompous british accent, just to tease him, and draco doesn’t mind, “-because apparently you can turn the flames a different colour with the right spell, but it’s not working for me. watch.”

you elbow draco in the side, prompting him to shuffle over and give you more room. draco folds his arms over his chest, watching as you kneel down until your cheek is very nearly pressed against the desk. you point your wand at the flames and wave it, just once, but nothing happens. the flames barely even flicker.

you blow it out in frustration. “fuck that.”

draco laughs. he doesn’t know where it comes from, but it’s bursting out of him at the sight of your furrowed brows, and your pouting lips. you scowl at him, and it startles him how unsurprised you are to hear such a noise escape a man like draco malfoy.

draco shakes his head and nudges you to the side. “watch.”

you grab his wrist. “no. nope. absolutely not.”

“what? i’m gonna-”

“you’re gonna show me up, is what you’re gonna do, and i didn’t ask for it.” you pluck his wand from his fingers and stuff it back in his robes. draco has to fight the urge to shudder, your fingertips tracing across his ribcage as you fumble for his inside pocket.

you pull away then, shaking your head. “it doesn’t even matter, anyway; you show me up in every other class we have together.”

draco scoffs. “and i can assume you’re going to show me up tonight, so we’re even.”

you grin, because draco is right, and you both know he is right.

you make a bit more idle chat before the final people make an appearance, and you’re finally asked to sit down. draco is confused to see hermione granger being the leader of this group of creatives, as he’s almost certain he’s never read anything more beautiful than your work; surely you should be up at the front, guiding people through the craft of writing, a craft you have so brilliantly perfected.

draco sits beside you and says nothing. he fiddles with his fingers, coughing into his fist, rolling his eyes anytime someone makes a stupid suggestion. honestly, granger can talk forever, and draco is starting to get bored within the first ten minutes. all he wants is to hear you recite something, or for you to just. . . say anything about any of your pieces; draco could probably do it for you if that didn’t look creepy and uncalled for. he could stand at the front of this group and recite whatever piece of poetry he wanted from the notebook he took so long ago, and then maybe you’d get the recognition you deserve. maybe then you’d be able to share your potential instead of just sitting by draco’s side in a circle of poet-wanna-be’s.

finally, hermione turns her attention on you, however.

“y/n,” granger chirps. you jump, fumble with your wand, let it drop on the floor to roll beneath draco’s chair. he rolls his eyes and picks it up for you as you struggle to respond to hermione’s summons.

“uh, y-yeah? yes? did you ask me something?”

hermione’s brows furrow. “do you ever pay attention to anything i’m saying?”

“sometimes,” you reply, sheepishly. “definitely sometimes.”

hermione rolls her eyes. “anyway - i was just wondering if you’ve done any writing recently that you’d like to share.”

draco tenses. he flicks his eyes to his left to see you awkwardly ringing your hands in your lap, biting your lower lip.

“uh....”

“none?” hermione demands, eyes popping. “but i thought-”

“i’ve been a bit busy,” you grumble. “it’s not that big of a bloody deal, hermione, goodness me.”

“well, yes, i - i know that, but-” hermione gestures vaguely. “this is a creative writing club. i asked all of you to bring something with you. do you not even have an old piece of writing you could share with us?”

“nope.”

draco’s heart leaps. “what?”

and suddenly, all eyes are on him.

he slouches in his seat, but keeps his gaze on you. you stare back at him, eyes wide, clearly shocked at his contribution.

“you’ve got nothing?” he prompts.

you can’t even reply. you just stare, and draco knows he’s being confusing, is aware that maybe he should just shut his mouth. or, better yet, do everyone a favour and walk out before he says any more stupid things that will do nothing but embarrass both you and him.

“okay,” he grumbles, folding his arms over his chest. “okay, fine. that’s fine.” he looks up, meets hermione’s eyes. “you know what, granger, i don’t think this little club is my cup of tea. i’m going to head back to bed.”

hermione blinks. no one says anything when draco stands and walks out, but he expected nothing less. he wasn’t welcome there in the first place. he should never have even made an appearance. he should have stayed in bed and let his feelings fester until he fell asleep.

feelings are stupid anyway.

----

he ignores you.

in fact, he starts treating you how he treats everybody else - like they’re beneath him. a habit he once wanted to escape from has yet again become his comfort blanket, the thing shielding him from talking to you. every time you try making conversation, he sneers and walks off, barely even giving you the time of day.

in truth, he knows what happened is no big deal. everyone probably forgot about it as soon as he left the room, getting absorbed in their own works of poetry. however, draco knows you want to discuss it, that you probably want answers he is far too afraid to give you. if he starts explaining why he said what he said, he’ll have to talk about the notebook, and then you might ask for it back, and draco is selfish because he doesn’t think he can give it back just yet. it’s the only thing keeping him sane.

and so, he just ignores you.

he sits in potions and pretends you don’t exist. he walks past you at lunch and doesn’t even give you a smile. he looks over your head every time you stand to wave at him. he doesn’t want to risk any inkling of conversation trickling in between you.

pansy notices this, of course, but draco isn’t surprised. with how closely pansy has taken to watching over you and him, it would be more surprising to think she hadn’t caught on to the situation.

she sits beside him at lunch, slamming her tray of greens down just loud enough that a few heads turn - including your own. draco quickly snaps his eyes down to his plate, trying to pretend he wasn’t just staring at the back of your head.

“so,” pansy begins.

draco licks the stuffing from his fork.

pansy leans in, elbow hitting against his. “so. how did it go?”

“how did what go?”

“your little date with y/n! you never updated me on it!”

draco scowls. “that was days ago, pansy.”

“exactly. so now that i’ve got you trapped, you can fill me in on all the details.” she leans even closer, if that is possible. draco can smell the old woman’s perfume wafting from her robes and has to take a glass of water to quell the itch it summons to his throat. “y/n doesn’t look too happy with you, i’ll say that much. i sit behind them in care of magical creatures, and they’ve been awfully quiet since the club meeting; care to explain?”

“why is it any of your business?”

pansy grins. “because i told you someone like y/n wasn’t worth the trouble; a gryffindor, draco, really? were the robes not a big enough red flag for you?”

draco scowls. “first of all, pansy, y/n and i are just friends, and have always been just friends. i’m not doing anything to impress them.”

pansy scoffs, finally moving away to start spearing at her dinner with her fork. “how stupid do you think i am? how stupid do you think we all are? goyle doesn’t keep your little infatuation a secret, you know. he told us all about how close you and y/n get in potions together.”

draco’s grip tightens on his fork. “close isn’t really the right word.”

“the bickering? the way they make you laugh? the way you help them with their potions when they’re struggling so snape won’t tell them off? that sounds awful close to me, draco.”

he has no answer to that. his chest aches, memories of such delightful times flooding his mind and making him crave it all again. he remembers those times when he would glance over his shoulder to see you running your hands through your hair, struggling to comprehend what on earth snape has just ordered you to do; if it was anyone else, draco wouldn’t have given them the light of day, but seeing the fear in your eyes every time snape gave you even the briefest flicker of attention saw draco abandoning goyle to come save the day at your desk.

“so what went wrong?” pansy continues. “a lovers tiff?”

draco closes his eyes. “it was nothing, pansy; just me being an idiot again.”

pansy gasps, eyebrows shooting up her forehead. “you? being an idiot? and you’re openly admitting to it! goodness me, y/n must be a lot more skilled at magic than they let on, huh?”

“i don’t know what to do.”

it’s a plea. draco knows it’s a plea. in his heart, the cracks are beginning to form, and he can’t pretend any longer. he watches the back of your head - has been watching the back of your head since the meeting, because that’s the only glimpse of you he will let himself have. it hurts to see you laughing, smiling, slapping ron weasley on the arm. it shows you’re healing, moving on from your attempts to get draco to listen.

he’s ruined everything.

pansy leans forward. her voice is softer now, surprisingly kind. “draco, are you serious about this? i know i’ve been teasing, but do you actually like y/n in that way?”

draco bites the inside of his cheek. he remembers the times he had with you, how he used to laugh so freely with little care as to who heard. you teased him and made him feel normal, and he isn’t sure when his appreciation for you went past the poetry you wrote and emerged into you as a human being, but it’s happened, and he’s nodding to pansy’s question before he can think better of it.

pansy draws back, letting out a shaky breath. “wow, okay. . . this is definitely new territory for me. for you. i’m not sure how to go about it.”

“i took their notebook from them,” he mumbles.

pansy raises a brow. “their - their notebook?”

“y/n writes,” he explains. “beautiful things. addictive things, and i found their notebook in the library over christmas and i kept it for myself. i only found out it was theirs a few days ago, but. . . i never told them i have it. i got scared to.”

pansy pauses. draco’s never used that word in a sentence before. it sounds fake, like he’s made it up and just thrown it at the end of his sentence for the fun of it.

“well, that would be a good place to start, i think.”

his eyes snap up. “what?”

“give them their notebook back.” she says this like it’s obvious, raising her brows. “it’s a good way to start a conversation, and once the conversation’s been breached, you can go on to explain everything else - it’s pretty simple when you get your head around it, draco.”

he blinks. it does make sense, but again, there comes that burning protectiveness he can’t seem to shake.

selfish, selfish, selfish.

he glances over at the gryffindor table. you’ve got your head thrown back again, laughing so loudly and so carefree that draco’s heart trembles because he isn’t the one making you laugh like that. it’s ron. it’s harry. it’s everyone who thinks he’s an awful human being, bringing joy to the one person who’s ever seen him as decent. they’ve probably told you a joke about how draco’s scum, how he’ll never amount of anything, how he claimed his spot at the top purely because of his father.

fury pools in the pit of draco’s stomach. he spears his food with his fork, pushes away from the table and walks out of the dining hall before giving pansy an answer as to whether he simple plan is one he’ll actually take into consideration.

but now that he’s storming through the halls towards the slytherin common room, he knows it’s not something he can just consider. he can never move on with you with your notebook stuffed in his pillow case. he needs to be honest, and he needs to apologise, and these are all things he struggles with greatly, but all things he needs to learn before he loses you for good.

