#i’ve literally coasted my way through school and i can’t even remember month orders or my own birthday sometimes

[treefrog203]

lmao sorry i’m so quiet on tumblr anymore, depression can suck my dick

[thebookofus-depravity]

Skinny Bone Jones

Skinny Bone Jones

Chapter 1 

Chapter 2 coming soon!

9k words

This is my baby Park Jaehyung and an AU in which y’all are dealing with the coronavirus together in LA. Jae grew up with Y/N and you were childhood friends. You stayed close but haven’t seen each other in ages. Now you’re both back.

 Teeth rotting fluff, possible smut in future chapters (lets see if I have the balls to post it), Y/N has a strong proclivity for a certain guitarists hands. And honestly, who can blame her? TW: Confrontation with a nasty old ex, Coronavirus,  Quarantine, overbearing parents.

...

This fucking sucks.

Closing your laptop, and shoving it off of your lap to the side of your bed, you are struck by exactly how warm the underside of your Netflix Machine was in contrast to the chilly room. Well, 3 hours of To Catch a Predator in, and sure, your old 2011 Dell dinosaur is going to be a little mad at you. I've got to do something today. Anything. 

Week 3 of your quarantine is coming to a close and on this breezy LA Thurs-Fri-Turday (who the hell knows anymore) you can feel the last tendrils of your sanity escaping with the setting sun. It just doesn't stop setting. And rising. And setting. And rising. Tortuously slow some days and before you can even get out of bed the next. Not that you get out of bed much.

Alright. That's it. I'm gonna do something. I have to. It's time to make some art, bake some cookies, go for a run, tell someone around me how much I value them, topple the patriarchy. I am going to get up and do something with my life and damned if I get in my own way again. I am unstoppable. I am formidable. I am inevitable. 

Rising from your rumpled bed clothes with the steadfastness of a slightly anemic Viking (whoa I’m woozy, I shouldn't have stood up so fast. Shit, when's the last time I ate?) you cross to the large bay window that faces the street. You throw your curtains open, ready to face the day, only to be faced with… stars starting to twinkle at you out of the inky blackness. Dammit. I'm gonna have to defeat systemic oppression tomorrow. 

Squinting from behind your glasses, you see that the stars are not stars at all but helicopters blinking down at you. You haven't seen real stars since your trip to Big Sur last summer. Although you moved to LA when you were 7, you have vague recollections of the Korea that you loved as a young child. Your parents had picked up and moved to the States after years of struggling through VISA's and citizenship red tape. Your mom and dad had originally meant to get married and have you in the US. The land of opportunity. 

You now chafed slightly under that blanket of opportunity as you are far too aware of the responsibility you have been given to make the absolute most of it. From the ripe old age of 8 you had been conditioned to follow your dreams to their fullest. As long as those dreams were to become a doctor, lawyer, or marry a CEO. Your parents cared about you greatly and you knew that. They only want security for you, happiness comes from security. Now 25, you can't quite remember the last time their overbearing nature had been quite this...potent. You were in your final year of medical school at USC and there was nowhere to run.  It was time for you to begin your foray into the 'real world' of residency. The same post-undergrad 'real world' that you had watched all of your non-premed friends crash land into. They had all distanced themselves from you, both figuratively and literally; intentionally and inadvertently. Divorced, Beheaded, Died: Divorced, Beheaded, Survived. You had watched you friends get married, have kids, sabotage marriages, buy houses, do well, do poorly. And here you were in some kind of bubble both safe and isolated from all of the uncertainty beyond the classroom. 

Jokes on you, Jessica, now we're all screwed, you find yourself thinking for the upteenth time over the past month. You had been watching the Coronavirus since December and knew exactly what was to come. You did all that you were capable of as a not-quite certified medical professional and tried to convince people of the reality of the threat, convince them not to panic, and to exercise a reasonable level of preparedness. Well, that didn't work. You found yourself sunk into a deep well of frustration and futility at the action and inaction that was being exhibited throughout the States. For the first weeks of quarantine you found yourself glued to your phone, helplessly watching the tragedy unfold and the stupidity that was ensuing. By week 2 your empathy had burnt out and you knew you couldn't watch that world anymore. K-drama's it is. After completely obliterating Crash Landing on You, Itaewon Class, and rewatching Descendants of the Sun for the eighth time just because it's so. damn. cute!, your parents started to get a little concerned. 

Your stomach growled and you realize you, in fact, haven't eaten since early this morning. As you consider what the consequences of emerging from your cave of a bedroom might have, you resign yourself. Five minutes later you are hovering in the kitchen with a bowl of leftover whateverthefuck in hand, you turn to see both of your parents at the bar stools staring at you with a look of concern that you haven't seen in years. Shit, I keep forgetting, they think I'm functional.  Your parents had shipped you off to Health Careers College Prep school, a boarding school in Sacramento, when you were 16. Upon graduation there with your high school diploma, nurses aid, and dental hygienist's certificates, you immediately started at USC premed. You hadn't lived at home since your Jonas Brother's phase. As much as your parents loved you, they didn't really know you. This had been overwhelmingly obvious when the USC campus closed and you returned home to open arms and your bedroom frozen in the clutches of 2009. Your parents had welcomed you home with tearful hugs and a new gift for your room. I know how much you love that Kevin- boy. And your room is so old. Come. Come. Already wary and wondering who the hell is Kevin? you allowed yourself to be led to your old room and set your bags down with a deadened thump. You tried so hard not to laugh, You really did.  They're trying so hard. But like, Where did they even find this monstrosity? You had been staring up at the largest poster of Kevin Jonas that you had ever seen every night for 3 weeks and it was starting to get to you. 

Regardless of the decor (purple fuzzy lamp shade included), there were so many parts of living at home that were so foreign to you.  Although everything was completely the same, you were worlds different and it was disorienting. Your bed seemed smaller, the walls shorter, the colors dimmer. Everything that made that house your home was still there, only you had changed. It was like you were in a coma and had just woken up, the rest of the world unchanged but with 10 more years under your belt. Your therapist would tell you that you were reverting into a childlike state because of trauma and surroundings. Hush, Mollie, I don't need that right now. I need food. 

Food was honestly what was keeping you sane and civil. Your parents own a pho shop just down the street that was still taking carry out and delivery orders for pho, crawfish, whatever they had lying around. You had been helping out in the kitchen and with deliveries since you had been home. As freeing as the drives have been, you really come alive in the kitchen. You had been watching your mom make pho and dumplings for years and although she sent kimchi to your apartment every month or so, you missed your moms cooking. And her kitchen. You immediately took to cooking just like you had when you moved off of USC campus and into an apartment with some friends. You had 12 burners! That all worked! A convection oven! Two of them! Kitchen Aid's! You had no problem opening up shop at 8am every morning to prep the dough and get the stock boiling and all of the other things that her mother and father had been doing for the past 20 years. 

Returning to your room after rinsing out your bowl and chopsticks, and exchanging goodnight's with your parents you sit on your bed and tell yourself to go to bed. You have to be up at 7am for the kitchen. You need to chop scallions for the pork and chive dumplings so it has time to coagulate. Come on, Go to bed. No phone. It was a pitiful attempt, really. You had been pulling med-school grade all-nighters since your junior year of high school and nothing was stopping you now. Turning on your side for easy access to your charger, you plug your phone and coast through Instagram, Youtube, Twitter, Tinder for an indeterminate amount of time before your eyes start to get heavy. Instagram was just filled with all of your peers from USC recklessly meeting up with friends for picnics and drives and all of the other things they thought they were free to do because they were young and healthy and beautiful. Fuck off. Youtube provided a lovely escape from the actual outside. Mikey Chen showed you around TaiPei's street food scene, Binging with Babish gave you a new hand pulled noodle recipe to try, Bon Appetit made you glad you weren't Claire Saffitz. Tinder was a joke but an adequately funny one. Instead of your bog standard USC fuckboi's you were able to talk to fuckboi's from Korea, Dubai, Indonesia, Guatemala, Brazil. How fun. You had downloaded it 6 months prior after yet another guy in your department was just 'too busy, i'm sorry' to make the date that you had planned. You generally tried to avoid Twitter as it was just an echo chamber of panic and 24 hour news cycles and didn't do much for your anxiety. See, Mollie? I'm being smart. 

You flick open the little bird app and scroll for just a minute. A particular notification picques your attention. Jae tweeted. Well, Day6 tweeted, but we all know who runs their twitter. Your throat tightens with nerves as the post loads. You worry about him more than you'd like to admit but with tours cancelled and travel suspended, you know how hard it can be for people whose livelihoods revolve around entertainment and travel. The post loads and you let out a sigh of relief to see Jae surrounded by his band mates and smiling. Brian starts speaking Korean and delivers his message about their newly acquired tiktok. Brian gestures for Jae to speak and Jae delivers the same message in English. Ah, he went back to blonde. It looks good on him. Wait is he- oh god, he's wearing a crossbody fanny pack. Jae, you're old. Stop. Shifting to get more comfortable, you let the video loop a few times before closing the app. Jae's okay. You roll over onto your side and set your phone to the side. Jae's voice echoes through your ears for the next few minutes but you resolve yourself against it. I'm not getting fucking tiktok. I'm a grown ass woman. That app is for 12 year olds. And Jae. Resolved, you burrow into your Jonas brothers duvet cover for the night. 

Sweating and on the verge of tears, you wake with a start. The dream was already slipping from your consciousness with a blessed haste but the uneasy feeling that the nightmare gave you seemed to coat the inside of your skull and taint it's entire contents. A thin light filters through your still open window and your eyes creak open. Morning? Sure, why not? Rolling over, you flick open your phone and are greeted by an all too unfamiliar, 5:17am. It's too damn early. Even for you. You still have an hour or so to kill before you have to get up but you didn't fancy the idea of trying to go back to sleep after that dream. Propping yourself up on a few of the approximately 67 pillows that litter your twin sized bed, you open your phone. 3 new emails from USC congratulating you on your graduation and asking for some documentation of something or another or evaluation of some class you hadn't thought of in weeks. Skip. 2 emails from residencies that you had applied to before the coronavirus urging you to reapply in the fall. Great. You couldn't even bring yourself to feign concern over the missed opportunity. 1 email from Twitter informing you that Jae had tweeted. Again. You follow the link to another video of his side project EaJ. You had been following his new releases and you were surprised by the tenderness and vulnerability that they showed. He was always such a funny guy, it was the only side that he really showed much to the media. Sure, fans got glimpses at concerts, but not many knew just how deep the well ran in that man. 

Today's Tuesday, apparently. The next episode of How Did I Get Here? comes out today. I'll have something to listen to while I food prep. You never admitted to yourself how pleased you were when he started the podcast. You missed hearing his voice on a regular basis. Hollered up into your window, whispered between giggles in the back-most church pew, hurled across crowded hallways. Of course, the voice was different than it is now. Pocked by pubescence and the LA accent, you remember a far squeakier Jae. He was the first person you met when you moved into the neighborhood at 7 years old. He was 9 so of course, he took it upon himself to show you exactly where you could and couldn't go and what taco trucks would give out fare for free to little kids on weekends.  You remember those years fondly as finally having the big brother you never had. Skinny Bone Jones, you called him. He stood up for you when the kids in middle school called you smelly for bringing kimchi in your lunch. He called you smelly just for being you. He was well liked in school and by extension so were you. You had the cool big brother. You were more than happy to play second fiddle and be his backup. Tagging along to parties, helping him record his yellow post-it note covers on Youtube, letting him know when his hair looked stupid.

 And so it stayed until Jae actually made it on KPop Star. As much as you loved him, you didn't think he would ACTUALLY make it. Sure, he could sing. He had a beautiful voice but that wasn't enough. The boy danced like a drunk chicken and was 6ft tall and 120lbs soaking wet. He didn't even know Korean. What was he thinking? He was thinking he was going to prove you wrong. And he did. You watched as Skinny Bone Jones transformed into Park Jaehyung with a perfect balance of immense pride and terror. You knew you wouldn't lose your friend entirely but during his trainee days he had very limited access to the outside world, and you just weren't a priority. Honestly,  you would've been offended if you had been. He has a mom, dad, an older sister, bandmates, college. It only makes sense that the steady stream of communication turned into a trickle. It wasn't until Every Day6 that you were more of an insistent presence in his life. You burrowed your way back into his inbox with the tenacity of the annoying little sister that you were. You were worried. You watched him on After School Club and in the deluge of content that Day6 was serving their slowly growing fanbase. He looked tired. You once again rekindled your relationship but it was different now. Instead of you leaning on him for social support, you became his confidant. He was struggling. Burnt out, and questioning so many things, he didn't want to go to his bandmates because he didn't want them to worry. His parents would pull him immediately if they knew exactly how rough his condition was, his 'friends' from college had proved fake. He now had Alpha Phi Omega blocked because they wouldn't stop asking for favors: Day6 tickets, Twice merch, Got7 tickets. He felt alone but you reached out and he was able to lean on you. The trials passed and he was happier than ever and Day6's growing popularity meant good things for his lobster funds. 

You stayed in contact over the years and shared with each other the going on's of your lives. You had even managed to go to the Gravity World Tour date in LA. Jae got you backstage and you were able to meet the rest of his bandmates that you had heard so much about. It was an act of God that you managed to keep your composure. I mean sure, he's just Jae but you're still backstage at a concert for the first time! Your cheeks still redden when you remember how Jae caught you ogling at YoungK. Heart in your throat, and voice barely above a whisper YoungK had walked directly over to you and asked what you were doing backstage. After a solid 15 seconds of pointing listlessly at your Press badge and making just the strangest of noises that were meant to approximate speech, Jae finally caught wind and rushed over, knocking your sense back into you and introducing you to the members. 