---

the notebook hasn’t seen the light of day past draco’s dorm since christmas.

it feels weird carrying it so freely now, slowly making his way through the halls with it pressed against his chest, the spirals digging into his lower arm. people look at him, but nobody bats an eye at the notebook, and why would they? it’s not suspicious. most of them probably think it’s nothing more than a school notebook, used for taking notes in classes.

still, his anxiety runs at a million miles per hour. he wants to yell at anyone who even glimpses the tiny square peeking from over his arms. he wants to tell them it’s none of their business.

but he doesn’t. he keeps walking until he’s reached the gryffindor common room.

it’s just his luck that ron weasley is the one stood outside. the ginger lad spots draco immediately, and it’s reflex when draco scowls and says, “got nothing better to do, weasley?”

ron glares. “what are you doing here, malfoy? the slytherin common room is back the way you came.”

“good thing i’m not going to the slytherin common room.” he nods towards the portrait hole. “is y/n in there?”

ron pauses. “what do you want with y/n?”

“i need to talk to them.” he swallows before gently unravelling the notebook from his arms. “i accidentally grabbed this in potions - i need to give it to them.”

“right, give it here then.” ron reaches for it, and draco stumbles back. he stumbles, not even bothering to swat ron’s hand away as pure panic seizes him. ron pulls back hastily, eyes widening at draco’s response.

draco, through gritted teeth, says, “just go get y/n for me, will you?”

ron stares at him a second longer before turning on his heel and walking back into the gryffindor common room. draco tries calming himself down in the minutes it takes for ron to reappear with you at his side.

the attempts are futile.

the minute he lays eyes on you, his heart starts thundering in a way that confuses him to no ends; he shouldn’t feel like this over someone so ordinary, and in truth, that’s what you are. you’re a student, just like him, struggling through school life, just like him. you go about your day in almost the exact same way as he does, and yet he’s never before felt so intrigued by another individual.

when your eyes meet his, you don’t smile. you don’t even look surprised. you grip the front of your night gown, glaring at him, not saying a word in greeting; draco’s mouth has gone dry, however, and saying anything is the absolute last thing on his mind when you’re standing in front of him, hair a mess, more beautiful and casual than he’s ever seen you.

ron is the one who has to break the silence. “he said he’s got a notebook for you.”

draco inhales sharply, suddenly remembering the artefact clutched in his hands. your eyes drift to it, and for a moment, you look puzzled. your eyebrows scrunch together, head tilting a little before you say, “that’s mine?”

draco thrusts it in your direction. “please take it.” he turns to ron. “and you - please leave.”

ron looks offended, looking at you for back-up, but your eyes are peeled on the notebook, not paying even the slightest bit of attention to ron. in the end, the weasley man rolls his eyes and stalks back into the gryffindor common room, leaving the corridor empty besides you and draco.

and draco feels every sliver of tension like it’s been injected into his bone marrow. flashes of his behaviour play on loop in his brain, the way he ignored you, the amount of times he scowled at you every time you tried speaking to him; he never meant any of it, of course, considering you’re the most fascinating person he’s ever come across, but he did it anyway, and that’s what he has to patch up.

somehow, he has to patch this up.

he looks to the floor, tucking the notebook back against his chest when you don’t take it from his hands. the silence is crushing, but draco has absolutely no idea what to say to fill it in - pansy made this all sound so easy; he would hand you the notebook, and a conversation would immediately stem from that.

but no. draco’s mind has gone completely blank, and you still look furious, and neither of you are doing anything to resolve the mess he has made.

finally, however, draco can’t take it any more. “i found your notebook.”

“yeah. ron said.” you pluck it out of his arms. “where did you even find this? it’s so old.”

“in the library.”

“the library? what was it doing there?”

draco shrugs. “how would i know that?”

“considering you’re the one who stole it-”

“i didn’t steal it. i just didn’t know who it belonged to.” a lie. he shouldn’t be lying. that’s a bad way to go about things. “i mean, i took it back to my dorm with me, kept it safe, but - like - i was of course going to give it back once i figured out who the owner was.”

you hum. “i’m sure you were.” you flick open the pages, immediately spotting a passage draco has highlighted in bright orange pen. “you tabbed it?”

he shrugs. “sometimes i read it when i got bored.”

“i should be angry at you for that, you know - that’s a big invasion of privacy.”

“yeah. you should be.” he looks up sheepishly. “are you?”

you pause, eyes continuing to drift over the pages of your own work, work you haven’t seen or reread since at least christmas time. you don’t look impressed, or angry, or anything at all, really. you just read the lines and nod, as if taking inventory.

then, you look up and say, “i’m more angry at the way you’ve been treating me this past week.”

draco wilts. he knew it was coming, that this was the main source of hostility for the both of you, but he really thought the presence of the notebook would somehow buy him some time, maybe make this conversation a bit easier.

you snap the notebook closed, shoving it into the pocket of your night gown. “you didn’t even tell me what i did wrong!”

“you didn’t do anything wrong!”

“then why were you acting like that? why couldn’t you just talk to me?”

draco squeezes his eyes closed, trails his hands through his hair, tries to calm down before he says something he’ll immediately regret. “you know, it’s a lot more complicated than you’re making it out to be.”

you pull back, puzzled. “how is it complicated? you’re nearly eighteen years old, draco! it shouldn’t be complicated to talk to someone when you’re mad at them!”

“ i wasn’t mad at you! i thought you were mad at me!”

you throw your head back and laugh, and this is the very noise draco has been craving for days, but he doesn’t want to hear it now, not here, not in this context. you’re not taking him seriously. you’re not listening.

“this is the stupidest thing i’ve ever heard,” you cackle. “is this about the fucking club meeting? you think i gave a shit about what you said?”

draco shakes his head. “again, love, it’s not as simple as that.”

“then explain it to me. explain to me what the hell was going through your head to make that switch flip so suddenly.”

something inside draco snaps, a string he didn’t even realise was being pulled so taut.

“do you wanna know what’s been going through my head recently?” his voice drops, your expression faltering. “it’s that fucking notebook of yours. it’s been all i can think about for weeks, because i can’t wrap my head around the idea of you being the author of those poems.”

you blink. “w-what?”

“you’re so carefree. you’re so. . . so you, y/n, and it seems impossible to me - unfathomable! - that you could be thinking such harrowing thoughts and not a single person has picked up on it besides me - and i’ve only done so by complete accident.” he inhales, runs a hand through his hair. “i’ve read your poems a thousand times over, and even though i know they came from you, i still can’t put your face to the words. i still can’t figure out how on earth you and that notebook are related in any way, and it’s been driving me insane. i want to help you, and it’s driving me insane.”

again, you blink. the corridor goes quiet. draco’s breathing slows, stabilises, and he has no idea what he’s just said, or if any of it makes sense, but there is a weight off his chest that provides such a great amount of relief he wants to cry.

finally, you swallow. your knuckles protrude from your hand with how tight your grip on the notebook is. your eyes stray to the ground, throat bobbing, mouth opening for just a second before you seem to think better of it and go silent again.

draco takes a step back. “look, you can have it back,” he says. “i don’t want it any more. i don’t - i don’t need it any more. but i just want you to know i’m sorry, and i never wanted to hurt your feelings. i was just. . . feeling things, and it wasn’t normal for me, and i got scared.” he raises his hands in mock surrender, taking another step back. “feel free to never talk to me again. i’ll understand.”

he waits for another second. hope springs to his chest, hope that you will tell him not to go, that you’ll forgive him on the spot and the two of you can live happily ever after, but it doesn’t work that way. you meet his eyes and nod, before turning on your heel and heading back into the gryffindor common room.

---

“how did you mess that up again?”

draco presses his knuckles into his eyes, as if pushing goyle’s words out of his brain. he should never have told the other slytherin about his encounter with you, but goyle was the first person on the scene, and malfoy just lost control; he needed to rant to someone. he needed to get it off his chest.

and it seems now goyle has suddenly developed a perfect memory, as two days after the meeting in the corridor, he has not let the subject drop.

the two sit together in defence against the dark arts; their teacher has long since left the classroom in search of some more work sheets for them to get cracking with, and the class has erupted into an expected chorus of conversations. draco wants nothing more than to put his head on the table and ignore the world, take this break as a chance to catch up on some of the sleep he has been robbed of these past few weeks, but goyle doesn’t let him go that easily.

the bigger boy leans over and taps draco on the back of the head. “come on, man, talk to me. there’s got to be something we can do.”

“there is nothing,” draco barks through gritted teeth. “and i’m sick of repeating myself, goyle, so shut your trap before i shut it for you.”

goyle sighs, leaning back in his seat. “so y/n just. . . didn’t even say anything? they just walked off without a word?”

“they did, which i took as a clear sign they never want to see me again.”

“do you not think you might be looking too deeply into that reaction?”

draco glares, eyes bloodshot, probably more terrifying than they have ever been. “tell me where on earth i could have looked too deeply.”

goyle shrugs. “well, you did admit to spilling this massive, emotional speech over them in the middle of the night - maybe they just didn’t know what to say at the time. i bet if you go up to them now and ask for a follow-up conversation, they’d be more than willing to sit down and discuss everything.”

“there’s nothing to discuss. i said everything i wanted to say, and y/n rejected me - i’m man enough to take it at face value and move on.”

a lie, of course, but draco just wants goyle to shut up. he wants to continue sulking on his own, because that’s what he does best. he doesn’t need friends patting him on the back, trying to cheer him up. he knows he’s messed up, and he’s willing to suffer in solitude for his stupidity.

“i’ve just never seen you act like this around anyone.”

draco’s head snaps up. “what do you mean?”

but he knows exactly what goyle means, because goyle is telling the truth. nobody has ever made draco this stupid. nobody has ever plagued his mind like this, and it’s driving him insane.

goyle folds his beefy arms across his chest. “i’m not saying it’s a bad thing, draco; sometimes it’s nice to see you unravel a little bit. god knows you’ve had a stick rammed up your ass for long enough.”

draco rolls his eyes. “well, there’s no point in dwelling on it; nothing is going to happen. whatever friendship y/n and i had is gone, and i’m just gonna have to accept it.”

goyle scowls, but draco pays him no attention. instead, he goes back to idly tapping his pen against his bottom lip, trying desperately to put his own words into play. he just needs to get over you. he needs to go back to the cold hearted, uncaring wizard he was raised to be, because that was the only version of himself that never got hurt. he never let himself get hurt. it’s strange how you walk into his life, and suddenly that entire side of him is being stripped away, replaced by this oversensitive, overthinking, annoying piece of shit who suddenly relies on someone else to get them through the day.

draco hates it, but he hates the idea of not having that even more.