Oh! Y/N! It's so nice to finally meet you! Jae talks about you all the time, I'm so glad you were able to make it! Your cheeks inexplicably reddened further to a violent shade of pink but the boys slowly defanged themselves in your mind. They're truly lovely people and you're glad Jae has them. That being said, you still can't quiiiite look Brian in the eyes and Jae thinks it's hilarious. 

The Gravity tour feels like ages ago as you shrug on some jeans and a tee shirt for your walk to the shop. August 2019 at the Novo may have only been 8 months ago but it seems like a different reality. The Novo will be closed for the forseeable future and concerts are cancelled. That stings but not as much as the radio silence from Jae. First it was his tour schedule that rendered communication difficult and now the virus. You know he's busy and it's been a weird few months for the entertainment industry, but a 'Hey I'm alive.' would be nice. From his podcasts and twitter you've been able to keep some thread attached but you feel it stretching thin as the months stretch on. You really don't want to be annoying. You're sick of feeling like a fan. Yeah, you support Jae and Day6 and would call yourself a MyDay, but that's not all you are. You know him. You dragged him through the mud when he convinced you to try sledding down a muddy hill on a trash can lid. You set up his camcorder for his covers when he still had that stupid swoopy hair. You posed as his angry girlfriend when a crazy fan wouldn't leave him alone.  You're starting to feel like just a fan and not a friend and it's only exacerbated by the glee that you feel when you get the notification from dive studios that How Did I Get Here? has updated. I miss my friend. 

Not bothering to flip the sign on the front door from closed to open, you shoulder open the front door of the shop after fumbling with the keys. Tying an apron securely around your waist, and flicking on your noise cancelling headphones to a comforting thrum, you wash your hands and begin to chop the largest pile of scallions you've ever seen. Crunching through the pile, you start Jae's podcast and everything is gone but him. You can almost imagine him in the room with you, perched on the counter talking your ear off about the Mandela effect or how weird elbows are or something equally as ridiculous. Today he's talking about soul mates. As you listen to him joke and banter and pontificate, your eyes well up. It's just the scallions. You know damn well it's only partially the scallions. You miss Jae. And you're in the middle of a pandemic. And your family barely knows you. And you're not sure if you even want to be a pediatric oncologist. Fuck. Jae's words turn into white noise in your ears as you toss your headphones to the side and place the knife on the butchers block, perhaps more aggressively than necessary. You pause the podcast and let yourself sit in the feeling. You're lonely and sad. See Mollie? I'm letting myself feel things. Making room for every emotion. You cast your mind around and recall all of the little wounds that prick a little too deep today. You feel a squeeze in your abdomen and your eyes shoot open wide. Shit, my period. I've got to be PMSing. Even Jae recognized the trend in your emotions before you did. The week before your period, you were notoriously mushy and weepy and indulgent. Well, that's one mystery solved. I'll be okay. Mollie's voice echoed through your brain with her familiar argument that hormones only heighten the emotional distress, not fabricate it. These feelings are valid and aren't fake just because you're hormonal. You steadfastly ignore that point, wipe your eyes, and pull your headphones back on. You finish up the pile of scallions and a few other morning chores before the podcast ends. It's Jae's sign off that sends the bowl of mandu filling that you were holding clattering to the floor. "I'm coming to you from my childhood home, so if the audio is a little finnicky… blame Byron." Jae's home.

…

After sweeping up a pound of pork, beef, mirin, soy sauce, and chives and disposing of it, you stare at your phone- hands shaking slightly. Jae. What the fuck. You rip off your apron and your mind races. Should I call him? Should I go see him? I can’t believe he’s right here. 2 houses down. Fuck. Your rational brain knows that it’s okay to feel excited about Jae being home. But the sneaky little bitch that lives in the back of your brain is telling you that if he wanted to hear from you, he would’ve called. You feel a little bit of yourself fragment at that, but you push it to the side. You open up your phone and slide over to his contact in your phone. What greets you is your last text conversation.

Jae: I’m so glad you had fun, Y/N! But if you ever look at Brian like that again, I might have to put a ban on you at our concerts. His head was way too big.

Y/N: Look at him like what?! I didn’t do anything and you know it! 

Jae: Of course you’re didn‘t. You totally weren’t drooling over my bassist. 

Y/N: Fuck off.

Jae: Gladly, love. ;)

8 months ago. Sure you’d DM’d quite a bit since then and called a few times. But it just seemed so sparse. You don’t want him to just humor you. You’re an adult and perfectly capable of being alone. You’re not going to text him just yet. 

You finish up your morning chores and head back to your house, pausing for perhaps just a little too long in front of the sandstone house with the tan shutters and shoes out front. You knew that house so well. You knew how much weight the tree outside the upstairs bedroom window could hold. You knew where the kimchi refrigerator was tucked away in a back corner of the garage. You knew there was a blonde boy in there that you wanted nothing more than to run inside and get a hug from. 

You shower and let the hot water run over you, hoping it will relax the knotted up muscles in your back. It’s not like I can go see him anyway. We’re in quarantine. He probably just got back to LA and just hasn’t gotten the chance to-. You run the same conversation over and over in your head until you can’t take it anymore. You need someone else’s voice in your head. Curling into your covers, you sigh and go to the App Store. A few short minutes later and you hate yourself more than you ever have. Tiktok. Here we go. You watch the video of Day6 introducing themselves to the social networking platform once, twice, three times until your eyes start to ache. All of a sudden you’re met with a new post that pings up. Your breath catches in your throat as you see Jae standing in his living room, attempting to keep up with Amber Liu’s dance challenge. You can’t help but giggle as he flails to the left, to the right, oversized black hoodie always falling into his face. BM would be proud. Express not impress. You find yourself shocked at the weight that he’s gained. He looks healthy and happy. You remember the conversations in middle school about how much he hated being skinny. The evenings in the weight room in high school. Failed doctors appointments. He looked good before but you see that in recent months his chest has been swelling and not just with pride. His shoulders sit a little bit broader than you ever remember in the past and you’re happy for him. Good for you, Jae. 

You like the tiktok and let it loop a few more times before sighing heavily and opening your messaging app.

Y/N: I got TikTok for you, ya little shit. 

You chuckle but leave the text unsent. You’ll think of something better later. You toss your phone to the side in the face of the mountain of laundry on your bed that needs to be taken care of. As you hang the last of your shirts, your phone pings. You pick it up to a notification from Jae.

Skinny Bone Jones: Language! 

Skinny Bone Jones: Do you think Amber approves? 

You feel a flare of indignation wash through your limbs at the mention. Apparently it had sent. Oh well. As the thrill of a reply ebbs out of you, it is replaced by a rising indignation. How dare you?! Not tell me you’re in town and pretend like you didn’t?! Really?! 

Y/N: I don’t really care what Amber thinks.

Maybe that was a little snippy. You love Amber, truly. But how can he have time for TikTok but not me?

Skinny Bone Jones: Yeah? Do you still care what I think? 

Your heart catches in your throat. So he’s caught on that you’re pissed. 

Skinny Bone Jones: Y/N, can I call you? 

You swipe up to the phone icon and call him on auto pilot. Talk to me, Jae.

“Y/N?” you hear Jae’s voice.

“Jae.” Your voice comes out whispier than you meant it to. You try again.

“Jae! How are you?”

“Oh, y’know, just got off a plane that smelled like bleach and got to my house that isn’t really my house anymore, left my guitar to be sanitized, was “strongly encouraged” to make a TikTok by my company, and then got my head bit off by my best friend. Just quarantine things.” There is a touch of acid in his voice but Jae mostly sounds tired. Your empathy comes surging back and you sigh.

“I’m sorry Jae. I just- I didn’t know you were in town until I listened to your podcast this morning. I was a little hurt that you didn’t call or anything.” 

“Look, kid. I just got home. I’m a diva. You know I require at least an 18 hour period of naps and boba to function properly. I’m a KPop Star now.” You laugh at the callback to your irate spiel a few years ago about how fame had changed him and he was a diva and  just ‘wasn’t the Jae you knew’ anymore. It wasn’t his fault he was allergic to everything and turned down all of your food suggestions.

“Jae, you’ve been a diva since day one.” You quip back, tension resolving as you fall back into a familiar playful banter. 

“And don’t you forget it, Y/N.” There's a slight pause before Jae continues, 

“This diva is really sorry he didn’t call you. It’s just been a lot the last few days. The tour just got cancelled. And our album comes out in a few days. Our team has been going crazy trying to figure out how we’re supposed to publicize in this climate and I just-“ 

“Jae. Chill. When I preordered mine last week, it was the most popular album on the site. It’s gonna sell. Don’t worry too much.” There’s a beat of silence in which you can hear the air whoosh out of Jae’s lungs.

“You-You preordered Demon?” Jae sounds shocked but endeared at your admission and you laugh. 

“Of course? I’m really pumped to hear that sexy, soothing voice of Wonpil’s. Maybe I’ll even get a Dowoon photo card this time! I keep getting Jae ones in my other albums and I give them to my little cousin.” This isn’t entirely true. You have 3 of Young K, 2 of Dowoon, and 1 each of Wonpil and Sungjin. You’ve been waiting for a Jae photocard for ages. You would die before you told him that, though.

“You little shit. If you don’t want to see my face, why are you following Day6 on TikTok?” Jae ribs back.

“Brian. Duh. He’s fine as hell.”

“Yah! Haven’t you found a boring ass Orthopedic surgeon or some shit, yet? Why do you have to terrorize me like this?” 

“Why? Haven’t you found a Twice member that’ll marry you yet, Skinny Bone Jones?”

“I’ll have you know, I gained 10 pounds the past 8 weeks! I’ll be big as BM soon!” You can picture the expression of childlike pride in his face even if you can’t see it. 

“You look really good, Jae. I’m proud of you. You’ve been working really hard.” The sudden sincerity catches the both of you off guard and you clear your throat.

“Thanks, Y/N. That means a lot.” A comfortable silence is followed by a lengthy conversation recounting the previous weeks, the various states of the other members, your own eviction from college, and the status of the shop. 

“You know, Y/N, if you or your family need anything I’m more than happy to help. I mean I know how hard it can-“ You cut him off before he can go any further.

“We’re okay Jae, honest. I know you’d be good for it but we don’t need anything right now. Business is good at the pho shop and we’re okay.” 

“Okay, okay. Just know I’m here.”

“I mean NOW I do, no thanks to youuu,” you wheedle, whining about his failure to let you know he was in town. 

“Come on, Y/N, I said I was sorry!” He laughs but you can hear the desperation of sincerity in his voice.

“I know, Jae. I’m just kidding. I just really missed you.” 

“I missed you too Y/N.”

You get off the phone upon the realization that you needed to go to the shop and prep for the dinner deliveries. Sometimes you abhorred that you were “essential”. You run downstairs and tell your parents the good news about Jae and inform them you’ll be back soon. 

“I know you’re excited, Y/N, but remember we can’t be going and visiting people like that. Only essential work.” You roll your eyes slightly but assure them that you know. As if you hadn’t been telling them the same thing for weeks. I had to convince you not to go play mahjong in the park, eomma. You might be excited, but you’re not stupid. 

You had just started filling the mandu when you hear the bell over the door chime. Pardon me, are you stupid? We've been closed for weeks, why do you think it would be okay to just walk in? You wipe your hands on your apron and start to walk to the counter.

"Hello? I'm sorry, we're only open for call-in deliveries." You round the corner and lift your head from your hands to see the form of the gangliest, tallest, loveliest man you've ever seen in your life.

"Special delivery." Jae remarks smoothly, arms open wide in invitation and head cocked to the side as if he was bracing himself for the crash landing that was to come.

"Jae!" you yell, and launch yourself from behind the counter and into his arms. His arms fold around you and everything else melts away. Your face burrows against his chest and you inhale. He smells like home and cinnamon. You can feel tears welling up in your eyes with the tide of emotions that wash over you. Jae's hand cups the back of your head into him and he hugs you just as tightly as you hug him. You press yourself into him with everything you have and in the deafening silence and warmth all that you can think is I love you.

"Y/N" He whispers, not loosening his grip on you.

"Mmph." you respond weakly.

"My shirt's wet." You jump back from him a bit and see that he's correct. Your eyes are leaking. All over his white shirt. Oops.

"Oh! I'm-I'm sorry." You laugh a bit and swipe at your eyes before patting at his shirt in futility.

"It's okay, love. Come here." He welcomes you back into his arms and you wrap your arms over his neck this time. 

"I missed you." You whisper, voice cracking a bit. 

"I know you did." You jump back from him. Bitch.

"Hush. I missed you too, you idiot. Why else would I be standing here right now?"

You cast your eyes around in a panic. He's here. He's right here. In the store. Here. He shouldn't be here. He should be in quarantine with his family. You're unessential to him. 

Sensing the realization in your eyes,  he pushes past you, walking to the back and puts on the latex gloves hidden behind the counter. 

"I figured it was about time to get a 'real job' like everyone keeps telling me to." He smiles smugly and picks up the knife to start chopping the bok choy. You stand there in shock for one second, two seconds, three seconds until you realize he’s about to cut his fingers off. 

“Jae! Stop!”

“Look, Y/N, I don’t care what you say, I’m going to do this. I want to help. And I’ll be damned if I’m not allowed to see you in the time I’m finally here-“ 

“No, Jae. Stop. I know I can’t argue with you. I’d be thrilled if you’d work with me. But Brian is gonna kill me if I let you cut your damn hands off.” 

“I… what?” 

“You’re a guitarist Jae. We can’t have you cutting off your pretty little fingers. And if you keep chopping it like that, that’s exactly what you’re going to do.” 

Jae looks down at his hands and stretches his fingers wide as if considering them for the first time. 

“Pretty?” 

You roll your eyes, but unbidden, your eyes are still trained on his hands. They really are pretty. 

“Just. Let me show you.” You show him how to tuck his knuckles up against the blade and chop in smooth rocking motions so as not to take off his fingertips. 

You work in relative silence for the next hour, packaging meals and portioning combos as your mom and dad peek in and out to pick up the orders. You can feel a warmth flowing through you as you take in your surroundings. The loneliness of the past weeks leeches out of you and dissipates into the warm atmosphere, homey smells, and murmur of conversation. It’s almost as if your limbs wake up bit by bit, like a tree waking up after a long frigid winter. You feel yourself stretch and shine and the bubbles of contentment flow through you. By the time the last combo is out the door, you find it really difficult to take the smile of your face. 

Jae seemed to be in the same boat. On more than one occasion you caught him staring at you. Every time you caught him he just shook his head and laughed in that infuriating way of his. But you really couldn’t be irritated at him. It was impossible. He was your happy fairy, even if you wanted to kick him in the shins every two minutes for saying something dumb. Mom and dad said goodnight to Jae in the same way they have been since he was 10. “Tell Mrs.Park I say hello and don’t be a stranger.” Right after they leave and you’re washing the last dish, while Jae sits on the counter telling you about production for Day6’s new album, the phone rings. Before you can tell Jae not to answer it, he’s already taking the man's order. Fine. One more can't hurt. You weren’t anxious to end this day and return to bed alone, so you welcome the post-closing distraction. Cobbling together a plate from the leftovers you were about to bring home, you grab your keys and beckon Jae to follow you. 

“No need to bug mom and dad, we can take this one.” 

As you walk outside toward where your little yellow bug is parked, you feel Jae move behind you. You can feel his body close to yours and you stiffen instinctually. You’re not used to skinship anymore and you can feel the blood in your veins carbonate as Jae’s breath ghosts across the back of your neck. You stop dead in your tracks, eyes wide, flush creeping up your neck as you feel his hands- those damn hands- ghost along the side of your left arm. You squeak when his fingers brush against the back of your hand, lacing his fingers with yours. Your world spins. Fuck is he holding my hand? Do I want this to happen? He’s so close to me. Can he hear my heartbeat? 

“Jae-“ you begin to say, with absolutely no idea as to where the statement would go after. 

Luckily you don’t have to think of any sort of decisive move because Jae immediately snatches the keys from your now limp left hand with a cackle, running ahead to the car. 

“I’m driving!” You little fucking- oooh! 

You’re thankful for the cool evening breeze and dim street lights or you were sure to get a ribbing for the blazing red cheeks that you were sporting. You climb into the passenger's seat with the food on your lap and do your best to sink into invisibility. It doesn’t work. You’re convinced that he can hear your brain jackhammering away at the night's events. 

Did I want that to happen? Did that happen? He was so close to me. He felt so warm and the way he touched me. Running your hands over your arm, you could feel his touch like it had raced a burning path down your whole left side. Do I… like Jae? 

You glance over at him now and again as he puts the car in drive and begins the route to the destination. Jae, of course, is jabbering away about how everything has changed since he’s been gone and, “Omigod, is that ANOTHER pinkberry?” You find yourself nodding along passively while actively trying to figure out what the hell was going on in your brain. Much like his podcast, his voice became white noise by which you asked yourself questions you weren’t sure you wanted the answers to. Of course I love him. But do I like, like him? Never in your life have you felt more like a horny, confused teenager but as you glance over and watch Jae with one hand on the steering wheel, wind blowing through his hair, you know one thing for sure- Jae isn’t a kid anymore. And he isn’t your brother. 

It isn’t until you pull into a neighborhood about 10 minutes later that you remember that you’re here on a delivery. Yanking yourself from your reverie, but with unease still firmly lodged in your thoughts, you address the task at hand. 

“Jae, where are we?” 

“Uhhhh, 3051 Driver Rd.” 

Driver Road. You know this neighborhood but you can’t quite place where. If your previous safari into your possible romantic interest in Jae wasn’t jarring enough, you feel panic rising through your system like so much bile. Why do I know this neighborhood? Jae, unaware of any turmoil on your part, pulls up to the house in question and when your headlights wash over the yard your heart sinks into your throat. You’re going to be sick. 3051 Driver Rd. This is where Sean lives. 

You had met Sean Avery in your sophomore year of premed and had fallen head over heels in love with him. He was tall, attractive, ambitious, and he wanted you. You were star struck. It wasn’t until a year of ‘dating’ later that you unearthed the whole messy truth of his long string of side pieces and general douchebaggery. If that wasn’t enough, in the past year you heard the report of him almost catching a case with a high school senior in the area. You knew now that he was nothing but a predator and a coward. You had managed to avoid him since your explosive breakup but now it seemed you had very little choice.

“Sean fucking Avery” you seethe in the seat next to Jae. 

“What did he do to you?” Jae asked, taken aback by your sudden vitriol. 

“Shit, that wasn’t in my head was it?” Jae laughs a bit but sobers up quickly at your expression.

“Y/N you look really pale, are you okay? I don’t know your history with this guy but hey, you don’t have to deliver this. I’ll do it. Don’t you worry, love.” Jae places his hand on the top of your head and ruffles your hair a bit in an attempt to be comforting. The attempt helped. Your heart pricks up a bit at Jae’s term of endearment but it feels more deadened than it should. You’re sick of feeling like this. Of letting Sean steal your joy from you. It’s been too long for that shit. Pulling yourself together a bit, you shake yourself out of your head and steel yourself. 

“No, Jae, I’ve got this.” Jae looks at you with slight concern but shrugs nonetheless.

“Alright, well, I’m going with you okay? This dude really must’ve done a number on you if this is your response. And I’d like to see the bastard.” Jae’s eyes glinted with something dangerous that you’ve never seen in him before and it causes the same fire in you to spark. Let’s do this. 

With Jae by your side, you march up to the door with the delivery order and set it on the front steps. The doorbell is deafening in the still night and you have to remind yourself to breathe. You jump as the door swings wide and a pathetic looking man sporting a robe and a beer belly peeks from the inside. All of the breath that had been waiting in your lungs released and you feel your head go a little bit light with the realization that this was the man that you were in love with. 7 years later, gone was the debonair gentleman who could sweep you off your feet. In his stead stood a balding, fat, stiff man in boxers and a moth eaten robe. He grunts in acknowledgment of  the presence of other humans but it’s obvious that the Neanderthal hasn’t recognized you. He retrieves his food and goes fumbling in his robe pocket for his wallet. He fishes out a card and hands it to you. You take it from him and process the payment. 

Declined.

“Sorry, Sean, your card- it declined.” 

He huffs and makes a sound in the back of his throat that you can only describe as gross as you hand it back to him.

“It what!? What do you mean declined?” He stumbles forward a few steps and you automatically flinch backward into Jae. Jae’s hand comes up to your shoulder to ground you, a reminder that he’s still there. Sean’s movement wafts a smell of body odor and brown liquor. He always was a mean drunk. You decide to cut your losses while you can and keep the transaction as minimal as possible. No games.

“Your card, Sean, it declined. Do you have an alternate form of payment?” Sean whips open his wallet and roots around for a minute before retrieving a few crumpled up bills. He extends the cash but before you can swap his card for cash, his arm whips back. Looking at you sideways, suspicion drips from his slurred speech,

“How do you know my name?” 

Shit. Fuck. Dammit. 

You watch helplessly as the cogs turn in his inebriated brain and recognition washes over his face.

“Y/N! It’s you! What do you want from me now, bitch? Trying to take my money now too? Get out of here!” His voice steadily rises in volume and you can feel the walls of your panic closing in on you. Suddenly Jae steps in front of you, arm outstretched to the belligerent man. 

“You’re talking to me now. You’re done with her.” Jae holds himself with a confidence that you had only seen from him onstage. 

“Just pay for the food and we’ll be going.”

“And who the fuck are you?” Sean spits back, as if Jae were something distasteful that he had found on the bottom of his shoe.

“I’m Jae. Y/N’s boyfriend. Now I’d really love to take Y/N home tonight before it gets too much later. So if you can just pay for your meal, we’ll get going.”

Sean crumples up the bills and throws it into Jae’s chest. 

“Good luck with that bitch, kid. You’re gonna need it.” And with that he retreats inside and slams the door shut behind him. 

Jae immediately rushes to your side and wraps you in a big hug. Although similar in mechanics to the hug earlier that day, this one was far different in intent. You could feel it in his soul, that hug was meant to squeeze all of the fragmented pieces of you back together again and hold them until they stuck. You can feel your heartbeat slowing to match his and your breathing slowly regulates. 

Mollie is gonna have a lot of fun with this one.

Jae escorts you back to the car and there’s a thick silence that you can’t quite bring yourself to cut as he puts the car into drive. You know he is forming his own story of what happened between you and Sean in his head and you can’t tell if that’s better or worse than just reliving it and telling him the whole story- cops and testifying and court and all.

Once out of the neighborhood, Jae heaves a sigh and chuckles a bit. 

“Well he seemed lovely.” 

“Uh huh. He’s a real peach.” 

Jae looks over at you with an expression of dual concern and amused what-the-fucker-y. Did that really just happen? 

There is a beat of silence and solid eye contact before you both start cracking up. Unable to restrain yourself any further, you both dissolve into a kind of healing, deep belly laughter that shakes the entire car. Pulling up to your house, Jae throws the car into park and then turns to face you. 

“You don’t have to tell me anything, you know? It’s not my business. You’re my business. But asshats like him aren't. Just that I’m around to keep them away from you.” 

You sigh deeply, still recovering from the laugh attack, before giving him a brief bulleted list of the sheer shenanigans that Sean had pulled on you all those years ago. You watched as Jae’s face contorted over the course of the story, hardening into yet another study in fierceness that you were yet to see from him. 

“I really am okay, though Jae. He had me pretty fucked up for a little bit but honest, I’m okay. I did the therapy, I fought my battles. I just hadn’t done the last closure step of actually looking him in the eye and saying goodbye and good riddance. And I probably never would’ve if it weren’t for tonight.” You reach out and grab his hand instinctively. 

“Thank you, Jae. I really appreciate you doing that with me. I don’t know what I would’ve done without you.”

“You would’ve gotten your ass handed to you is what you would’ve done.” Jae states, deadpan.

“Jaeee!” You laugh, hitting him on the arm. 

“Oh, so now you can throw a punch? Okaaay, nice.” This little shit. 

Banter aside, Jae takes the key out of the ignition and gathers his things to get out of the car. As he closes the door, you hear him mutter “You need to pick better guys. You’re too great to end up with someone like that.” 

You don’t have any kind of answer to that, but you feel a lightness in your chest as his eyes burn into you. Jae walks you to your front door and all you can hear in your head is an echo of Jae’s declaration of “I’m Jae, Y/N’s boyfriend.” Is that what I want? 

You end up at your front door far too soon and the twinkling of the helicopters in the sky signals to you that it’s more than time for Jae to go home. Your heart sinks into your stomach at the thought of him leaving and you inwardly groan. 

Jae gives you one last hug goodnight and you know before he even releases you that this isn’t enough. Not even nearly. Your feelings, whatever they may be: love, like, general affection, haven’t been correctly quantified and expressed. This has been the best day you’ve had in months, and he was the deciding factor. You were grateful to have him there on your front door step, in his arms. But maybe, just maybe, if you’re able to express to him exactly how you feel about him in this moment, he’ll be able to help you out and translate exactly what this feeling means for your future together. Without thinking about it too much, you retreat from the hug and angle your face up to his so that your noses are almost touching. You sit like this for just a second. That sickening second that would allow him to retreat and tell you you’re an idiot for even thinking it. But he doesn’t retreat. Instead, your lips are brushing against one another in just the barest of whispers of a kiss. His lips are so soft. It’s over in an instant and as the chilly night air cuts between the two of you, you are all too aware of how disproportionately warm your face and neck have become. You smile up at Jae and he carries a similar, if not slightly more shocked, half smile. 

As if reading one another’s minds, you both understand that it’s wise to let one another think about the night's proceedings before any further rash decisions are made. In an attempt to preserve the spell of the night sky and the kiss and the chirping cicadas, neither of you say another word to one another but instead exchange content smiles that convey more than a goodnight ever could. With a slight bow of his head and a glide of his hand down the length of your arm, Jae walks backwards down your front steps and slips into the night, shaking his head slightly, trying and failing to conceal his smile. You watch him from the porch as he skips up to his house, before slipping into the warmth of your own home.

...

GIVE IT A LIKE IF YA LIKE

FEEDBACK IS MY LOVE LANGUAGE

[parkerparts]

i’d like to be my old self again (but i’m still trying to find it)

5 Times Peter Parker Dances for Someone Else + 1 Time He Dances for Himself (AO3 here)

O N E

They tell him dancing is in his blood. They say it in high-pitched voices with a smile and a pat on the back, like they can give him talent and technique by patting it into his body and pushing him into a studio with a dozen girls and three other boys who already know that plie means “bent.” The next day at school, Peter trips and falls, skinning his knee. The teacher and his classmates crowd around him, asking if he’s okay, but he’s too busy examining the red liquid gushing out of the scrapes to answer.

“What do you mean when you say ‘dancing is in my blood?’” Peter asks May and Ben on the way home from school. “I thought it would look like pink and glitter, but my blood’s just red. I checked.”