----

“so are you going to tell me why y/n won’t talk about you?”

draco looks up, his scowl a reflex when he makes eye contact with ron weasley. he stands over him, arms folded over his chest, wearing a set of school robes with little burn marks pecked into the material; draco has half a mind to tease him for it, before finding he has absolutely no energy to do such a thing right now.

instead, he leans back against the tree he has been sat under, gazing at the sky as mountains of homework piles up in his dormitory - piles of homework he has yet to touch, because every time he tries focusing his mind on a single task, it veers off and he can’t do anything.

ron raises a brow at draco’s silence. “no? you’re both gonna keep your mouths shut?”

“i don’t see how it’s any of your business.”

“no, of course you don’t.” and then, ron does the most surprising thing - he slumps down next to draco, their shoulders clicking. “i’m gonna take a wild guess and say you fucked things up again.”

draco swallows, closing his eyes. “again, none of your business, weasley.”

“good answer. it makes perfect sense now.” ron nudges his arm. “what happened?”

and draco knows it’s out of character. of all the people he could rant to, ron weasley should - and always has been - the absolute last on his list, but he looks at ron and he’s reminded that he is your friend, that ron makes you laugh, and he’s probably cheered you on during this uncomfortable time with draco. with that knowledge comes a sense of warmth, a gratefulness he’s never felt before, one he doesn’t completely understand.

but he leans into it, because he’s too tired to fight it off. with his cheek pressed against his knees, he tells ron the whole story, from start to finish. he goes back as far as christmas, that god-forsaken day in the library when he wanted nothing more than to enjoy a nice bit of light reading whilst he ignored the rest of the students downstairs, how peeves had dropped that notebook on his head, and he’d grown attached to it, rereading the poems every day until the day he had to surrender it back to you.

“sounds quite stalkerish,” ron comments.

draco scoffs. “it does, doesn’t it?”

ron sighs, shifting slightly. in the distance, a group of first years run screaming away from the whomping willow. a stone gargoyle shakes its winds atop the astronomy tower. such beautiful sights, and yet draco can’t feel a thing.

“okay, look,” ron says. “don’t get any of this twisted, alright? i still hate you. more than i thought humanly possible.”

“cheers.”

“but, i care about y/n. a whole lot. they’re like family to me. they’ve been miserable these past few days, and it’s starting to take a toll on me. so, i’m here to give you a bit of advice.” he turns, leans in, lowers his voice. “don’t give up so easily.”

draco jerks away. ron snickers, leaning back against the tree, gazing out at the green grass without a care in the world; draco, however, is stunned, heart racing though he doesn’t even know why. those words just hold so much hope, a hope he hasn’t let himself feel since it happened. he was slowly coming to terms with the idea of never talking to you again, and here ron weasley walks into the scene, ruining everything - like always.

draco splutters, swallows, pulls himself together. “w-why do you say that?”

“i thought it was obvious, mate,” ron replies. “y/n clearly has a soft spot for you. god only knows why, but that’s neither here nor there. all i care about right now is the fact they’ve been moping around for days, not even laughing at my jokes or anything. it’s getting exhausting when all you need to do is talk, and this entire thing could be resolved.”

“it’s not as easy as that.”

ron raises a brow. “oh? and why not?”

draco opens his mouth to respond, because he’s certain he has one. however, when he thinks about it, there really isn’t a decent answer to that question; he’s young, dumb, embarrassed. he stole your notebook, gave it back, confessed his feelings and then fled the scene - the only reason he hasn’t spoken to you since that fateful day is because he doesn’t want to bring up his own embarrassing gestures ever again. the quicker he buries them, the better.

but at the cost of you? maybe he should rethink it.

ron laughs. he stares at the side of draco’s face, pure amusement dancing across his features. draco scowls, because that’s what draco always does when he sees even the slightest flicker of joy on the weasley boys face; it’s become routine by now, even if he doesn’t feel the same contempt he’s so used to.

“it’s bizarre, isn’t it, that i’d be the one giving you relationship advice,” he says.

“it’s bizarre you’re helping me out at all, to be honest.”

“i’m not as heartless as you like to think i am, malfoy.” he stands, wiping his hands down his robes, smearing muck on the already dirty cloth. “if anyone asks, we were arguing and i won.”

draco blinks. “thank you, weasley. i mean it.”

ron rolls his eyes. “i’m sure you do. now never speak to me again.” he turns on his heel and strolls back down the hill without a second glance in draco’s direction.

----

draco’s heart is going to burst from his chest.

he’s been in this state far too often these past few weeks. he wants it to stop. he wants to go back to a life where he didn’t have a care in the world, where he owned this school, where he had the confidence that has carried his family name for decades.

the only way he’s going to reach that point again is by sorting things out with you.

or at least letting you know how he feels, because he can’t deny any of it any more. he can’t go around pretending you mean nothing to him. no, he still can’t explain where these feelings came from, if they started with the poetry and grew, or if they started that very day he laid eyes on you in first year and thought you were the prettiest one of his lousy classmates. he can’t explain any of it, but he doesn’t need to try. he doesn’t need to go as far back at that. all he needs to do is talk to you, let you know that you have changed him in very scary ways, and then he can move on. no matter your reaction, he can move on.

at least, that’s what he tells himself as he walks through the school corridors in search of you. it’s already getting dark, the january days lasting what seems like only a handful of minutes. students are flooding from their last classes of the day, and it’s only when draco spots a gryffindor bustling through the crowd does he stop.

he grabs the unsuspecting student by the arm, not even surprised nor offended by his look of pure disgust. draco simply grins, because that’s reflex for him, before saying, “have you seen y/n l/n anywhere?”

the boy furrows his brows. “i saw them talking to filch when i was walking to class. what do you want with them?”

draco raises a brow; talking to filch? what could you possibly want with argus filch of all people?

draco shoves the gryffindor away, thanking him with a nod before he turns and starts towards the caretakers office. he’s never been there before, mainly because he’s never wasted his time trying to hold a decent conversation with the caretaker, but he finds it in good enough time - an ordinary brown door, decorated only with the name ‘argus filch’ written across it in what looks like normal, muggle sharpie pen.

draco racks his knuckles against it, uncertain if he’s doing any of this right. in all his years at hogwarts, he’s seen filch in his office only a handful of times, and even if he just happens to be in his office now, what will draco even ask him? what he was talking to you about? if he somehow knows where you went after the conversation was over?

he waits there, however, because he has no other leads, and he needs to talk to you. he needs to get this over with, or else he won’t be able to sleep, and he can’t afford to be groggy during quiddith practice; he’s been performing bad enough these past few weeks, and if he can just get this off his chest-

the door swings open.

it isn’t filch.

“argus, i promise i’ll be done in-”

you pause. your eyes widen. your mouth snaps closed, grip tightening on the door frame, and draco is certain he’s going to explode at any moment.

“y/n.”

your name is a whisper, barely audible over the sound of his racing heartbeat. he doesn’t even know if he said it, or maybe it was just a thought. at this moment in time, the two things are interchangeable.

“draco.” you swallow, shuffle awkwardly, look to the floor in a rare look of timidity. “w-what are you doing here?”

“i was looking for you.” he speaks fast, like he’s running out of time, and maybe he is. maybe you’re only giving him a few seconds before the memories flood back and you slam the door on his face, ruining his chances once and for all. maybe you think his attempts are idiotic, embarrassing, and you’re only letting him talk out of pity.

but you don’t slam the door on his face. not at all. you stand there, looking more beautiful than draco has ever seen you, even though nothing has really changed.

draco swallows, curling his fingers into fists. “someone told me you - you were in here.”

your eyes snap up. “i didn’t tell anyone where i was. that was kind of the whole point.”

draco nods like he understands, because part of him kind of does - hiding away, pretending you are the only person to exist. it’s a comfort sometimes.

“what do you want, draco?”

and just like that, everything he wanted to say is swept from his brain.

you fold your arms over your chest, one foot tapping rapidly against the floor. “d-did you have anything to say to me?”

you almost sound hopeful.

“ron told me not to give up so easily.”

you pause.

draco rushes on, because he knows he hasn’t done this right. he’s gone so far off script, and he hasn’t even got to the main point of his argument.

“i don’t listen to weasley - ever. quite frankly, his advice is usually more detrimental than helpful, but - but he told me earlier to come find you. he told me you weren’t doing so good-”

“ron-”

“and i don’t know if that’s true on your end, but it’s true for me.”

you blink.

draco exhales shakily, running a ringed hand through his hair. “i’m not doing so good, y/n. i don’t like the way we left things. i don’t like the fact that we left things at all. i should have explained myself a bit better, or come to you sooner, but you know how i am. god, you know how i am better than anyone else in the world, so please, please understand that i’m trying so hard to put my dignity aside to let you know how much i care about you.”

there is a silence. a silence so heavy that draco feels crippled beneath it, unable to do anything but wait in anticipation for a response he might not even deserve. he’s done so many things wrong - not just with you, but with life in general. he is a bad person, and he knows this, and he’s trying to change, because you don’t deserve a bad person.

you swallow. he watches your throat bob.

“i don’t know if i believe you.”

your words are a whisper, but they shatter everything around him like they were screamed at the top of your lungs.

he shakes his head dumbly, like that is answer enough. he wants to say something to argue his case, but his tongue feels heavy and a cloud has passed over his brain.

“draco, i don’t know if i believe you,” you correct, sounding almost desperate. “y-you treated me like shit for no reason. you took my notebook and didn’t give it back. you’re a dick to my friends-”

“i know,” he bursts through gritted teeth, like he is in physical pain. “y/n, i know. i know, and i’ve been beating myself up over it for weeks. but that’s what i do - that’s what i’ve always done. i play the victim card and blame everybody else for my wrongdoings, and it’s childish. i’m trying to stop. i’m really, really trying.”

you open your mouth to respond, but draco takes one look at the tears in your eyes and barrels on, suddenly desperate to dig himself further into the dirt.

“you know what? i don’t even know why i’m here. i’m sorry. i should just - i should just leave you alone and let you get on with your life. you and i were never meant to be together, and i just need to accept that and move on.” he can’t stop talking. he can’t stop hating himself. “i’m sorry, though. for everything i did to upset you. for every stupid thing i said or did - know i didn’t mean it. from the bottom of my heart, y/n, i would never hurt you. never. so that’s why i’m gonna go. i’m gonna leave you alone. i’m g-gonna support you in whatever you want to do in the future. as long as you’re happy.”

he tries for a smile, because that’s the way you’re meant to end these things, isn’t it? you smile, and you shake their hand or something, but draco can’t bring himself to do that, so he turns on his heel instead. he turns away from you, knowing this will be the last time, that there is absolutely no going back, no matter what horrible advice ron weasley gives him. he needs to get over you. he needs to let you go once and-

“draco.”

you grab his wrist and he stumbles. he stumbles because of your grip, but he stumbles, too, because his name on your lips will never get old. it’s music to him, music he never listens to because his father always said it was a waste of time. he basks in it, spinning around to meet your eyes, and his heart crumbles at the tears now rolling down your cheeks.

his own eyes widen. “y/n-”

“you’re so stupid,” you sob. “so fucking stupid, do you know that?” you wrap your arms around his shoulders, pulling him in for a desperate hug. you sob into his shoulder, and draco is frozen, hands hovering over the small of your back, unsure how to take this reaction. “you’re literally the most idiotic person i’ve ever met in my life. how is it you? how is it always you?”

draco blinks. “how is what always me?”

“everything!” you wail, hugging him tighter. “it’s just always you, draco. always.”

and draco still has no idea what you mean, but he’s learning to understand that maybe he doesn’t need to know what you mean all the time. maybe he just needs to be there for you to yell and cry and make no sense, and that will be enough.

he wraps his arms around your waist, nuzzling his head into the crook of your neck. he’s never been any good at hugs, but he’s melting into this one.

“idiot,” you whisper into his neck. “thinking i’m just gonna let you leave like that. . . thinking i don’t like you back. . . thinking i’ve stopped thinking about you for even a second these past few days. . .”

draco holds you tighter.

you pull away after a moment, quickly swiping your hand beneath your eyes. they are puffy now, red-rimmed, and draco knows he will have to explain this to ron in some way or the other without giving ron the benefit of knowing his advice might have actually been beneficial for once.

“i think we both messed up a little bit,” you mumble through sniffles, wiping your nose on your sleeve. “my reaction wasn’t exactly very helpful, was it?”

“well. . . no, but-” draco exhales. “i meant what i said, y/n; i never meant to hurt you. i would never do that.”

your smile trembles. draco has only a second to smile back before you’re throwing your arms around him again, pulling him in for a hug that he is getting strangely fond of.

----

your pen scratches against the paper. draco can’t sleep; he doesn’t really want to sleep, despite the hours of classes and quiddith practice he has to endure in a few hours time.

you never sleep. not really. draco is convinced you live entirely off caffeine and words, staying up into the early hours of the morning with that notebook of yours, your muggle pen darting back and forth over the pages. he scolds you for it sometimes, but he’s always smiling, and you always roll your eyes in response.

now, however, he has one arm thrown over your shoulders, watching you work. it’s already three in the morning, but he’s too enamoured to bother falling asleep; he’d rather stay up and watch you work.

“bic,” he says out of nowhere, shattering the hours of silence the two of you had collected.

you pause, looking up. your eyes are red-rimmed and bloodshot. draco smiles.

“what?”

“bic.” he nods at the pen in your hand. “that’s the name of your fancy muggle quill, isn’t it?”

you frown, taking another second to catch onto what he means, despite the clear explanation he has just given. however, it eventually dawns on you, and you frown even more.

“oh, right. yeah. bic. that’s the brand name.” you place it in draco’s hand. he holds it close to his face, squinting to read the tiny letters written in the plastic. “the best pens in the world, i’d say; much more practical than those bloody quills we have to use in class.”

“nothing wrong with our quills,” draco says, tilting the pen back and forth, examining every inch of it. “mine cost me a good lot of money.”

you scoff, snatching the pen back. “i’m sure it did. waste of a good lot of money, too, when you could have just bought a pack of twelve bic pens for a fiver.”

draco furrows his brows. “a fiver? what’s that in real money?”

you roll your eyes, smiling fondly, and it’s that very smile that has draco leaning forward to peck you on the lips. it takes you out of your work, which he knows will frustrate you in the morning when you wake up to see you didn’t get as much done as you might have liked, but for now, he doesn’t really care. not when you’re melting against him, dropping your dumb bic pen into the crease of your notebook so you can cling to him with both hands.

there are some days when draco thinks you love him only out of pity. he was the boy who lost himself to his feelings for you. he was the boy who came crawling back, the boy who was lost when he didn’t have you by his side. some days, draco has to ask you if you really want to be part of this relationship.

but then you go and kiss him like this, and he is left with no doubt that you’ve meant every single “i love you.” then you go and hold his hand at the gryffindor table, smile fondly at him as he bickers with your friends, and he knows this relationship is not a chore for you. maybe, if he lets himself hope, he can convince himself that you love him as much as he loves you.

#draco malfoy #draco malfoy fanfic #draco malfoy fic #draco malfoy fanfiction #malfoy #malfoy fic #malfoy fanfic #malfoy fanfiction #draco fic #draco fanfic #draco fanfiction #draco #harry potter #harry potter fanfic #harry potter fanfiction #harry potter fic

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alastaircarstairsdefenselawyer · 4 years ago

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the ghost of unbroken love pt 1

Summary: Thomas pays the Carstairs home a visit once the dust has settled (COI spoilers!)

Read it on AO3 | Fanfiction Masterlist

CW: PTSD, implied child abuse, bullying

thanks to @littlx-songbxrd for the title :) (it’s a line from “silhouettes” by sleeping at last)

Alastair’s eyes widened in surprise when he opened the front door to see Thomas Lightwood standing before him. “What are you doing here?”

“Hello to you, too,” he replied, his eyes narrowing as he looked at Alastair’s hands. “Why do you have a hedgehog?”

He turned away slightly, gently stroking the hedgehog in his palm. “Excuse you, don’t be rude to Alfred.”

Thomas gave a slight smile. “My apologies, Alfred. Wait- Isn’t that Christopher’s hedgehog?”

Alastair’s eyes flared, clearly offended. “He is not! He was merely watching him for a few days.”

“Ah, I do think he mentioned that. My mistake.”

“You still haven’t answered my question.”

“Since when do you have a pet hedgehog, though?”

He tried to focus on the feeling of Alfred squirming in his palms and not on the tall, handsome masterpiece of a man standing before him, or on the memory of what his lips and skin tasted like. “If you’re here to try to change my mind-”

“I’m not, don’t worry. I just… I thought that perhaps we could talk, now that some of the excitement has passed.”

Alastair sighed. “Fine, come in, then, before you freeze.”

Thomas followed him in, shaking some of the melting ice and snow from his hair and hanging up his coat. His nose and ears were red from the cold.

“It truly would not kill you to wear a hat, you know,” Alastair commented.

Thomas raised an eyebrow. “Well, I’ve a reputation to uphold, don’t I? What would my friends and I be known for if not our aversion to hats?”

“Besides being a nuisance, you mean?”

Thomas smirked. “Kit did look after Alfred for you.”

“Believe me, any time I mention you and your Merry boys, I never mean Christopher.”

He chuckled. “That’s fair.” Thomas’ eyes drifted to the piano. Alastair cursed silently to himself, realizing that he’d left the fallboard open earlier. “You play?”

“I…” Alastair hesitated. He certainly used to. He wanted to, again. He could play music from a sheet without much effort, though he was still rusty, but playing written music was never what Alastair had enjoyed about playing. He’d always found his joy in creating, in taking written words and crafting it into a beautiful melody. That had been what he was attempting earlier, before he’d gotten overwhelmed and abandoned the project to fetch Alfred to calm him down, before Thomas had arrived at his doorstep. But it was a lost cause, for the part of Alastair that created, the part that dreamed, had died long ago. “Sometimes. Sometimes I do.”

Thomas pulled something out of his coat. “I, uh, I brought you something. I thought… Well, I’m not sure what I thought. I’m certainly not an expert in dealing with grief. But this is one of the books I read after Barbara died, and I thought it was a helpful distraction, and I figured at the very least you could amuse yourself with my trying to make sense of it all in the margins.”

Alastair gave him a small smile while placing Alfred down on the sofa and accepted the book. It was a volume of Sufi poetry, written in Farsi and Arabic. “Thank you, this… it means a lot.”

The conversation stumbled awkwardly for the next few minutes until finally Thomas made a pensive noise. “May I… May I ask you something?”

Alastair paused. “You may.”

“Why are you still friends with them?”

Alastair cast a dark gaze away from him. “I already told you, I-”

“You have no friends, I know. But you certainly pretend to be friendly with them, at the very least. You certainly don’t treat them anything like the way we’ve treated you.”

You don’t treat them anything like the way you’ve treated me, he wanted to say, but he knew that he would be deflecting to bring it up now. The truth was that Alastair asked himself the same questions. Why was he civil with them, friendly even? Why did he placate his father knowing how he would still treat him? He was sure he could see the wheels turning in Thomas’ brain, though his face betrayed none of it, wondering how badly they could have truly treated him if he was able to stay so amicable with them. Alastair, too, often worried if his own memories were lying to him, tricking him. “I can hardly blame them, can I? When I myself have done horrible things?”

Thomas hesitated. “That- That’s not really fair, is it?”

“I’m not sure what you mean.”

“Well, it sounded like, at the time, you hadn’t done anything yet. At least, not to them.”

“What’s it matter? What goes around comes around.”

“More like what comes around goes around. Life isn’t just some twisted justice system, paying for crimes you hadn’t yet committed. What reasons did they have for treating you the way they did? Have they apologized?” Alastair’s brain stalled as Thomas added, “Do you think they owe you one?”

Alastair could feel his heart beating, blood rushing to his head, his chest constricting. “Why are you doing this?” he demanded a little too forcefully. “I told you to leave me alone!”