Through the rearview mirror, Peter watches his aunt and uncle smile. “Not literally,” Ben tells him, turning around to pat his knee. “Your mom was a dancer. She was an amazing dancer, Peter. Your mom was planning on enrolling you in classes when you reached this age, and we thought you might want to try it. Who knows? Maybe you’ll become a star like your mom one day. You might be even better.”

“What if I’m not good at dancing at all?” Peter asks, looking up into Ben’s eyes with more fear and insecurity than a child his age should be able to feel. “What if I’m not like my mom?”

“You’re only six. You’ll get there.” Ben smiles at him, full of warmth and hope, and for a moment, Peter lets himself believe that he can dance, that one day he’ll be a star. One day, he promises himself, he’ll make his mom proud.

At class later that day, his hope crumbles into pieces like sand from the playground that’s just not wet enough to be molded into something useful, something beautiful. He can’t make his legs do that move, can’t move his head and his arms in a circle at the same time, can’t keep his back straight at all. He’s so close to quitting, to going home and telling May and Ben, “I don’t think I want to do it anymore,” but they pick him up after class, and while May orders dinner, Ben shows him a video of his mom dancing the final pas de deux from Manon.

She’s beautiful.

Week after week, Peter goes back to class, and he tries to make his body move like the dancers in the video, like his mom, who used to dance with an otherworldly grace. Peter’s still not sure he has an ounce of that grace in his blood, despite the constant assurances that he’ll get there one day, but he tries anyway. He points his feet and holds his head up high. He smiles as he dances until the teacher begins to compliment him for his stage presence as well as his technique.

Peter is six years old when he performs onstage for the first time. The music ends, and the crowd politely claps, and somewhere out there, May and Ben are sitting, probably wiping away each other’s tears. Peter takes his classmates’ hands as they bow, and as they come up, Peter squints at the bright spotlight. If he stares long enough, he can pretend it’s his mom, watching him dance.

This is for you, he thinks. I can’t dance, but I’ll dance for you.

T W O

The day after Ben’s funeral is sunny, like the world is healing and mocking Peter for his inability to stop hurting.

There’s a knock on Peter’s door, and he hastily shoves the scissors scraps of fabric in his closet as he goes to open it. May, her red-rimmed eyes magnified by her glasses, stares at Peter’s face like all she wants to do is hold him close. It’s suffocating. It’s comforting. It’s painful. It’s sad. “Are you going back to dance today?”

Peter shrugs. He hasn’t gone to the studio since Ben died, but it’s been a little over a week, and people are going to expect him back, especially with their performance a month away. “I don’t know.”

“You should,” May says with a strained smile. “He’d want you to.”

“I don’t know if I can,” Peter whispers, voice hoarse from unforgotten tears. “Not without him.”

It’s true. Peter doesn’t know how he’s supposed to continue dancing without Ben, who helped Peter sew all of his costumes, who drove Peter to the studio every day, who volunteered to help tech all of the shows, who took countless photos and videos from backstage, who cried every time he saw his nephew perform, who believed in Peter, even - or especially - when Peter didn’t believe in himself.

May breathes in, sharp and full of pain, and she reaches out, folds Peter into her arms and whispers in his ear, “You can. You have to.”

As it turns out, Peter can’t. He walks into the studio and sets his bag down, only to realize that he left his ballet shoes at home, so he walks right out and blinks back tears at the thought that Ben would have come running after him with his shoes in hand seconds after he left the house.

May is waiting when he gets home, curled up on the sofa in Ben’s favorite blanket. She takes one look at his face, wind-bitten and scrunched up from his efforts not to cry, and she calls in sick to work and makes him macaroni from a box.

“Do you think he’d be disappointed in me?” Peter asks, mouth full of macaroni.

May clicks her tongue, softly chiding. “I think he’d be proud of you. I think you’ll make him proud.”

“He always believed in me. I can’t even believe in myself, but he always did.”

“I believe in you.” Peter looks up from his empty bowl and catches May wiping away her tears, the heartbreak on her face so raw, so overwhelming that he forgets how to breathe for a moment. “You just keep dancing, baby. I’ll believe in you enough for the three of us.”

Peter goes to dance the next day, and his muscles, reborn with spider DNA, still remember how to dance, even if his foggy, grief-stricken brain cannot. For the first time, Peter lets himself coast through class on autopilot, lets his body take over while his brain crumbles, and somehow, by the end of class, he’s built his brain back up again.

His soul was still shattered, shards of it scattered to the winds like ashes from an overturned urn, but that was a problem for another day.

By the time the show rolls around, Peter has collected nearly all the pieces of his soul. Some of him is lost forever, left behind in a time before the spider bite, the time before Ben’s death, but he’s somewhat whole again, whole enough to dance off autopilot, to dance with a semblance of emotion and depth. His body processes the emotions that his brain can’t.

The last piece in the show - a contemporary showcase of student-choreographed pieces - is one that Peter worked on himself, along with the senior boy who taught him how to do a la seconde turns. The dance ends with Peter falling off stage as the lights turn black. The music builds, and dancers leap across the stage in time to the flickering lights, and Peter runs, sprints to the edge of the stage, holds out his arms, and when the music suddenly fades, he takes a deep breath, closes his eyes, and falls backwards.

A strong pair of arms catches him before he hits the ground. The audience is still and silent, and the theater is dark, and in the few seconds after the dance ends when the world comes to a stop, Peter thinks Ben is back, here to catch him as he always promised he would.

Then the audience begins clapping, a standing ovation that ripples through the crowd, and Peter has to open his eyes and thank the tech guy who caught him, the guy that would have been Ben if Ben had still been alive. Peter boosts himself back onstage to bow, and as he turns to face the audience, he catches sight of May in the second row, clapping furiously with tears streaming down her face.

He would be so proud of you, she mouths, half-whispering the words, and Peter’s super-hearing picks up the sound.

I know, he mouths back, not caring if the director will call him unprofessional. I know he would.

He’s doing it for Ben, after all. He’s dancing for Ben and for May, for believing in him and challenging him to never stop dancing, even when the memories and legacies in it are too much to bear.

T H R E E

Peter should have known better to try to hide something from Tony Stark. If the man had been able to find out he was Spider-Man, his best kept secret of all time, then of course he’d find out about Peter’s senior recital.

“I should have known you’re a dancer,” Tony told him, draping an arm around his shoulders as they walked. “I thought those flips and that agility came from the spider DNA, but I guess you’ve got your own DNA to account for that. Mary Parker is your mother, am I correct?”

“Principal dancer of New York City Ballet at only twenty-one years old,” Peter said with a smile. Since first hearing of his mother’s career as a dancer, he’s done his research, and he’s proud of being part of her legacy. “Did you know her?”

“Not personally, but I’ve seen her perform as Titania in A Midsummer Night’s Dream. I was drunk at the time, probably, or maybe high on something, but I remember parts of it vividly. She was a beautiful dancer, your mother. I think watching her when I was in my early thirties was part of the reason why I love ballets and dance now. It just manifested itself twenty years later.”

Peter wants to ask more about his mom, wants to listen to Tony talk about her forever, but the man ushers him through a door, and he’s inside a glittering studio with barres lining the walls and mirrors stretching from the floor to the ceiling. Skylights bathe the room in bright morning light, shining on a sleek sound system that Peter instantly recognizes as Stark tech.

“What’s this?” Peter asks, stepping out of his shoes to reverently slide across the marley panels in his socks. “Is this for me?”

“Technically it’s Natasha’s. I had it built for her when we built the Compound. Barnes uses it too sometimes, which shouldn’t have surprised me as much as it did the first time FRIDAY told me he was here. But yes, it’s for you too.”

“Why?” Peter turns to face Tony with a wide-eyed stare.

Behind his tinted glasses, Tony blinks slowly, fishing for words in a way that makes Peter nervous with anticipation. “I want you to feel included here. I know you don’t live here, but this is your space too, regardless of whether or not you choose to use it. Your studio is fiercely competitive, and when I last spoke with the director, private studio time was fully booked. This is yours to use if you want to practice a little extra or if you just want a space to dance in. I was also thinking you could talk to Natasha or Barnes if you really want to. They’d probably be interested in teaching you a few things about dance, both in the studio and out fighting on the streets.”

Peter’s overwhelmed by the thought Tony put into this, even though the man plays it off with an air of nonchalance. However, the subtle undertone of heavy expectations weighs him down, and he does his best not to panic in front of his mentor. “Thank you, Mr. Stark, but you really didn’t have to.”

“I know. I don’t do things because I have to. I do them because I want to,” Tony says, the corner of his mouth curled up in an affectionate smirk.

“Thanks,” Peter whispers again, feeling small and scared and stressed for no reason at all. He’s never been very good at receiving gifts, never been very good at receiving expectations. “Thank you so much.”

Tony just hums and flashes him a smile. “You’re welcome, kid. You want to stay here for a little bit? If not, I can have Happy drive you back and you can catch your afternoon rehearsals.”

“I think I’ll stay here, if that’s okay with you?”

“Sure thing. Team dinner is at five. Don’t be late.” Tony closed the door behind him as he left, and in the grandeur of a studio, his very own studio for the rest of the day, for as long as he wanted, Peter lets out a slow, shaky breath.

An hour later, after changing into tights and his warm-ups and doing a quick barre, he’s working on choreographing his senior solo. Something Old and Something New, he calls it, writing out counts in quick strokes as he marks his thoughts on the floor with his feet. There’s a video of his mother in NYCB’s studio, working on a piece set to the same music Peter chose, a piece she never got to debut because she fell in love and got married and had a child, and by the time she was able to return to dancing, she had already forgotten about the piece.

Peter, however, picks up where she left off. He’s adapted the pointe work and made it more contemporary, filled in the gaps of choreo the video doesn’t show, and now he has this piece that’s mostly his, but there’s something about it that’s also not his own, a part of his dancing that never really belonged to him anyway.

Every other weekend, Peter begins spending nights at the Compound, having Happy drive him straight over Saturday after rehearsal ends and driving back late Sunday morning to get to the city in time for Sunday afternoon rehearsals. Even though he’s exhausted, he works hard on these weekends, training and choreographing and working on his technique late at night and early in the morning. He takes up Tony’s offer and asks Natasha for help, who ropes Bucky into the deal, despite Peter being too scared to ask. Some days, they’ll help him refine his art, give corrections on his classical technique, and offer opinions about his choreography. Other days, they’ll train him, teach him to use his body and his art as a weapon.

As a result of spending more time at the Compound, Peter meets the rest of the team and gets to know them. Among the new faces is a boy Peter’s age named Harley Keener, who dropped out of high school when they wouldn’t let him graduate early and drove up to New York, calling in a favor with Tony Stark. He’s a genius, Peter discovers, but not in the naturally gifted way that he seems at first. He works hard, harder than anyone Peter had ever met before, and he loves what he does. He lets Peter talk about anything, about the latest high school gossip, about chemistry and thermodynamics, about dance. Anytime Peter is at the Compound and he’s not in the studio, he’s with Harley, either hanging out or working in the labs.

“Do you like him?” Tony asks one day as Peter warms up in the studio. Sometimes Tony asks to sit with his work in the studio while Peter dances, and sometimes Peter lets him.

“I don’t know,” Peter says in between sautes. “If I think about it too much, I get anxious, so I just stopped thinking about it at all. With him, I don’t have to think anyway. I just get to be, you know? It’s sort of like dancing. I just get to be and do what feels right.”

Tony hums knowingly, and Peter fights the urge to blush. He’s pretty sure he fails by the way Tony looks at him over the edge of his glasses. “That’s how Pepper makes me feel,” he says, and he leaves it at that, the seeds of implications left hanging unsaid in the air.

Peter swats at them as he presses play, and by the time the song ends, the seeds have mostly dispersed, but some of them have taken root in his heart, and Peter has no choice but to let them grow.

All of Peter’s extra training at the Compound has made him an excellent dancer. He’s no match for the natural talent at the studio, but his hard work has paid off, and he’s rising in the ranks, slowly but surely.

It’s also made him a better fighter out on the streets, just as Tony had said. He could dance circles around Big Man and his men, and he had defeated Kingpin single-handedly with tricks he learned from Natasha and Bucky.

One night, about a month before his senior recital, a month before he graduates high school, Peter goes out on patrol in the precious two hours between school and dance. He’s exhausted, burned-out, and he’s close to calling it quits after thirty minutes, but when Karen alerts him of Kraven the Hunter’s presence in Central Park, Flushing Meadows, Peter swings his ass there with little more than a sigh.

“Spider-Man,” the villain greets, but Peter’s not there to banter with his words. Instead, he banters with his body, dancing past charges and blows and landing a few of his own. He falters once when Kraven pulls out a blowgun, and it’s his own demise because seconds later, he feels the poisonous dart find a home in his thigh.

But Peter’s used to fighting through pain, through injuries. He once sprained his ankle during an adagio and had to dance through his subsequent variation on the ankle. It was relatively healed by the end of the coda, but he knows the feeling of pain, knows how to fight through it and do what needs to be done, knows how to do it with art.

He wishes he could say defeating Kraven was as easy as plie, but it’s more like petite allegro, seemingly quick and seemingly easy but surprisingly hard and requiring more energy and control than any sane person should have at that point in a class. It hardly matters. The fight lasts no more than half an hour, by which time Kraven is webbed up in a Queens Zoo enclosure and Peter is at last felled by the poison in his blood.

Tony finally arrives, flying in with an urgency that makes Peter laugh because it’s a little too late, but he’s grateful for the help that Karen apparently called because his vision is going fuzzy.

“You did good, kid,” Tony says, and the way it makes Peter go warm feels like an antidote in its own right.

“Did it for you,” he mumbles into Tony’s shoulder. “I danced it for you.”

Peter awakes hours later to the sound of a door opening. Tony and May walk in as he slowly becomes more aware of his surroundings. He’s in a hospital bed in the medical ward of the Compound, and there’s a warm pressure on his hand.

“Hey, Sleeping Beauty,” Harley says, squeezing his hand lightly. “Guess you don’t need a true love’s kiss to wake you up after all.”

“It wouldn’t go amiss,” Peter snarks back, and even though it doesn’t actually earn him a kiss from the other boy, he gets a laugh, so he calls it a win in his book.

F O U R

“The whole point of college is to try new things,” Ned tells Peter, dragging him through the door of whoever’s house the party of the night is being held. The two of them are in their freshman year together at NYU, inseparable to the very end. Besides, with Peter’s whole Spider-Man thing, Ned was the logical choice for a roommate. “Yeah, we’re not really party people, but we could be, right?”

“I don’t know, Ned. I’ve got, you know, spidery things to do tonight, and I have a super important lab write-up due Monday,” Peter replies, but the point is probably moot because he’s already dressed up and there, so he might as well stay. Ned must realize that too because he grins at Peter and hands him a beer.

“Even superheroes need a break. Come on, Peter. Live a little, okay? Partying is self-care.” The notion is so ridiculous it makes even Ned laugh, but as always, Peter’s best friend is able to lift his spirits and make him feel more comfortable in a situation that’s anything but comfortable.

By the time Peter has had his seventh beer, his spider metabolism finally gives in, and he feels drunk enough not to care. Ned ditched him for a group of kids in his computer science class, and they’re doing shots by the bar. Peter’s dancing with a few girls from his composition class, cheering with them when the music changes to a remix of a song they improvved to last week.

“You can really dance,” someone tells him, voice low and far too close to his ear. Peter whips around, ready to tell some creep to back off, but he’s blown away by windswept, blond curls and a glimmering smile.

His eyes are the wrong color, he thinks, and he immediately hates himself for the thought. Harley is probably batting his deep green eyes at his latest hook-up, whose name is Eugene, and Peter shudders at the thought that it might be Eugene Thompson.

“Thanks,” Peter says, staring into steel grey eyes instead. “I’m a dance major, so it’s kind of my thing.”

The not-Harley stranger laughs, and he smiles at Peter in a way that makes him feel appreciated in a way he hasn’t felt in months, maybe years. “So will you dance for me?”

“Only if you dance with me too.” Not-Harley lets Peter drape his arms around his neck as they swayed to the music, some early 2000’s pop song with dirty lyrics and a dirtier beat.

Not-Harley dances even dirtier, and after one song, Peter is more than uncomfortable and ready to deck the guy and leave, but then he offers Peter a drink, and it’s strong and smells good, so Peter drinks it and lets the guy lead him out to the dance floor again. It takes two more drinks for Peter to start dancing back, to lose himself in the rhythm and the feel of human contact, no matter how dubious it may be.

Then the guy kisses Peter, slams his mouth against his in a sloppy move that makes Peter moan anyway because he’s riled up on touch and taste and alcohol. “Harley,” he murmurs into the kiss, barely registering the guy pull away. “Harley, please.”

“I’m not Harley,” the guy says, and Peter’s eyes snap open, the world rushing back to him in overwhelming waves. “My name is Hayes.”

“I’m so sorry,” Peter mumbles, and although his voice is soft, he feels like screaming.

The guy, Hayes, just smiles at him with a look disguised as kindness as he says, “It’s okay. If you dance like that, I’ll let you call me any name you want in bed.”

In an instant, Peter feels shame and guilt crawl over his skin like bacteria, like parasites come to leech away all the good things in him, if there’s anything left. “I should go.”

“I don’t think you should,” Hayes says, tightening his grip on Peter’s waist, and in a flash of panic, Peter rips himself away with a bit of his super strength, tipping Hayes to the floor.

“Sorry,” he says half-heartedly. It’s all he can manage before the urge to sprint out of the party overtakes him, and it’s only when he’s in the cool night hair that he breathes, a deep shuddering exhale that leaves him feeling empty.

Is this what dance is for? he asks, looking up to the sky and spinning in slow circles. He knows it’s not. He knows dance is an art form, not some party trick to get into people’s pants, but Hayes’ cologne lingers on his skin, whispering that he’s nothing more than an object programmed for people’s pleasure.

Will you dance for me? say the demons in his head. Is dance really as sacred as you think, or will you dance for anyone who asks?

Not just anyone, he tells himself. Just my parents and my aunt and uncle and family of superheroes I’ve somehow found. Just for my classmates and my teachers and boys in clubs who look like Harley Keener and smile at me like I mean something to them.

F I V E

A scream rips unbidden from Peter’s throat as he hits the ground. They always say that beauty is pain, but he’s feeling decidedly unpretty as he cradles his sprained ankle, weak from years of never letting it heal properly, ever since that first pas de deux. Admittedly, it doesn’t hurt that bad. His body is already working on stitching itself back together again, but it feels good to scream, so he does it again, letting it taper off into a dry sob. The tears he needs to cry never come, and he wonders if he’s broken or just accustomed to this feeling.

The door to the studio in the Compound slams open, and in runs a sleep-rumpled Harley Keener, wide-eyed in confusion of the sight of Peter on the ground. “Are you okay?”

“Fine,” Peter grits out, sitting up. “Just panicked when I fell, that’s all. Did I wake you up? Did I wake anyone else up?”

“Just me, I think,” Harley says softly, slipping on the marley in his woolen socks to fall gracefully to the floor beside Peter. “And I was already awake.”

“I’m sorry,” Peter whispers.

Harley’s gaze turns sharp. “For what? Falling?”

Yes, Peter thinks, fighting a sarcastic grin. Sorry for falling in love with you. “No. Yes? Sort of. I’m feeling kind of like a failure tonight. And every night, really, but that’s trauma we don’t have time to unpack right now.”

“It’s only one a.m.,” Harley says. “We have all the time in the world, if you want it.”

Peter, who knows how short life truly is, wants to take Harley’s offer, to cherish his promise of more time, of all the time in the world, but he’s tired and in pain, and he can hardly form coherent thoughts, let alone words. “Another day,” he says. “When it’s actually daytime, not some stupid hour of the night.”

Harley laughs, soft and sweet and reverberating around the room. Peter melts at the sound. He wants to dance to it, almost gets up and does. “What were you working on anyway? It’s winter break.”

“The latest piece for my composition class. It’s due when right after break because we have a showcase coming up.”

“Send me the dates. I love watching you dance,” Harley says, and the words make Peter sad rather than happy, and he doesn’t know why.

“I don’t know why you do. I mean, I don’t even like watching myself dance.”

Harley’s quiet for a moment, and Peter wishes he could take the words back. “I wish I could show you what you look like. You’re normally a swan, or some old cliche of grace, but when you dance? You turn into an angel. It’s breathtaking.”

Peter’s breath hitches, feels the warm glow of praise flow through his veins and lighten his heart. “Oh, Harley,” he says, and all the words he wishes he could say hang in the air. He’s never been very good at saying what he really means with words, fickle and fleeting. Dance, on the other hand, is emotional and eternal, and it’s his way of saying without speaking, of conveying the emotions that linger in his heart.

Harley cups his face in his hands, frozen fingertips leaving burning trails of warmth in their path as they trace along his lips. “Try again,” Harley asks, though it feels more like a command. “For me?”

Peter has never been able to deny Harley. With surprisingly stable legs, despite a swollen ankle, he stands, limps to the center of the room, and breathes.

That’s all dancing is, after all. It’s easier than breathing, yet the hardest thing he has ever done.

Harley starts the music, and all Peter has to do is breathe. He’s lifting up and sinking down and running and twirling around, and a minute into the piece, he’s forgotten about the pain in his ankle, about the misery that weighs him down. He almost forgets about Harley, but it’s hard to ignore his gaze, burning bright trails against Peter’s skin.

Peter faces the mirror in a lull in the music, stares wild-eyed at his own reflection, battered, bruised, broken, and beautiful. Harley said that when he dances he turns into an angel, and Peter sees it now, the otherworldly glow that dancing gives him.

Then the music pushes on, pressing him forward and he falls on his knees, the counts of floorwork giving him an opportunity to center himself again before he stands, preps, and turns, spiralling his leg up in the air and down again.

He’s about to fouette into the second set of pirouettes, but on the plie, he catches Harley’s gaze, burning brighter than Peter has ever seen it before. He stumbles, his weak ankle gives out, something cracks, and he falls again to the floor, staring up at the ceiling, defeated.

“Do you still think I dance like an angel?” he asks, feeling Harley kneel next to him.

“The most beautiful angel of them all.” Harley places tender hands on his leg, carefully probing and watching Peter’s reactions. “I think your ankles broken.”

“You’re probably right.” For some reason, he begins crying, quiet sobs of vulnerability, which hurts more than the physical pain. “Do you mind leaving me alone?”

Harley falters. “You need help.”

“FRIDAY will call someone, but I need a moment alone. Please?” Peter looks up at Harley, reaches out a trembling hand to caress the other boy’s face.

At Peter’s touch, Harley concedes. “Okay,” he murmurs, getting to his feet. “I mean it, you know. Every word I said.”

“I know,” Peter replies, and he does. Some people are hard to read, but Harley’s truth is written all over his face. “Maybe one day I’ll believe it.”

“One day,” Harley echoes. “I’ll see you around, Peter.”

Peter says nothing, merely giving the boy a weak smile. Harley flashes one back before finally leaving, letting the door hiss shut behind him.

Alone in the studio, Peter breathes easier, but at the same time feels the oppressive weight of some grief settle on his shoulders. Remorse, regret, guilt, goodbyes: they all pile on him, pinning him under their burden.

Farewell. It feels like a farewell.

+ O N E

In many ways, it was a farewell. It’s been a year since the incident in the Compound’s studio when Peter broke his ankle. It’s been a year since Peter has talked to Harley any more than bland small talk at team dinners and the one time they ran into each other in the hallways of one of Tony’s charity galas. Peter doesn’t remember much about it, couldn’t say what they talked about, but he remembers the heartbreak that flashed across Harley’s face when he first laid eyes on him.

It’s been a year since Peter last danced.

At first, he took time off to heal, partly because a broken ankle healing in less than a week would look extremely suspicious, but also partly because he did need to heal, emotionally as well as physically. A two-month-long break turned into a six-month-long break, and when Peter returned to NYU for his sophomore year, he changed his major.

There’s more to his year-long sabbatical from dance than an injury. There’s a history of doubt, of self-loathing, of feeling like dance was simultaneously what he was meant to do and what he wasn’t born to do. There’s a history of dancing for other people instead of dancing for himself, and the moment he decided to do something for himself, he stopped dancing. For Peter, having danced nearly his entire life, not dancing feels like he’s missing a piece of himself, a piece of himself he’s been trying to grow back with limited success.

He wonders if he’ll ever be able to dance again. He doesn’t even know if he wants to dance again.

It’s winter in New York City. It’s cold and windy and snowing and cruel, but Peter finds himself walking through Times Square because he’s tired and numb and thinks that maybe if he stands in the brutally cold air in the middle of a crowd, he might feel a little less alone, a little less dead, might feel a little something at all.

Something at all comes in the form of a piano and a voice and hazy memories of a childhood spent dancing in his bedroom with the CD player on full volume. Peter walks through the crowds until he finds the source, a girl his age playing a keyboard and singing gently into a microphone as people passing by drop spare change in the cup on top of the keyboard. As people jostle him in their haste to keep up with the pace of the world turning, closes his eyes, Peter stands still, closes his eyes, and listens.

And then he begins to dance.

In his jeans and boots and knitted beanie, jacket and scarf discarded on the dirty city street, he dances. His body remembers what his mind wants to forget, so he lets himself move to sweet, sad chords and the voice of a girl who smiles at him once in between the chorus and the second verse. She knows what it feels like to fall out of love, out of love with yourself. She hopes he will fall back in love.

When the song ends, the small crowd that formed around them claps. The singer stands and takes Peter’s hand, her cold hand frigid enough to be felt through Peter’s glove. He squeezes it tightly as they bow, laughing and breathless, and Peter’s trying not to cry because the tears will freeze to his face.

The crowd disperses when they straighten up and the girl goes back to her piano with one last smile at Peter. One person remains, the bundle of Peter’s discarded clothing tucked under his arm as he claps a few more times. Peter watches him as lifetimes of repressed memories and emotions flood him, and when Harley catches his eye and smiles, that same smile Peter fell in love with in every lifetime before and will continue to love in every lifetime after, it’s impossible not to cry.

A familiar warmth envelopes Peter, as he sobs, and dimly he registers Harley’s own tears falling into his hair. “Harley,” he says. “Harley, it’s you.”

“It’s me.” Harley pulls back and cups Peter’s wind-bitten face in his warm, gloved hands. “And Peter, it’s you.”

There’s a story behind those words. It’s a story of a boy who loved to dance, who danced for others because it filled the holes in their hearts but ripped his own heart to shreds. It’s the story of a boy who, on a windy winter day danced in the middle of Times Square, who stitched together the remaining pieces of his heart with the chords of a forgotten song, who spun silk patches to fill in the gaps with the language of a forgotten art.

It’s a story that doesn’t end with a happy ending but a hopeful one because there, that day, with the wind and Harley’s arms encircling him, that boy was reborn.

[dailybestiary]

Books of Magic: The Voyage of the “Princess Ark”

(Images by Jim Holloway and Thomas Baxa come from PDF scans of Dragon Magazine, are © Wizards of the Coast or their respective copyright holders, and are used for review purposes.)