Thomas took a daring step towards him. “I think you think you deserved it. You think that you’re a monster, that you’re dangerous, a terrible person. You think that means they were justified in hurting you. That’s bullshit, Alastair. No one deserves to go through what you did, even someone who is terrible, and you are not. You’ve done bad things, certainly, but you’ve had reasons for doing each of them, and not one was that you are a terrible person. You are none of the things that you call yourself. You are strong and resilient and compassionate, and you love with your whole heart even those who do not deserve it.”

Alastair took a step back. “You’re wrong.” He wasn’t. Alastair hated feeling so seen, so vulnerable. He wanted to scream. Why wasn’t it enough, then? His love was never enough to make his father want to change, to get better. It was not even enough to get him to stop throwing things at him whenever the night quit going his way. His love was not enough to make Charles love him back. Even the boys at the Academy, Augustus and the rest, he’d spent so much time and energy trying desperately for them to genuinely like him, but it was never enough. He was fairly certain that it never would be. Thomas was wrong, Alastair was none of the things Thomas believed him to be, he was weak and pathetic and whatever love he held inside of him was broken at its core. “You ask me why I treat the boys from school better than you treated me, but why do you? You and your friends have never given them a fraction of the grief you’ve given me, even Augustus after he hurt your sister so terribly. Why?”

Alastair could see the defenses light behind Thomas’ eyes. “Don’t talk about Eugenia as if you know what happened!”

Alastair looked him in the eyes without a hint of expression on his face. “I do, and I know because she told me.”

Thomas stumbled on his words, unsure of how to respond.

“I told you why I was cruel to you lot at school, but I did not tell you why I spread that rumor. The truth is that I was hurting and I was scared and all I wanted was for you to leave me alone, but you wouldn’t. And then Matthew came, running his mouth with his endless nonsense, poking fun at the way I looked and reminding me yet again that there is not a single person on this Earth who sees me as anything more than an afterthought. And so I repeated that rumor to him. And I repeated it again, and again, because I was angry, because when Matthew blew up my belongings, my father decided that the cost to replace them was more than simply the coinage at the shops.” Alastair inhaled, pushing away the memory of the fury in his father’s eyes when he came home that semester.

Releasing a shaky breath, Alastair continued, “And I know. I know that wasn’t fair to him, or to you, or to your parents. But I have been trying to apologize for five months, only you decided without even hearing my apology that I did not deserve forgiveness. What now, Thomas? Now that you know my secrets, you’ve seen my scars? Do I deserve forgiveness? Do I deserve to be hated? Because truly I cannot keep track.” He gestured to the door, his voice now angry. “Who are you to decide what is deserved and undeserved? You do not get to come here and pretend like you understand me or my life. You and your friends think that you’re better than everyone else, but I have a secret for you: you are not morally superior simply because you are less broken than the rest of us. Get out of my house.”

“Alastair-” Thomas tried, but he was cut off.

“Leave, Thomas. And put me out of your mind. I left Charles because I did not wish to be his secret, and I will not be yours, either.”

Thomas looked like he was about to speak, but stopped himself. He looked hurt and confused, something like a wounded puppy. Alastair would not flinch. Finally, he obliged, though he turned at the last moment. “I’m sorry,” he said in a small voice, though not ingenuine. Alastair shut and bolted the door without responding.

Once the door was secure, Alastair sank to his knees, a million thoughts and feelings flooding his brain, from relief to anger to utter despair. Shaky breath after shaky breath, he attempted to piece the world back together again.

taglist (lmk if you want to be added and, if so, whether for every TLH fic I write or just for this series or something else): @littlx-songbxrd @dianasarrow @doitforthecarstairs

#alastair carstairs #thomas lightwood #thomastair #chain of iron #coi spoilers #chain of iron spoilers #coi #the last hours #tlh #fanfiction #fanfic #cw ptsd #cw child abuse #cw bullying

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hadtochangemyurlquick · 4 years ago

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here’s 7.1k of Toni pining and Shelby and Toni being childhood friends and also far more character analysis of Rachel than I was expecting? also Marcus is real and I made him a gorgeous himbo. it’s based off that poem by @theycallmedizzy and you can find it here. lmk if you want a second chapter from shelby’s perspective, tho i literally just finished this one. like literally ten minute ago.

Mr. Williams finishes reading the poem and looks over his spectacles at the class. Yes, they’re spectacles, those kind of tiny thick ones that make his eyes too big because he’s much too old to be teaching.

It’s eight am on a Tuesday, Toni walked the three miles to school because she missed the bus only to walk into her shitty honors English class and hear the teacher reading a poem aloud to the class. Her poem. She’d sat down after a momentary pause and listened to him read the final damning stanza.

And then he looks at Toni.

He reads her essays right? What if he recognizes her writing voice? Is that a thing? Or maybe her handwriting or—

“Toni, I was just explaining to the class that whoever wrote this should submit it to the state literature festival,” Mr. Williams says, Toni almost sags against her chair. “I was hoping someone would come forward,” He turns back to the class, eyes hovering over Quinn and Monty, two of the more sensitive guys who sit in the back and ruin the curve for everyone. “But I’ll leave it on the board here,” he clacks it on with a magnet and Toni flinches, “and hopefully someone will come forward. Now onto today’s lesson.”

After class Martha goes up to the board and takes a picture of it, her eyes a little starry at the words and Toni grits her teeth.

“You have to admit it’s pretty,” Martha says. “Even you can’t deny that.”

“It’s dumb,” Toni says flatly, crossing her arms.

“Well I’m keeping it anyway, maybe someday someone will write a poem about me,” Martha says.

“How do you know it’s not about you?” Shelby asks coming out of nowhere and uninvited too. Toni glares at her, letting her open disdain shine through like sunshine through clouds after a gully washer.

“No guys notice me,” Martha informs Shelby sadly. “I bet Andrew wrote it for you.”

Shelby purses her lips and looks over the poem, “I doubt it. He’s more of a doer, I think. Besides, I’m sure that guys notice you, you went on a date with that boy Sam last month.”

Martha sighs and before she can launch into what a disaster that date was, Toni tightens her hands around her backpack.

“I’ll see you in science,” She tells Martha and manages to escape Shelby’s eyes burning at the back of her neck.

———

reasons not to kiss her

1.) this sort of love is not allowed. you are both too soft, and the world around you is all knives and chipped teeth

Toni had played about every sport she was allowed to growing up. Basketball was her favorite, but she loved beat it ball, the game she made up with the other kids in the neighborhood. It was basketball but without rules, devolving into fist fights within the first half. Nothing tasted better than her own bloody lip on a hot summer day. Not even the cool glass of lemonade Mrs. Blackburn always had ready when she ran all skinned knees to Martha’s telling her about how she beat guys two years older than her.

She got angry when she had to stop playing, moving to a different neighborhood. Apparently, Mrs. Blackburn had figured out that she wasn’t only getting her split lip from the older kids in the neighborhood.

The new foster parents were a little stricter, a little richer, and signed her up for youth soccer when she complained about how there was nothing to do without beat it ball.

Martha Blackburn would always be her person, but Toni didn’t expect to find her people so young. Dottie killed as goalie, and Becca’s sweetness made her defense all the better. But it was Shelby and Toni who were the dynamic duo. Toni had a never ending amount of energy as a midfielder and Shelby’s precision made her the perfect striker. It worked the same way every game, Becca would kick it to Toni, who got it to Shelby, who scored a goal. It got to the point that Becca didn’t even need to do much and the coach had to pull Toni aside to tell her to pass to the other girls too.

At the end of the season they sat together at the team party, wearing orange slice smiles. With sticky fingers they held hands and Toni kinda wondered how someone’s eyes could be so green.

Toni doesn’t remember why Shelby’s parents were so angry about them holding hands, but she knows Mr. Goodkind talked to her foster parents and Toni was off to a different home, in a different district, and she lost even Martha for a few months.

———

At lunch everyone’s talking about that fucking poem. Martha sent it around to the whole school and Leah is discussing its merits with Rachel and Nora. Even they don’t seem bored with the topic, though Nora is sure Quinn didn’t write it.

“It could be Monty,” Leah says. “I wouldn’t have thought he had an eye for this stuff.”

“I don’t think it’s Monty,” Rachel says. She looks at Nora, “C’mon, you know what I’m talking about, right?”

“What?” Nora asks.

“I mean it smells like Anna Akhmatova had a baby with Adrienne Rich,” Rachel says.

“Who had a baby with who?” Martha asks.

“Please,” Fatin says. “You’re not exactly the world’s leading expert on free form poetry.”

“Uh, I know when something’s written by a girl,” Rachel says. “I bet you fifty bucks some closet case wrote this.”

Everyone looks at Toni. “You caught me,” Toni deadpans.

“Rachel’s right,” Nora says. “A girl definitely wrote this. Toni, do you know anyone?”

Toni glares at her. “I’ll shake the lesbian phone tree and see what comes out.”

“Well, could it be Regan?” Martha asks. “Maybe she wants to—”

“It’s not fucking Regan,” Toni grabs her books and stalks out, kicking a chair randomly strewn around away as she did.

She hears Shelby sit down just as she leaves, “What’s got her madder than a baptized cat?” Shelby asks and Toni rolls her eyes.

———

2.) no one ever taught you how to love. your war paint and scarred hands could never hold her like she deserves

The worst of it was that Shelby was gentle. Her hands were warm and soft around Toni’s callouses, and there was a crinkle between her eyebrows as she focused on Toni’s hands. No, the worst of it was that Shelby didn’t let go of Toni’s hands when she finished, kept holding onto them as she met Toni’s eyes.

“Well?”

Toni swallowed hard, “I’m not gonna apologize.”

Shelby sighed, her thumb traced little circles around Toni’s hands. “I know today ain’t easy for you.” Toni scoffed and looked away. “But you know you were pickin' a fight. Andrew promised to leave you alone.”

Toni ripped her hands away and jumped from the bench of the locker room. “What the fuck do you know? You weren’t fucking there.”

Shelby’s calm only made Toni’s anger redder, “You ain’t denying it.”

“Why the fuck are you dating him? He’s a self-satisfied little asshole who just wants a little trophy girlfriend to—”

“Toni,” Shelby cut her off sharply and got to her feet, meeting Toni’s eyes.