Previous installments in my “Books of Magic” series were, weirdly enough, about books.

This time, I want to tell you about a series: Bruce A. Heard’s “The Voyage of the Princess Ark,” which turns 30 years old this very month.

TVotPA ran in the pages of TSR’s Dragon Magazine nearly every month from January 1990 (Dragon #153) through December 1992 (Dragon #188). A serialized travelogue and adventure story told in 35 installments over three years, TVotPA was part Master and Commander, part Star Trek, and part The Adventures of Asterix (the last two of which Heard explicitly cited as inspiration in his letters columns). It follows the saga of Prince Haldemar of Haaken, an Alphatian wizard who recommissions an old skyskip and sets out to explore the lesser known regions of the Dungeons & Dragons game’s Known World, which would soon come to be known as Mystara.

Some background might be necessary for those of you who aren’t familiar with the chaos that was D&D at the time. In the 1980s and 1990s, Dungeons & Dragons and Advanced Dungeons & Dragons were two different games. I’m simplifying the chronology here, but basically in the late ’70s D&D was meant to serve as a simplified gateway to introduce fans to fantasy role-playing before guiding them on to AD&D. But in the 1980s, thanks to the release of the Moldvay/Cook Basic and Expert Sets, and then the five Mentzer box sets (the ones with Larry Elmore dragons on the cover, now referred to as BECMI D&D—for the Basic, Expert, Companion, Master, and Immortals Rules box sets), D&D had become a viable game in its own right, with its own world, referred to only as the Known World.

The Known World—particularly as it was showcased in the Expert Rules—was a mess: more than a dozen nations slammed together in the corner of a continent to illustrate for young DMs the various forms of government you might find in D&D beyond kings and queens. Along the way, these nations also served as analogues for real-world societies ranging from Western European countries to Native American nations to the Mongolian khanate. But it was a glorious mess, thanks to a series of excellent Gazetteer supplements that had rounded out and mapped these nations in great detail, capped off by a box set, Dawn of the Emperors, that described the Known World’s pseudo-Rome, Thyatis, and its rival empire Alphatia, a nation of wizards across the sea.

By the end of 1989, then, D&D was at a crossroads. It was clearly the unloved child, seen as “basic,” best for beginners. Its setting did not have the novel support of Dragonlance or the energy of the surging and more thoughtfully conceived Forgotten Realms, then only two years old. The Gazetteer series had covered nearly all the known nations (two more would come later thanks to popular demand). And even Dragon Magazine rarely carried D&D material—a fact that was excruciating to me when I started picking up issues in late 1988 as a 5th grader.

Into this void stepped Bruce Heard. He’d been the architect of the Gazetteer series, had written some of its best installments, and was the overmind behind the D&D line at the time. If I’m remembering my history correctly, he approached the editor of Dragon, the amazing Roger Moore, about supplying a column that would provide regular D&D content for that starved segment of Dragon’s audience. In his editorials and answers to reader letters, Moore had made several mentions of needing more D&D content for the magazine, so he was a receptive audience. Heard got the green light, and “The Voyage of the Princess Ark” was born.

I still remember where I was when I realized this was happening. I missed the series launch—with my tiny allowance, I could only justify buying Dragon issues that really interested me, and Dragon #153 hadn’t leapt of the shelf at me. (Not having the Masters Rules box at the time, I didn’t realize the illustration of a continental map plastered with “WRONG WRONG WRONG” was referring to the D&D world.) I did have Dragon #155 (still one of my favorite issues of all time), but somehow I skipped past TVotPA Part 3—I wasn’t reading issues cover to cover yet and somehow didn’t grasp what was going on.

Then came issue #158. I was away for a week at Boy Scout summer camp, and I’d brought the June issue of Dragon with me. Having torn through the articles about dragons (June’s theme was always dragons), I turned to an article illustrated with a wizard and an ogre/elf cross riding pelicans. Better yet, they article had stats for playing these ogre-elves as PCs.

D&D stats.

THIS WAS A D&D ARTICLE!

And it was part of a SERIES!!!

With some effort, I tracked down the issues I’d missed—no easy task for a just-finished-6th-grader—and soon was buying Dragon every month. Moore and Heard’s plan had worked. I was hooked on both TVotPA and Dragon from then on. (The next time I missed an issue, I’d be a college freshman and the industry was on the verge of collapse.)

Most installments of TVotPA followed a simple template: The Princess Ark would fly to some new spot on the map, the crew would get into some trouble (usually brought down on them by the actions of Captain Haldemar himself), and then more or less get out again, either due to a last-minute save by Haldemar or some surprising turn of events. All this played out in the form of log entries—originally by Haldemar, then supplemented by other crewmembers as the cast expanded—that allowed Heard to deliver both in-world descriptions and rollicking action at the same time. The article would then offer back matter containing rules content or setting write-ups, and sometimes conclude with a letters column of readers reacting to the setting or seeking clarification on some arcane point of D&D rules and lore.

While this template was simple, it was never boring. The episodic nature of the series let Heard play in a variety of tones and genres: lost-world pulp, courtly drama, horror, farce, even a Western—heck, he slipped in an homage to the Dark Crystal (which at the time I didn’t get, not having seen it) as early as Part 5 (Dragon #157). As well (without getting into too spoilery territory), various overarching antagonists and plot threads—including a threatening order of knights, a devious dragon, two major status quo changes, and divine machinations—kept things simmering in the background from episode to episode. The characters likewise became more developed as Heard’s writing grew in confidence and ambition, and reader affection grew for side characters like Talasar, Xerdon, Myojo, and the rest. Once the series was up and running at full speed, it was a sure bet that if you didn’t like that month’s story, you’d dig the rules write-up, or vice versa. And when the story, setting, characters, and rules all came together, such as in Dragon #177, an episode would just sing.

Once again, I can’t tell you how thrilling this series was to 6th–9th-grade me. First of all, it came along at the perfect time. Heard’s writing literally matured just as my reading did, so the series and I literally grew up together. 6th grade was also the year I discovered comics, so this was also the era of my life when I was falling in love with serialized storytelling. Similarly, it was my first time really embracing the epistolary form.

Perhaps most significantly for this blog and my freelance career, the column was also an early primer for me on game design. Watching Heard tweak D&D’s simple rules to evoke a more complex world, especially when looked at in concert with D&D’s Gazetteer and Hollow Word supplements, gave me the courage to think about tweaking/inventing lore and systems myself. Heard also made a habit of pilfering monsters from the Creature Catalogue, seeing potential in them no one else had, and then suggesting entire cultures for them. (If that doesn’t sound like someone you know…what blog have you been reading?) He made creating a world seem easy, because he did it month after month after month.

Finally, TVotPA was thrilling because it was clear proof that someone took “basic” BECMI/Rules Cyclopedia-era D&D seriously. And that meant someone took us, the fanbase, seriously too. Back then, I couldn’t afford AD&D. Even if I could, I didn’t want to mess with all the complexity. Plus, I loved the Known World. I loved the Gazetteer books and the Aaron Allston box sets. By writing and publishing TVotPA, Bruce Heard and Roger Moore made me feel like they cared about and for fans like me. I didn’t have Raistlin, I didn’t have Elminster…but I didn’t need them, because I had Prince Haldemar of Haaken and his magical Princess Ark.

In fact, it’s no exaggeration to say that falling under the spell of Dragon and TVotPA were some of the most magical and mind expanding moments of my middle school years.

But what does this mean for you, the current Pathfinder or D&D fan? Should you read “The Voyage of the Princess Ark”?

Obviously I’m going to say yes, for all the reasons I’ve listed above. If you like maritime adventures, steampunk, or pulp adventures, this is obviously the series for you. If you like Pathfinder/D&D where a wizard is as likely to throw a punch as he is to go for his wand, this is the series for you. If you like on-the-fly worldbuilding, this is the series for you. If you like setting, story, and rules expansion all mixed together every month, this is the series for you.

TVotPA has never been collected in its entirely (more on that later), but there are PDF scans of all that era’s Dragon issues online. Start at Dragon #153 and keep reading. I’ll warn you that the first installments are a little slow, but I’d be surprised if you aren’t pulled in by the end of Part 8 (Dragon #161). If you’re the sort of reader who wants to sample a series running on all four cylinders before committing, I recommend Part 18 (Dragon #171), set in the pseudo-Balkan nation of Slagovich, or Part 24 (Dragon #177), when the crew encounters the Celtic-influenced druidic knights of Robrenn, as great places to get a strong first impression.

To my eye, “The Voyage of the Princess Ark” consists of four major arcs, plus a smattering of follow-up material that owes a debt to the series. If you do decide to dive in, here’s a quick reading guide:

Arc 1 / Parts 1–10 / Dragon #153–163 / This arc launches the series and introduces us to several major antagonists. The first few installments are slow going, but by Part 6 (Dragon #158) or 7 (Dragon #160) we see signs of the series as it will be in its prime.

(Dragon #158 also looks at D&D’s immortal dragon rulers; some of this info will later get superseded by a more canonical article in Dragon #170 a year later. Don’t sleep on Dragon #159—though it doesn’t have an installment of TVotPA, there is some fun Spelljammer content in that issue. Speaking of Spelljammer, Dragon #160 also has a companion article entitled “Up, Away & Beyond,” that serves up rudimentary rules for space travel in D&D in tandem with the action in that month’s TVotPA.)

As you have probably just gleaned, this arc also takes the Princess Ark briefly into space and introduces D&D’s second, secret setting, the Hollow World, which was being launched at that time .

Arc 2 / Parts 11–15 / Dragon #164–168 / This short arc deals with the ramifications of a major status quo-altering event at the end of the previous arc. As the crew comes to terms with their new circumstances, Haldemar learns more about the ship itself and the magics behind her. The arc ends with yet another status quo shakeup and detailed maps of the Princess Ark.

Arc 3 / Parts 16–28 / Dragon #169–181 / Hex maps! One of the calling cards of the D&D Gazetteer series was its gloriously detailed full-color hex maps, so it was kind of a disappointment when TVotPA served up only rough sketches of coastlines and mountain ranges. Part 16 gave us what we’d wanted all along: glorious hex maps (detailing the India-inspired nation of Sind no less!). They weren’t always perfect—several issues in the #170s had the wrong colors for mountain ranges, or even seemed crudely painted with watercolors—but by Part 24 (Dragon #177) we got the crisp, expertly designed nations we expected in our Known World.

Early in this arc, we also get a passing of the torch between artists. Parts 1–17 were illustrated by Jim Holloway, who I like for his action scenes, his expressive faces, and the classic stern captain’s look (complete with mustache) he gives Haldemar. (Holloway also does the best dwarves, gnomes, and halflings in the fantasy business.) Starting with Part 18 (Dragon #171), we are treated to the more angular, stylized look of Thomas Baxa, with Haldemar losing his mustache and gaining a silver-streaked ponytail. Terry Dykstra takes over in Part 25 (Dragon #178); his style is more cartoony (his Myojo really suffers from this), but he keeps Baxa’s character designs till the end of the series.

Now that I’ve totally buried the lede, let’s unearth it: This arc is, for my money, the series at its absolute prime. Action-packed stories. More characters in the spotlight. Meaty setting descriptions and rules content. New PC races and classes. Even heraldry for each nation! Heard also continued his habit of dredging up D&D creatures from the Creature Catalogue and loosely tying them to real-world cultures for great effect. I suspect many of you will love the French dogfolk of Renardy or the English catfolk of Bellayne, not to mention the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles reference he sneaks in there.

(By the way, it should be noted that today in 2020 we’re more hesitant to do such A+B design. But remember, 1) 1990–1992 was a different time—by ’90s standards, Heard is engaged in pretty solid, multiculturalist worldbuilding, and 2) Heard grew up in Europe (France originally, I believe), so while some of the characterizations and comedy is broad, the settings are grounded in both on-the-ground familiarity and good research, and the humor is affectionate and of a piece with works like Asterix that any European reader would be familiar with. In other words, don’t stress it and just enjoy that the dog-dudes are shouting “Sacrebleu!” The one exception might be the depiction of Hule, an evil D&D nation that has always been hung with vaguely Persian or Arabian trappings…but again 1) Heard was working within the established canon, and 2) the Known World setting more than balances that out with the Emirates of Ylaruam, an Arabian/Persian-inspired nation that was depicted with lots of sensitivity and care by Ken Rolston and others, to be followed by the amazing Al-Qadim setting for AD&D. So I don’t think there’s much in here that should raise alarms from a cultural sensitivity perspective, but if something does strike you discordantly, remember we’re talking about works that are 30 years old and make allowances as you feel you can.)

Along the way, you’ll also get a sneak peek at what would become AD&D’s Red Steel setting and the Savage Baronies box set—including some of the first Spanish and Moorish-inspired nations you’ll find in fantasy RPGs of this era—learn a bit about the Known World’s afterlife and undead, and even get an honest-to-Ixion cowboy shootout, as well as lots of PC options and deck plans for the evil knights’ flying warbirds, which put the Klingons’ warbirds to shame. (Oh, and while you’re reading, don’t skip the two articles about the Known World’s dragons in #170 and #171!)

Arc 4 / Parts 29–35 / Dragon #182–188 / Dragon #158–181 is among the best two-year-runs Dragon Magazine ever had, and TVotPA is a large part of the reason. But a lackluster issue #182 was a first quiet sign of a long slow downturn to come. The fact that that issue’s TVotPA entry was only a letter column portended even more dire things. In fact, three of the seven installments in this arc were purely letters columns, which was a huge disappointment at the time: We’d waited a whole month and got…just letters?!?