“You’re not denying that either,” Toni spat.

She could’ve screamed at the hypocrisy. She wanted to scream. She wanted to pound her fists against the walls and bleed all over the bandages Shelby wrapped around her knuckles. She wanted to hurt, to make Shelby hurt. She wanted everyone to see and feel how hurt she was, and hurt them with that hurt. Finally level the playing field.

“Andrew is my business,” Shelby said. “Not yours.”

“He becomes my business when you—”

“When I what?” Shelby asked.

Toni looked at her hands, “Never mind.”

Shelby sighed, “Martha’s helping you move in today, right? Shel’ll be there the whole time?”

“Don’t pretend you give a shit.”

“Of course I care. The last time you lived with your mom you didn’t eat for a week.”

“I was five, not fifteen,” Toni said. “And seriously, stop pretending you give a shit.”

She shoulder checked Shelby as she walked out and winced at the sound of Shelby hitting the gym lockers. Her hands still sting where Andrew’s teeth had scrapped them.

———

Regan approaches Toni during science, her eyes serious. Martha straightens, and Toni does her best not to make eye contact.

“It’s not mine,” Regan says.

“Yeah duh,” Toni mutters.

Regan frowns, “I just—I didn’t want you to—”

“You made it perfectly clear what you want,” Toni says.

Regan sighs and leaves and Toni regrets it.

“Shelby thinks it’s Marcus,” Martha tells her. Toni blinks up at her and Martha nods. “She thinks he wrote it for me.”

“Martha, that kid is dumber than a box of rocks,” Toni says.

Martha furrows her brow, “Maybe he has hidden depths.”

“If you think it’s him ask him out,” Toni says.

“Shelby thinks it’s him,” Martha is quick to correct. “But he doesn’t even know who I am.”

Toni rolls her eyes. Marcus had been in love with Martha since the ninth grade. They had gotten placed as lab partners and he literally didn’t take his eyes off her the entire time. Every time there was a dance he would always look like he was about to say something, shoot his shot, when Martha would loudly proclaim she couldn’t wait to go with her friends.

Toni would’ve pulled the guy aside and told him to grow a pair, but a guy who’s not brave enough to go after what he wants wasn’t good enough for her Marty, not by a long shot.

“Rachel still thinks a girl wrote it,” Martha says.

“Maybe Rachel wrote it,” Toni mutters.

Martha’s eyes light up.

———

3.) no one has ever loved you this full surely you would drown in it all

Being a lifeguard was the worst. It was super boring, the pay was shit, and also Toni would probably get someone killed. Like, they pretended she was CPR certified but she absolutely had no idea how to do it. She went to some hour long course, slept through it, took a test that was just: should you kill people? And then they wrote some bullshit on some papers about a three week long set of classes.

But Shelby was tanned and golden looking and on their shifts they’d text back and forth about which kids they were betting on to win sharks and minnows. Tweenage boys in all their adolescent infancy would gaze open mouthed at Shelby and Toni alike but Shelby was the only one who let them down gently. Toni would ruin them for girls forever with something enough to cut through even the thickest skin.

On the fourth of July the pool paid for fireworks and Toni found a blanket and Shelby found her and they sat watching the reflections of the lights together. Shelby rested her head on Toni’s shoulder, all gentle, like she was afraid Toni would spook.

“I know this ain’t much of a holiday for you,” Shelby said. “But thank you for spending it with me.”

She had her hand on the blanket, splayed out like she was waiting for Toni to take it, there in front of everyone. Toni imagined a world in which she did.

———

“Yeah it’s not me,” Rachel says. “I wish I could write that good.”

Which is such bullshit because Toni knows Rachel could say well if she wanted to. Rachel’s weird inferiority complex about Nora pisses off Toni to no end. Nora’s the smart one, Rachel will be the first to say, and Rachel’s the athletic one. But Nora has a six minute mile and Rachel has perfect pitch so Toni hates them both.

“Maybe it’s Dot,” Toni suggests and Rachel, Nora, and Martha snicker.

Out of all of them, Martha’s the best driver, but they always end up in Rachel’s car after school anyway.

“Most of the school seems to think it’s by Andrew,” Nora says. Toni’s fists clench.

“Yeah,” Rachel rolls her eyes, “I’m sure he would love to take the credit. C’mon Toni, you don’t know any lesbians who could’ve written this?”

“You’re a lesbian too,” Toni says. “You don’t know any?”

“I don’t have a life outside of the pool,” Rachel says, “and none of them have picked up a book since Hop on Pop.”

“Regan says it wasn’t her,” Martha cuts in helpfully. “But maybe it’s another kid in theatre. Shelby says—”

“Oh my god,” Toni grits out. “What is everyone’s deal with her anyway? Why is everyone still obsessed with her? She’s just another basic Jesus bitch.”

The car goes quiet and Toni wishes she could melt into her seat cushion.

“I didn’t mean that,” Toni says.

“Except you did,” Martha snaps.

Toni winces.

“What’s your deal with her?” Rachel asks. “You guys were fine last year.”

“Quinn says there’s a poetry club,” Nora says. “Maybe it’s someone there?”

No one takes the bait and they don’t talk the rest of the way.

———

4.) she belongs in a museum, and you are merely here to gaze. look around you, all the signs scream ‘do not touch’

“Shelby?”

Toni grabbed the shoulder of the girl and pulled her away from Marcus. Shelby was bruised lips and ruined make up and Toni took her by the hand. Thank god Martha wasn’t here, thank god Andrew wasn’t here, thank god Marcus looked just as trashed.

“Toni?” Shelby sorta stumbled, her ankle twisting painfully on her heel and Toni steadied her.

Shelby could do a cartwheel in six inch heels.

“I’m gonna get you home, okay?” Toni called over the music.

Shelby didn’t really respond, just leant into Toni as she led her away and outside. The party had spilled into the backyard and front yard some, the cops probably already on their way, but everyone was too fucking hammered to notice them making their way out.

Shelby’s house was only about a twenty minute walk but it was cold and Toni was only wearing her basketball shorts and her mom’s jacket that she promptly put over Shelby’s shoulders.

“Are you still—” Shelby swallowed hard, “You’re still living with your mom?”

“Mostly with Martha,” Toni said.

“Martha’s great,” Shelby said. “She’s so pretty it makes my eyes hurt.”

“One of our finest,” Toni grunted as Shelby nearly fell on her heels again.

“She could be a model,” Shelby told her. “We should get waffle house.”

“Shelbs, we’re nowhere near a waffle house.”

“What was Becca’s order? At waffle house?”

Toni sighed, looping an arm around her. “I dunno.”

“Neither do I,” Shelby said.

“I’m sorry, Shelby,” Toni said.

Shelby shook her head and stopped right there, circling her arms around Toni and pressing her into a hug. Toni closed her eyes, holding her back as tightly as she dared.

“Oh, Shelby, I’m so fucking sorry.”

———

“Day two!” Mr. Williams calls. He taps the poem again, “I will investigate the handwriting if the poet doesn’t come forward by Friday. I know it’s someone in one of my classes.”

His eyes narrow as he takes them all in and his eyes don’t linger on Toni. Not even for a moment.

There’s a part of her that wants to march up to the front of the room and write her name down, make eye contact with everyone who never even considered her before. But no one expects shit from her, and even if he does go over the handwriting he won’t really be able to pin it on her. He might not even bother checking to see if it matches.

Toni tries not to jump when Marcus takes the seat in front of her during quant lit. It’s not like they have assigned seating but everyone sticks to the same seats anyway. Marcus won’t get shit for it though, perks of being the quarterback.

“So, listen,” he scratches the back of his head and Toni rolls her eyes at him. “I know we aren’t really friends but I—um.”

“Marcus,” Toni says.

“I wanna ask Martha out,” Marcus rushes out. “She’s like the nicest, smartest, coolest girl in the school and like her eyes are out of this world radical.” Radical? “And I would take her somewhere nice like Olive Garden. Or Cheesecake Factory? And pay for it, and open all the doors for her, and I’d carry her books to class—”

“On your date? This is happening during school?” Toni asks.

His eyebrows furrow as he tries to connect the dots. Football players.

“Oh no! I meant like, after, if she wants me to,” He says. “Can I?”

“Can you what?”

“Can I ask her out?”

Toni blinks at him. “What?”

“My buddy said if you want to get with a girl you get close to the best friend first, and I figured I’d ask you for your blessing because that’s what they do in old fashioned stuff right?” He bounces up in down in his seat. “Can I? Or like, do you wanna give me your blessing?”

She feels like she’s having an aneurysm.

Listen, Marcus having feelings for Martha is one thing. Everyone on the planet who’s ever met Martha falls a little in love with her. That’s kinda just how she operates. Toni narrowly avoided that pitfall by being lucky enough to know her since she was five, but it was a tough time. But Marcus was never gonna act on it. Marcus can’t—he’s the quarterback.

It’s basic math, Marcus is a six foot five football player with shoulders wide enough to bench press the Subaru Forrester Toni’s legally required to buy when she turns thirty-two. He’s got that all American boy smile that shows of perfectly white teeth, and dark hair that sweeps in front of his eyes. His face looks like it was sculpted out of marble, like literally he looks like some sort of roman god, except if that roman god volunteered at the humane society on the weekends and called his mom Mami.

Martha is a res girl who’s best friend is the dyke with anger issues. And like yeah, she’s stupid pretty, but Marcus has exclusively dated varsity cheerleaders since the seventh grade.

So yeah, even if Marcus may have feelings for Marty, everyone fucking does, and there’s a host of reasons why she doesn’t have a date to every dance and a new guy every week. And most of them are the cliche high school movie hierarchy sort.

“It’s really none of my business, man,” she says.

“Dude, it’s totally your business,” Marcus says. He leans closer, “you two are like sisters right? What do I gotta do to prove I’m not gonna hurt her? I’ll do your math homework for a month, no two months.”

A thought occurs to Toni and it’s a terrible one. But when has that ever stopped her?

“You’re in my honors English class right?”

Marcus’s face screws in, “Uh, yeah. But I don’t think you want me doing your homework in there, I’m like totally failing.”

“I have a better idea.”

———

5.) she touches you like youre fragile, and if you break you wont be able put yourself together again

Dot was asleep which was Toni’s first indication that something was deeply wrong. The second was that Shelby wasn’t. She was definitely trying her darnedest, but Toni could tell she was awake. Awake in her arms.

Toni shifted, just enough to let Shelby know she was awake too. The movie was some horror flick, something dumb and flashy and almost muted it was so quiet. It was the only thing rated R that they could all agree on. Dot’s house was the only place they were allowed to watch anything rated R when they were still thirteen, so it was all they watched there.

She felt Shelby shift up, so her head rested on Toni’s chest, shifted until her lips met Toni’s clavicle.

Toni wondered if she’d die.

Shelby went up instead of down, pressing kisses up the length of Toni’s neck, soft barely there things that made Toni’s breath catch as she watched Dot snore on the couch next to them.

Toni’s hands moved to the inside of Shelby’s thighs and they stared there, tracing delicate patterns that only made Shelby curl closer.

“I think you’re probably the most beautiful girl I ever saw,” Shelby whispered.

“I—”

“I’m not done.”

Toni’s mouth clamped shut.

“I think about you all the time,” Shelby whispered. “Even when I—”

“Shelby,” Toni warned. Shelby pressed a kiss to the corner of her mouth.

“You’re right,” Shelby said.

Neither of them slept that night.

———

Toni walks into class three minutes late with Mr. Williams, and takes her seat with a sulk.

“He still won’t let me redo that paper,” Toni mutters to Martha who’s eyes are wide.

“Toni, Marcus just—” She nods her head at the poem where Mr. Williams is studying it too.

“Marcus Gonzales?” Mr. Williams asks.

Marcus gets to his feet.

“You wrote this?”

“Yessir.”

“This poem right here?”

“Yessir.”

Mr. Williams blinks and takes off his spectacles, setting them down on the desk. “We’ll talk after class. I should hope everyone has a copy of—”

“I wrote it for Martha,” Marcus doesn’t sit down and the entire class stares at him.

“—Franny and Zooey and I would like you all to turn to page 52. Begin by annotating—”

“Martha, can I take you out on a date?” Marcus asks.

“—this first section, and on to page 64. Remember what Seymour serves as in—”

Martha blushes hard and glances at Toni who smiles before she looks back at Marcus in all his golden boy 6’5” glory.

“Um, okay,” she mutters out and he grins.

“Cool.” Marcus finally sits and gives Toni a thumbs up. She rolls her eyes.

“—this story and compare that to his roles in the other parts of the work we’ve read.”

“I told you it was for you, girl,” Shelby says on Martha’s other side. “People always have a way of surprising you.”

———

6.) she is all bubblegum skies and chapped stick kisses, and you cannot watch the love run out of another persons eyes

They were all a little bit slap happy by the end of the night. A little bit drunk, a little bit high, and laughing far too hard at one another.

“I’m scared,” Shelby told them, still grinning wider than any pageant smile.

“Girl, you picked dare,” Fatin said.

“I did,” Shelby bit her lip. “But all y��all dared Leah to do was finish the vodka.”

“That was—that was bad vodka,” Leah slurred from her position on Dot’s lap.

“But now we’re out of vodka,” Martha sang. “You picked dare.”

“I’ll go with you,” Toni got to her feet, surprised when they were more steady than she assumed they’d be. “Two chairs right?”

“Alright,” Shelby said. “And you’ll hold my hand?”

“Sure princess,” Toni rolled her eyes.

It was an office supply place, probably. The parking lot had this killer decline, and it was one of those spring nights where nothing could really ruin anything. Not forever.

The rolling chairs were kinda gross, left there but not yet picked up by the garbage men. They had to do a special pickup for that, which costed extra. No one in the office had done it for the weeks the girls had been going there after parties.

“Be careful,” Nora urged.

“Don’t fall,” Rachel suggested.

“Hold on, I’m not recording yet,” Fatin said. “Okay now go.”

They pushed off in their rolling chairs, holding hands, and sped down the decline laughing as they barely managed to hold on and steer at the same time.

Toni went flying as she bumped into a patch of grass and for some reason, Shelby went flying with her, landing on top. Toni grunted, but she wasn’t in pain, not really.

They met eyes.

“Sorry,” Shelby said. She didn’t sound sorry.

“You okay?” Toni asked.

Shelby smiled, this real soft thing, Toni wondered what it’d taste like.

“Fuck yeah bitches! I’m so putting that on snapchat!” Fatin screamed and Shelby pulled away, turning white.

“God if this is you in in freshman year, I’m terrified of you as a senior,” Toni called back.

Shelby’s hand slipped out of her’s and Toni tried very very hard not to overthink it.

———

“So I’ve been thinking,” Leah said. Toni took her gym bag out of her locker, pretty much the only thing she kept in there.

“Oh no.”

“Rachel was right about that poem being written by a girl,” Leah continued. “Which meant Marcus lied. And Marcus would never do that unless someone gave him permission to take credit. And since Marcus lied so he could ask Martha out that means the person who wrote the poem wanted Martha to be happy.”

Toni swallowed hard and tried not to fumble with the lock, stumbling with it.

“Toni,” Leah walked over to her. “You need to face the facts: Shelby’s into you.”

Toni blinked, “What?”

“She wrote that whole poem for you, don’t tell me you don’t see it. It’s about you!”

“She—” Toni stopped and furrowed her brow, finally making eye contact with Leah, “You think she wrote that poem for me?”

Leah nodded, “And she let Marcus take the credit. Listen, I know I’m right. I’ve been thinking about it for ages. Whatever fight the two of you had—you need to get over it. She’s into you, Toni. She’s been into you.”

“You have no fucking idea what you’re talking about,” Toni told her. “Seriously, fuck you Leah and fuck off. This is none of your fucking business.”

“You aren’t denying it,” Leah crowed. “Shelby likes you.”

“No she fucking doesn’t!” Toni spat at her. “She fucking hates me! She didn’t write that poem Marcus did! For Martha!”

Leah’s brow furrowed, “But… but you wanted her to. Didn’t you?”

Toni looked away.

“Shelby’s actually straight, isn’t she?” Leah asked. “Fuck Toni.”

“I’m happy for Martha,” Toni said, and marched away.

———

7.) if you jump, she might catch you, and then youd have to watch as she tumbled through the dark

“What if we ran away?” Shelby asked, which was Toni’s third indication that the punch was spiked.

The first two were her arms wrapped around Toni’s waist, swaying in the soft breeze to the distant music of Junior prom.

“Oh yeah?” Toni asked. “Where’d we go?”

“Peru,” Shelby said. “Or LA, or New York or—” Shelby sort of trailed off, losing her thought halfway through it.

“Our parents,” Toni pointed out. She’d moved in with Martha a few months ago but her mom had taken it as a wakeup call, promising to get her shit back together as soon as she could. Toni couldn’t help but believe her, even if it put her in stasis.

“Right,” Shelby sounded cold, “Our parents.”

“Are things worse with them?” Toni asked.

“No,” Shelby said. “The same, really. They’ve lightened up since—since Becca. Have you heard from your mom?”

“Every week or so,” Toni said. “And if you ever need a break you know—“

“Martha is happy to have me,” Shelby finished.

Toni smiled and pulled away enough to meet Shelby’s eyes, her hands slid from behind Shelby’s neck to either side.

“Did I tell you you look beautiful tonight?” Toni asked.

“You did,” Shelby said.

“Can I say it again?”

“You can.”

“You look beautiful tonight.” Shelby closed her eyes and Toni tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. “You’re gonna get out, you know that right?”

Shelby nodded, leaning into Toni’s hand.

Later, Toni will learn that was one of two lies Shelby told that night.

———

Martha gets home at 11:30, exactly when Marcus promised, and Toni smiles as her sister collapses backwards into her bed.

“Toni,” she actually giggles, giggles like a little school girl. “It was amazing.”

“Where’d you go?” Toni asks.

“Olive Garden, I think he was trying to win points with you,” Martha says.

“As he should,” Toni nods.

“He was the perfect gentleman,” Martha swoons. She rolls onto her stomach and looks at Toni and oh god, Toni knows that look. “He did tell me something about you, though.”

“Oh yeah? How I’m better in quant lit than him?” Toni asks.

“He told me you wrote the poem,” she says.

Toni looks away, “Okay, and?”

“You told me you were over Regan,” Martha says.

“It’s complicated,” Toni decides. “And whatever. I wrote it awhile ago anyway.”

“Have you thought about submitting it to that contest Mr. Williams was talking about?” Martha asks.

“Can we go back to talking about your date with Prince Charming?” Toni says. Martha acquiesces, she’s too damn giddy to do anything else.

———

8.) her gaze is too gentle. you will not be the one to tell her that not everything can be fixed with a smile

“Toni,” Dot began, and Toni could tell she was looking at her. “Toni, is Shelby—is she gay?”

Toni snickered, “Dot, Shelby is possibly the biggest straight girl in our school. Maybe our state. She’d sooner give herself a buzzcut than she would ever even kiss a girl."

“Andrew said Shelby got a job as a counselor at this church camp—Guiding Light—in Plano,” Dot said. “I wanted to find the address so I could write to her and it’s a conversion camp.”

The breath left Toni’s body.

“What?”

“And I got to thinking,” Dot said. “About what a mess she was after Becca died this year. Ignoring us, going to all those parties, signing up for a crazy number of pageants. Hell, it was only once you two started talking that she talked to us again.”

“Stop it, Dot.”

“Toni is Shelby gay?”

“Dot,” Toni said.

“Because if she’s gay, if she’s not there as a camp counselor—Toni, did you know about this?”

“Of course not! Jesus!” Toni said. She jumped to her feet and started to pace, “Jesus Christ. Oh my god.”

“Toni is Shelby gay?”

Toni looked at Dot and Dot sighed, her entire body sagging.

“What do we do?” Toni asked.

Dot, her solid, steady, friend since fucking youth soccer was silent.

“Dot, what do we do?”

“Dot, what the fuck do we do?”

———

Shelby finds her before school, Toni smoking like she hasn’t since ninth grade when Bernice gave her a stern lecture about lung cancer. It made Toni cry, actually. Not because it was so stern but because Martha and Toni had been separated for three years and Bernice still cared enough to get angry with her. She promised then and there to stop, and each drag she took now makes her feel like she’s committing treason.