By this point, I think we knew the Wrath of the Immortals box set was coming—one of those world-shattering setting updates that was being pitched as a relaunch of the setting, but which could also serve as its climax. My hope at the time was that Wrath of the Immortals would kick things into a new, higher gear for both the Known World (which by then we knew as Mystara) and TVotPA, especially since the D&D Rules Cyclopedia had only come out the year before. But alas, it wasn’t to be.

Thanks to the three letters-only entries, the writing was on the wall. In Part 35 (Dragon #188), TVotPA wound its way to a close that felt appropriate but not properly climactic. God, what I wouldn’t have given to have traded those three letters columns for one last showdown with a certain dragon, those dastardly knights, or any other more suspenseful end! The end we got was nice and tidy enough (and took us to fantasy Louisiana, Australia, and Endor), but it wasn’t the end we wanted…in part because we didn’t want it to end, ever.

Arc 5 / Coda & Part 36 / Select issues of Dragon #189–200, Champions of Mystara, Dragon #237, #247 & #344 / In 1993, TVotPA was replaced with “The Known World Grimoire.” This was a grab bag of announcements, letters columns, nitty-gritty details on running dominions (Companion and Master-level D&D players got to have their own lands, castles, and even kingdoms if they so wished), and other sundries. Most of these are skippable. Four exceptions are four “Grimoire” entries which could practically be TVotPA installments: Dragon #192, which covers the manscorpions of Nimmur, Dragon #196, featuring the orcs of the Dark Jungle, an article on D&D heraldry in Dragon #199 (which is an edge case, but I’m including it here because the rules could be applied to the coats of arms of the various Savage Coast nations), and Dragon #200, which looked at the winged elves and winged minotaurs of the Arm of the Immortals. Coming out as it did in the giant-sized issue #200, this last article felt like what it was—a last goodbye to D&D’s Known World/Mystara as we knew it before Mystara’s relaunch as an AD&D line.

(Dragon #200 also had a nice article on making magic-users in D&D more distinctive. There was also “The Ecology of the Actaeon��� in Dragon #190, one of the only D&D ecologies to be published in Dragon’s 2e AD&D era. Somewhere in this time we also got the news that the Known World would be relaunched as AD&D’s Mystara setting, whose products were famous for coming with audio CDs and not much else.)

Around this time TSR also published its TVotPA-inspired—and utterly maddening—Champions of Mystara box set. I say “maddening” because, at least to me, it clearly felt like a “Sure, here fine, have your dang box set” product, a too-pricey production made because fans demanded it, but not out of real love from anyone at TSR but Bruce Heard himself and co-designer Ann Dupuis.

(Let me be clear: This is all speculation; I can’t confirm any of that; I’m just saying what it felt like.)

Among the reasons for my disappointment: There was no new content featuring Haldemar and his crew. One of the booklets reprinted most of TVotPA…but not the first 10 or so entries (so it wasn’t even the complete epic! *headdesk*) and none of the ancillary material, just the story logs. Another booklet was deep in the weeds of skyship construction—hell yeah, you could build your own skyship!—but gave little content to, say, inspire lots of fun skyship-to-skyship adventures in the vein of Spelljammer, such as tons of skyships from other nations. The box did contain eight standalone cards with other ship designs, but most of these were one-off constructions by solitary wizards and rajahs, not enough to really launch a campaign. My favorite booklet was the “Explorer’s Manual,” which gave us some new setting details we hadn’t seen before, including an amazing subterranean nation of elves and gnolls that I still think about to this day…but again, it was all too little, too late—for this fan, at least.

In other words, don’t try to buy the Champions of Mystara box set—at time of writing it’s crazy expensive and not worth it for anyone not actively playing BECMI D&D right this minute. If, after reading the entire series, you’ve fallen in love with TVotPA (which admittedly was my goal in writing this) and absolutely must have Champions for that nation of elves and gnolls, get the PDF on DriveThruRPG.com.

Years later, as Dragon was limping through the late ’90s before its rejuvenation in 2000, Heard provided 2e AD&D rules for Mystara’s lupins and rakastas in Dragon #237 and #247, including writing up tons of subraces inspired by actual pet breeds. If you’ve ever wanted to play an anthropomorphic St. Bernard or Siamese, these are the articles for you.

Finally in 2006, when Paizo had taken over publishing Dragon, they invited Heard to deliver one last TVotPA entry in Dragon #344…giving us, if not a climax, definitely one last burst of palace intrigue and action to bridge the gap between the series proper and the events of Wrath of the Immortals. Over and above all the other coda material I’ve mentioned, this actually fits in the saga—it’s even labeled Part 36. If you want to ship out one last time with Haldemar and his crew, track it down.

Finally x2, there is the world of Calidar. After being thwarted for several years trying to get permission to write new TVotPA content, Bruce Heard has created his own game world filled with skyships and adventures. I own the books (which are rules-light so fans of any system can use them), but haven’t had time to read them yet; hopefully you will be a more determined fan. Keep an eye out for his various Kickstarters and definitely show your support.

Finally x3, if you think I am the only diehard Known World/Mystara fan out there…wow, no, not by a long shot. The Mystara fan community is one of the most dedicated in gaming. In addition to holding a torch for BECMI/Rules Cyclopedia-era D&D, they’ve taken it upon themselves to continue mapping and describing the remainder of Mystara as part of the fan community based out of the Vaults of Pandius website and the stunning fanzine Threshold. I’ve only skimmed Threshold a little, but it is stunning work on par with the Pathfinder fanzine Wayfinder for the amount of effort the fans put in and the quality that comes out. Kudos to everyone involved!

“The Voyage of the Princess Ark” is a testament to the creative heights one writer could achieve in a fantasy world.

“The Voyage of the Princess Ark” deserves to be spoken of in the terms we use for Pathfinder’s Golarion; AD&D’s Dark Sun, Planescape, and Al-Qadim; and Vampire the Masquerade’s World of Darkness. And Bruce Heard deserves pride of place in the company of Greenwood, Grubb, Weis, Hickman, and others of his era.

Heard showed us that simple rules didn’t mean a less complex world. Heard showed us that a few lines of monster description could be blown out to fill entire nations. Heard showed us that the cultural diversity of our own world could inspire our fictional ones. Most importantly, he showed that if you put in the work month after month, you could achieve amazing things. And he did it for a neglected fanbase of underdogs and windmill-tilters. He championed an audience and a world when no one else would.

“The Voyage of the Princess Ark” is also why I spent nearly seven years serving up monster ideas for another underdog fanbase. And the inspiration and work ethic I took from it is a big part of why I’m lucky enough to occasionally be freelancing on a professional basis today.

Three years isn’t a long time in fantasy fandom. If Elminster and Drizzt are Star Trek, perennially chugging along, and Harry Potter is Star Wars, a brilliant core surrounded by progressively less compelling follow-ups, then “The Voyage of the Princess Ark” is Firefly, a ragged crew whose sojourn was cut short, but whose legacy far outstrips its impact at the time.

Or at least, that’s the way its legacy ought to be.

Give “The Voyage of the Princess Ark” a try. Maybe I’m overselling it. Maybe years of nostalgia have painted a picture rosier than the original could ever live up to. Maybe, in an era where outstanding fantasy worlds and strong writing are almost commonplace, current readers can’t perceive the lightning-in-a-bottle magic that was this series.

Maybe. But I think there’s something more there, something perennial, something of value even when placed side by side with the embarrassment of riches that is Pathfinder 1e/2e and D&D 5e.

The only way you’ll know is if you book a berth on the Princess Ark and see for yourself.

Happy flying.

[coconutknightshade]

The Hoodie™

Word Count: 3644 Relationships: Tony Stark & Peter Parker / Iron Man & His Spider Son

Summary:  The one in which Tony overhears Peter telling his roommate that the MIT hoodie he's wearing is his dads. The one in which Peter never plans to call Tony 'dad' to his face but the universe has other plans.

Based on This Post by Lexi (Tony-Where’s-My-SuperSuit)

Read Here OR Read Below

Peter is hunched over in his underwear with one leg down his jeans when his roommate comes barreling through the door. They freeze, eyes locked on the other for a half minute before they both burst out laughing. Harry claps him on the back with a shake of his head as he walks by, causing Peter to stumble forward with a laugh.

“Jerk,” he teases under his breath. Harry winks at him good-naturedly. They aren’t exactly friends, not yet anyways. Move in day had been a little awkward. Peter had insisted on moving into his dorm room alone, knowing full well that he wouldn’t be able to keep it together if May had been there with him. It hadn’t mattered much, both he and May were emotional as he packed up the latest on the market Jeep Grand Cherokee that Mr. Stark had insisted on getting him upon graduation- To the surprise of literally nobody but Peter. The official move-in day had been only a few weeks prior and as it would turn out his roommate came from a long line of Harvard graduates, which begged the question as to why they were moving their kid into an MIT dorm. They had asked Peter a million and one questions about his future as well as a few questions about his family. The answers to which Peter had kept vague.

With the initial orientation officially over and classes in full swing Peter Parker’s life up to this point has been a whirlwind of simultaneous excitement and exhaustion. Fortunately, the last several years spent with Tony in the lab until the wee hours of morning (or until Pepper pulled them our kicking and screaming) has prepared him for minimal hours of sleep. UNfortunately, today it is rapidly catching up to him. He’d slept restlessly the night before, texting Tony until nearly 3AM - “Did you know on the last day that you’re allowed to drop classes everyone pushes a piano off of Baker House? Were you part of that when you were here? Hey, how’s Morgan by the way? I miss her. Can you believe May and Happy are together? Is Happy going to propose? You would know and you’re legally obligated to tell me if he is.” - before finally crashing hard. Because of this Peter hadn’t rolled out of bed until mid morning and hadn’t showered until noon, which brings him to the present. Half dressed and unintentionally putting on a show for his roommate.

“This campus is massive. I mean, I’ve already gotten turned around 3 times today,” Harry says in amazement as he hauls himself up onto the bed. The two of them had gone out and bought bed risers so they could create lofts after having decided that placing their desks beneath them would leave more floor space for them to work on any projects they had brought from back home. It means Peter has the room he needs to lay out all of his tools so that he can work on his suite whenever Harry is out. And more fortune for Peter, he’s learned early on that his roommate is the party type and as such he’s already had three nights to himself to work.

East Campus is MIT’s second oldest dorm building but she’s sturdy. Peter loves it. Not only are the undergrads allowed to physically alter their dorms however they like (one kid installed what she calls a Domino’s Button that automatically orders Dominos whenever pressed), they’re also allowed to paint the rooms. This brought Tony much satisfaction, as evident by the text he sent Peter in the wee hours of the morning, most assuredly after a 30 hour day - “Don’t worry, Spiderling. I’ll send you some red and gold paint. I’m also sending you a care package filled with Iron Man figurines, Iron Man boxers, and a custom Iron Man comforter. You’re welcome. XOXO” And so long as they comply with the fire code, they’re allowed to alter the common areas as well. Their floor has already had several brainstorming sessions on what they could do to be original this year. Peter is living for the sense of community. Walking through the halls is an experience in and of itself- Nearly everyone keeps their doors open, much like Harry had done when he practically fell through the door. Odd music blares through the halls, as does the occasional peals of laughter. Sometimes it’s too much to handle but fortunately one of Tony’s many parting gifts had been small nondescript ear plugs that effectively dial the world down to a more normal level. Peter had stared down at them in amazement… “I- Mr. Stark, I can’t thank you enough. This will- Will help so much, wow.” “You can thank me by having a good time, kid.”  

In all, Peter is more comfortable than he initially anticipated given the fact that neither Ned or MJ were there with him.

“The campus is massive. And swarming with children and parents,” Peter adds absently, digging through his dirty laundry hamper for something comfortable. It’s the start of Family Week and the place is crawling with people. Students excitedly pull their family through campus. The university is hosting picnics, social events, and even several free seminars throughout the week for family members to attend if it tickles their fancy. Next week is First Year Residential Exchange (FYRE) and the East Campus dorm has already began working on what will be a fully functioning roller coaster in their courtyard. Parent alumni are encouraged to assist.

Peter is grateful that Family Week is, well, family week . May on occasion still works long hours at the hospital, and with MIT being four and a half hours from home hitting a 24 hour period, or even a 48 hour period just wouldn’t have cut it. As such, May (and Happy), will be there come Thursday and Peter is quite literally counting down the days. He considered asking Mr. Stark, who Peter definitely considers family, but he had hesitated. While he’s sure that Tony feels the same way about him, Peter still has those pockets of insecurities. After having lost his parents and his uncle Peter oftentimes worries about losing the rest of his family, even those not of blood and recently acquired.

“Whoa, that’s really neat?” Harry’s questioning voice pulls him from his thoughts and Peter glances up as the kid hops back down off the bed to stand in front of Peter. His eyes are trained on Peter’s chest and he reaches out to tug at the fabric. “That’s got to be vintage now, right?”

Peter looks down at his MIT hoodie that he’d just slipped over his head. Well, it isn’t his per se. It’s actually one of Tony’s old hoodies. One that Peter had stolen - long term borrowed, thank you very much - several years back, not long after his sixteenth. Tony had been on a mission with the Avengers. It had been overseas and dangerous enough that Peter had been told under no circumstances was he allowed to tag along. He’d pouted for a few days, wallowing in the anxiety that gripped him whenever he thought about them leaving. Blame the anxiety on his spidey sense, for as it would turn out, Tony and the others had quickly found themselves driven underground for nearly two and a half months. So far underground that they had gone completely radio silent. Director Fury had insisted that it had all been part of the plan and that while Tony wasn’t in contact with Pepper he had certainly remained in contact with the Director. All lies.