“Smokin’ kills,” Shelby tells her, like they didn’t all go to Dot’s dad’s funeral last year.

Toni takes another drag, just to watch Shelby roll her eyes.

“How’d Martha’s date go last night?” Shelby asks.

Toni glares, “Seriously? You avoid me all year and now you’re asking about Martha’s date?” Shelby looks away. “It went fine. Whatever.”

“I just—I was surprised Marcus wrote that poem is all.”

“You literally said multiple times you thought it was him,” Toni says.

“I know, I know but—”

“Still holding out hope for Andrew?” Toni sneers. “Marcus may not be the sharpest tool in the shed but he cares about Martha. Even a fucking idiot could write a half decent poem if they had someone worth writing about.”

Shelby meets her eyes and Toni’s breath catches.

“Know a lot about poetry, Toni?”

Fuck fuck fuck.

Toni flicks the only half used cigarette away. “I have to go to class,” She says, aware it’s just about the worst thing she can do.

Shelby doesn’t even need the last word, she’s aware she’s already won.

———

9.) she is so good. she is so good, and you cannot ruin one more good thing

It hadn’t been the first time Toni found her mom overdosed on the couch, but it’d been the most terrifying. Toni had waited in the school parking lot for a pick up for twenty minutes before Shelby had offered her a ride.

When they trooped inside, after having to use the key Tamera kept tucked away in a loose brick, her mom had been passed out on the couch. And the stupid thing had been that Toni had known her mom hadn’t been doing great. Like she’d known Tamera had lost her job, and was close to losing the car, that the pain in her back had been getting worse again from stress. Toni had known that.

But for some stupid, naive reason, Toni had never thought she’d pull this, go back to who she was.

Her tolerance was low, the doctors had told her, because she’d been clean for so long. She hadn’t realized it and had taken more than she could handle.

Shelby had taken the three of them to the hospital, helped carry Toni’s drooling mother into the ER, and held Toni’s hand until the other girls showed up, who she texted to come.

Shelby had been there when the police and social services came to talk to her about going back into foster care. Shelby had never left her side.

Toni couldn’t help but contrast that to the Shelby she saw now. The Shelby who showed up for senior year was barely christian, barely anything, just sort of blank and empty and waiting to grow up so she could have daughters that'd also wait to grow up so that they could have daughters that’d also wait to grow up so that they could have daughters that’d also

Shelby didn’t even look at her, for the first week of senior year she didn’t even look at Toni. She talked with Martha in that faux friendly way, she passed off on lunch invitations to do school work and Toni felt like she was going insane.

Sometimes she would just stare at the back of Shelby’s head in English class, writing whatever gibberish came to mind, and not listening to Mr. Williams at all. Just stare, for forty-five minutes, at a girl who wouldn’t even make eye contact, Toni’s pencil moving rapidly as she barely even glanced at the words her hands produced.

On the last day of the semester Toni finally looked away and came to two realizations:

a. Her mother was never getting better. Not really. b. Toni had written P E R U over forty times in her notebook.

As quietly as she could she tore the page out, and maybe about fifteen pages behind it, filled with similar drivel and recycled them at the end of class.

When the next semester started the seats were changed and something she’d written that she barely remembered was on the board.

Her mother was still in rehab.

———

Toni watches Marcus carry Martha’s backpack to class and watches as Martha giggles at him, argues with him. She is literally so happy it makes Toni’s heart burst.

“Shelby’s quite the matchmaker, huh?” Fatin asks.

Toni looks at her.

“Leah told me,” Fatin explains.

Toni rolls her eyes.

“Yeah, that’s what I said too,” Fatin says. “Leah’s good at noticing things but putting the pieces together is not her strong suit. So I called Dorothy.”

This makes Toni’s shoulders tense and Fatin wraps an arm around them.

“Dorothy didn’t want to talk but what she didn’t say was enough.” Fatin sighs, “I’m all for a little drama but this is cutting into my me time.”

“What going from twenty-four hours a day to twenty-three and a half?” Toni asks.

“God forbid,” Fatin nods sagely. “I didn’t know you could write.”

“I can’t.”

“Clearly not.”

Toni slips out from under her arm, and follows Martha into class. Mr. Williams glares as she comes in and Toni realizes if Marcus came clean to Martha he definitely came clean to Mr. Williams. At least the poem is off the board.

When he passes out papers from a recent essay her’s has a “see me after class” sticker that makes Toni slide down in her seat. Martha doesn’t even notice enough to give her an odd look because she and Shelby are yukking it up about the quarterback.

When everyone files out she hangs back and he looks at her, over his spectacles.

“I’m disappointed,” he says at last.

Toni scoffs.

“You write essays based off spark notes, you never participate, and half the time you don’t even do the homework. But you write this.” He slides the crumpled paper over his desk, her poem shining back at her. “So all I can conclude is that you’re lazy.”

Yeah, obviously.

“Why did you have Marcus tell everyone he wrote it?” Mr. Williams asks.

“So he could ask out Martha.”

“He didn’t need to have written the poem to do that,” Mr. Williams says.

“Can I go?” Toni asks.

“I want to submit this poem to a contest, I want you to start trying in this class, and this,” he hands her a slip of paper with about twenty sets of numbers on it, “is a list of Dickinson poems I want you to read by next week. Pick at least three to write me at least a page about. Single spaced.”

“What?” Toni asks, “You can’t make me do that.”

“I know half the kids in this class write off spark notes, I can easily have them all—including you—fail. So yes, yes I can actually.” He takes off his spectacles and Toni glares at him. “You’re a smart kid, Toni. You’ve got a talent for this.”

Toni shakes her head, “I’m a one hit wonder.”

“You know Britney Spears said the same thing after Baby One More Time.”

“That’s not true,” Toni says.

“Yeah,” Mr. Williams says. “Because she kept working at it.”

And Toni takes the slip of paper with the numbers on it, and marches to her next class and he watches her the whole way, not bothering to put on his stupid spectacles.

———

10.) you will not watch her crumble under the weight of your sins. she is too light, too breathless to be caught up in the dizziness of your heart

Dot didn’t invite them all to the funeral but they came anyway, even Shelby who Toni knew had been waffling back and forth.

Some of his army friends showed up, a doctor or two, and Mateo—the hot nurse Dot steadily ignored. It was a small and quiet service, and the seven of them sat towards the back, holding steady for her.

There was too much on Dot’s shoulders, there always had been, but she didn’t look any freer now that the burden was lifted. She just looked scared, small, and sad.

Toni couldn’t help but wonder if that was what she’d look like, if she got the call about her mom. It was a terribly selfish thought but who could blame her?

Shelby’s hands interlocked with hers, in broad daylight, and stayed there for the entire day. When Toni met her eyes she saw pure terror reflected back at her.

God, were they really only seventeen?

———

Rachel is complaining at lunch about owing Nora five bucks, how she was so sure some closet case wrote the poem but it’s no surprise Nora got it right.

Fatin and Leah don’t contribute and Martha probably wouldn’t have either except she was eating lunch with Marcus, they had found their own little table and were smiling at one another.

“They’re certainly cute together,” Shelby says, glancing back at Martha and Marcus.

“I say it’s weird they have the same name,” Rachel says.

“Says the girl who dated a guy named Raymond,” Nora says.

Rachel throws a straw wrapper at him, “That was a phase and you know it.”

“Marcus is sweet,” Shelby says. “If anyone deserves someone sweet it’s Martha.”

“Don’t you think he’s a little,” Leah trailed off and they all looked at her. “You know a little…”

“Spit it out, Leah,” Rachel says.

“Like the porch lights on but no one’s home?” Leah says.

“Martha is smart enough for the both of them,” Toni says. “And thank god because I was sick of doing his homework in quant lit.”

“That’s literally the easiest math class there is,” Fatin says and Toni shrugs.

“What’s that?” Shelby asks, pointing at the yellow slip sticking out of Toni’s binder.

“Some extra credit stuff, from Williams. Apparently I’m not doing so hot in that class,” Toni says.

Rachel leans way over from the other end of the table. “What is that, Dickinson?”

“It’s a list of numbers,” Shelby says. “Why would it be Dickinson?”

“All of Dickinson’s poems were numbered. It was only after she died that other people named them,” Nora says.

“And Nora said it so you know it’s true,” Rachel smirks.

“Join the fucking club,” Dot says to Toni. “I don’t know why y’all didn’t take non-honors English twelve with me. We just sit around and talk about whatever football game was on the most recently.”

“Well I’ve never liked football so.” Toni gets up, “I’ve gotta talk to my science teacher. I’ll see you guys after school.”

“I’ll go with you,” Shelby smiles and Toni clenches her jaw. “Ms. Roberts said I needed to rework my psych paper.”

“See you guys,” Rachel says and as they leave she’s arguing with Dot about why football is stupid and Toni can feel Fatin’s eyes on her all the way out.

———

reasons to kiss her

1.) she loves you, and her eyes are closed, and didnt your mother ever tell you not to leave a good thing waiting

Toni hated the magnet program kids at her middle school. Like everyone not in their cluster she found them annoying, rich, and privileged as fuck. They only hung out with each other and it was clear they’d never give—

———

“Toni?”

The stair well is empty, it’s the short cut through the language hallway and no one goes there during lunch.

Toni is working hard on ignoring Shelby but is forced to turn around when Shelby stops halfway up.

“Ms. Roberts doesn’t need me to rework my psych paper.”

Toni stares at her.

Shelby takes a step up, one step closer to Toni.

“I had hoped maybe you wrote it for Regan,” Shelby says.

“No such luck,” Toni croaks out.

“That’s a lot of reasons not to kiss someone,” Shelby says. “You’d think if you really shouldn’t kiss someone you’d only need the one.” She takes another step up, until they’re only separated by a few inches.

“I guess,” Toni says.

“Are you really gonna keep me waiting?” Shelby says.

Toni blinks, “You mean you still—”

“I have to do everything myself,” Shelby says.

She kisses her.

#did something different with time than i usually do #and with structure #lmk what you think #shoni #the wilds fanfic #the wilds #goodfoe fanfic #goodfoe #shelby goodkind #toni shalifoe #gus writes #ren don’t

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