Those two months of silence had been a nightmare. He’d spent nearly every weekend, occasionally skipping days of school, with Pepper at the tower. They had both failed miserably at distracting each other from the crippling worries that something was definitely wrong. But it had been a bonding experience and Peter remembers clearly the night he was woken by FRIDAY to Pepper having a breakdown on her bedroom floor after having found out that she was pregnant and, “God, Peter, what if Tony never comes back?” After an emotionally charged night Peter had slipped into Tony’s closet and dug around for something, anything, of Tony’s that might offer comfort. Something that might help him sleep better at night when the fear of losing yet another father figure threatened to consume him. That’s when he found the hoodie. It was comfortable and late in the night when Peter felt tears sting his eyes and when the world felt like too much of a burden, being wrapped up in it felt a lot like a hug.

Peter loves this hoodie. He’s never told Tony about it and the man has never indicated that he’d noticed one missing. And up to this point Peter has never been asked about it.

“Yeah,” Peter says soft and a little awkwardly, scratching at the base of his head. “It was my Dad’s.”

The word rolls off his tongue so easily, as if he’s said it a thousand and one times when in fact he’s never done so before. Not out loud at least. Saying it now though feels like the most natural thing in the world- It feels right. And the thing is, Peter does consider Tony to be his Dad. He has a Father, Richard, whom he loves very dearly, but who he has very few memories of. And of course he has his Uncle Ben who he also loves to the moon and back again. But he only ever thought of the man as such. Tony though… Tony feels like his Dad - A title different from both Father and Uncle.

Yeah. Tony is his Dad. And though he’s never said the word out loud, never admitted it even to his two closest friends and absolutely never to Tony himself, Peter had internally drafted the man into the role several years back when Tony had gleefully shoved him towards one of the Audi’s and said, “Today’s the day, Underoos. You’re going to learn how to drive while we take a road trip down the coast.” In the city, with all the public transportation and given the fact that May could never afford a vehicle for him, Peter hadn’t given much thought to learning. There was no rush. Tony, however, felt differently.

“Was?” Harry asks eyebrows knit together in confusion before softening. “Is he, you know, dead?”

“Wha- No,” Peter huffs, quiet laughter in his voice at having been caught off guard by the question. “He’s very much alive and well.” You can hear the fondness in his voice as he absently tugs at the hem of the hoodie, almost bashful in the way his eyes drop down to the worn out frayed MIT logo on the front.

“Well,” a voice, a very familiar voice, cuts in, “Pepper might disagree with you on that one, kiddo.”

Peter whirls around to see Tony Stark, the man he’s just referred to as Dad to his roommate, standing there in the doorway with his signature sunglasses hiding whatever emotion was there behind the eyes. Peter can’t be sure just how much Tony has overheard, but he suspects the man heard it all. Something in his gut tightens- What if Tony doesn’t react well, or possibly worse, what if he doesn’t react at all?

Peter misses the way his roommates jaw drops as he stumbles back a step or two in surprise when Tony steps further into the room, casual as ever. In a single fluid motion he removes the sunglasses and, as if he doesn’t see the other kid at all, smiles warmly at Peter. Maybe, Peter thinks, Tony doesn’t mind what he overheard afterall.

“Pepper says I need to watch my cholesterol.” He pauses for a moment before adding, “And my attitude. I told her I could only watch one or the other.” He winks at Peter, shaking him from his thoughts, and Peter playfully rolls his eyes while ignoring the remaining tendrils of anxiety that bleed into his veins. Tony strolls across the room and pulls Peter’s head toward him so he can kiss the side of it- “You’re too tall, kid. Make it stop.” - before ruffling his hair and wrapping an arm around his shoulders to pull him in snug against his side. Tony makes the move, something he’s never done before, feel so effortless as though it were something normal between them, as if he really is his Dad. Peter doesn’t hesitate to lean into the man's side. He’s tugging harder at the hem of his hoodie now. No way he can keep it under the radar at this point. Tony’s eyes are trained on him, as if watching for Peter’s own reaction to the display of affection, and Peter’s lips widen into a blinding smile, full of warmth and admiration.

Harry casually clears his throat, distracting the both of them, and Tony turns a press worthy smile to the kid before leaning forward to shake his hand.

“Hey kid, name’s Tony. But you already knew that. I’m Peter’s Dad.”

Harry, still dumbfounded and glancing between The Tony Stark™ and his roommate, shakes the man’s hand far longer than one would consider normal. “Harry Osborne.”

The two exchange quick pleasantries but Peter doesn’t really hear any of it. Tony has just told a complete stranger that he was his Dad and he hadn’t even hesitated in doing so. He’s pulled Peter into a hug, ruffled his hair fondly, and introduced himself as Peter’s Dad. No qualifiers. No “Well, not biologically of course.” No “He was a stray I picked up and decided to keep.” He ducks his head with a small smile that Tony must have caught anyways because suddenly he’s being pulled even tighter against his mentor. His chest- Peter wonders if Tony’s reaction to being called Dad mirrors how he feels hearing Tony refer to himself as his Dad.

Peter can’t help himself, he laughs, giddy in the surrealism of the moment. It pulls him from his thoughts and his cheeks color when he realizes Tony is watching him closely, face serious save the smallest quirk of the corners of his mouth. Harry has sidestepped over to his desk, sliding into the chair with a muttered, ‘Tony Stark is in my fucking dorm room. What the fuck is my life?’ as his eyes flicker between the two of them.

Tony pulls Peter further to his side of the room and brushes a hand fondly across the top of his head, messing once again with the damp mop of hair. The knot of anxiety in his gut completely unravels and he’s positive that Tony takes note of the way he physically relaxes.

“What?” Tony teases. “Did you think I wasn’t going to spend a solid week embarrassing you at every opportunity presented? What kind of Dad would that make me?” And there it is again. Peter’s stomach flips. “I’ve booked a room across town for the week. I’m going to take you out, show you all of the secret hidey holes on campus. It’s gonna be gr-”

“I don’t know,” Peter looks hesitant and it stops Tony in his tracks. “The fifties was so long ago- They might’ve demolished some of those buildings since then.” He looks so serious Tony has to blink a few times to shake the confusion. Then Peter’s serious expression cracks and the kid is smirking far too similarly to the way Tony does.

“You’re a rotten kid and I’m telling May. And Morgan. I’m going to facetime her right now and tattle on you.” Tony flicks Peter’s ear, clicking his tongue in disapproval and ignoring the wide amused smile the kid is sending his way. Peter nearly giggles and Tony hooks a hand around the back of his head and drags him in against his chest for a bruising hug that Peter accepts eagerly. His heart swells and he wraps his arms tight around Tony, fingers curling into the back of his Armani suit. He buries his face into the crook of Tony’s neck, hiding his embarrassment when Tony says, “I’m so fucking proud of you, Peter.”

He doesn’t even try to whisper and Peter squirms, always awkward under praise. Something that hasn’t changed over the years, much to Tony’s delight - “Pepper look! He saw the Decathlon trophy I put up on the mantel in pride , and he blushed. Isn’t this kid great?” Tony doesn’t let him pull away, but he does lower his voice.

“You’re fucking brilliant and you deserve to be here. May told me what you said- And I know you’ve wondered whether or not I had any involvement in your admission process and I want to make it unequivocally clear that I spoke to no one prior to you submitting your application nor after the process began.” He flushes when Tony pulls away, keeping his hands on Peter’s shoulder and dipping his head to catch the kids eye. Tony’s expression is so serious that Peter struggles to maintain eye contact. He had wondered about whether Tony had spoken to anyone in admissions. It wasn’t like Peter didn’t know that the man had connections. And it’s not like Tony had been subtle in the way he dropped hints about MIT. Peter found brochures everywhere- His backpack, the drawers in the kitchen, his bedroom, “The bathroom, Tony? Really??” Of course Peter had wondered. Now he feels shame for ever considering such a thing. The man has more integrity than that. Tony, for his part, is already shaking his head. He knows Peter well enough to know where the kids thoughts are going.

“Listen Petey, it makes sense, I know it does. However, I would never get involved in something of this magnitude. This...MIT?” he lets go of Peter to sweep his arms around, turns his body as if to encompass everything around them. “This is all you, kid. Absolutely one hundred and ten percent your success. You and you alone. I never once doubted, not in the least. Christ, Peter, I’m so proud of you.”

Peter’s heart feels like it’s going to burst under the praise. Under Tony’s praise. His Dad . And wow, it felt so good to let that thought cross through his mind so openly, like a weight has been lifted and permission for using the term fully granted. Peter huffs a laugh and quickly brings a fabric clad wrist up to wipe away the tears he hadn’t realized were threatening to slip down his face. Tony’s got a hand pressed to the side of his head, thumb brushing across his cheek bone and fuck he just looks so fond and so proud and Peter can hardly take it.

“You’re so dramatic… Dad?” Peter chokes the word out, emotion thick in his voice nearly as much as the hesitation there at the end. He breaks eye contact with Tony, deciding instead to count the polka dots on his pocket square. Blood is pounding in his head and when Tony doesn’t immediately respond he swallows thickly and looks back up. Tony is outright beaming now and Peter realizes he’s been chewing at his lower lip in thinly veiled anxiety.

Tony huffs, standing up straighter. “I’ll have you know, Underoos, that I have absolutely never been dramatic a single day in my magnanimous life. Not once. Ask Pepper- Wait no, don’t ask. She won’t back me up. But she’s also a liar, so.” Peter rolls his eyes but bursts out laughing at Tony’s obvious theatrics and nearly throws himself back against Tony’s chest. Tony lets out a little oophf when he hits his chest but Peter doesn’t notice and Tony doesn’t mind. Peter is only aware of the comforting weight of Tony’s arms as they wrap around him. He feels safe. He feels loved in a way he hadn’t really noticed before. Somehow both everything and nothing about their relationship seems to have changed with a single word.

They stay like that, silent and really reveling in the moment before Tony breaks it with a soft, “Love you, kiddo. I couldn’t ask for a better son.” It’s such a sweet moment, such a serious moment and well, it’s Tony . He gives it about four seconds before taking a deep serious breath and adds, “Alright. Now let’s get this bread.”

Peter groans, mortified, and playfully shoves Tony away from him. “You’re the worst. I’m taking the internet away from you. Cancelled. Denied. Child locks enabled.”

“Is that any way to speak to your old man?” Tony scoffs and Peter rolls his eyes. “You’re grounded.” He tugs Peter, his son, against his side and guides him out of the room. “No, really. Now that you’ve been admitted I wholeheartedly intend to show you off to every administrator on campus that I know. Because that’s what you get to do when you’re a Dad.”

“So that’s why you’re in the Armani,” Peter hums in amusement, stomach once again doing flips as Tony embraces being called Dad by a kid he’s made it very clear now that he thinks of as a son. “It’s all coming together now.” Tony looks over and winks at him conspiratorially.

“Just for today. After that it’s all jeans and MIT shirts for the rest of the week. We’ll match! Loving you in the hoodie, by the way. It was the first one I bought when I hit campus. Not sure when you lifted it from me, but it looks good, kid. Pepper and Morgan fly in tomorrow. Be ready- Ever since Morgan you know how Pepper is with the pictures.” Peter cringes. He’s pretty sure more photos of him have been taken over the last several years than had been taken in his entire life up to that point. He can’t complain though. He loves his family.

END 

* FUN FACTS: The Piano Drop Day is a legitimate thing as is the name of the building they push it off! FYRE week is a legitimate thing! East Campus is an actual dorm building, they're actually allowed to paint the rooms and alter the common areas AND the Dominos Button is a real example. AND BEST of all- The roller coaster in the dorm courtyard was something they actually constructed during FYRE week! FYRE week is Freshman Year Resident Exchange in which they open all of the residential halls and encourage freshman's to explore them all to see if they want to stay in their dorms or transfer! Basically anything related to MIT aside from family week (though to be fair I'm pretty sure every campus has a family day or week) is accurate.

[nerdy-flower]

@sinunamor IT IS WRITTEN

Sorry for the heckin long wait ;^; here it is! Ernest Growing Up Part 3/3! (For now~)

(Ernest curses a lot and it’s a little sad at the beginning, otherwise it’s G)

It isn't working.

In spite of everything, Ernest came out of college doing kind of okay. He had an alright resume, a little pocket of savings, some furniture. Better than some kids he sat next to at graduation, for sure. He gets that coveted first apartment to himself- literally a room and a bathroom. The water pressure is like a dog lifting its leg and peeing on him and the neighbours are obnoxious, but it was his. He was paying rent! Utilities! Insurance, even! Life was looking up! Was.

He stayed in the city he went to school in, With his Pop's new condo a half hour away, it didn't feel so far. They'd have dinner all the time. Pop would give him tips on places to go and things to see. At one point, he says he wouldn't have moved here if he didn't know Ernest was staying. Ernest didn't have a great answer for that, tongue sudden;y stuck. They get froyo anyway.

His shit job became two shit jobs and then one again, then two, then three very briefly, then one with occasional paid-in-cash online ads stuff. Maybe illegal? Only in a tax law way, so whatever. He busts his ass- well, some of the time. Sometimes he half-asses it and gets paid anyway, other times he gets fired, depends on the place. What it comes down to is that he never has enough money. All the Gen Z-targeted personal finance advice blogs are shit, too. “Get a roommate!” For where? The cupboard under his kitchen sink?

Actually, in his postal code, someone might take it. But they'd be just as broke as him.

Even now, he feels spoiled and pathetic. Plenty of people just had to make do, they didn't have a Dad to send cheques in the mail, a stepdad to order them groceries online, a Pop to full-on spot them rent money. He tries and tries to make it work and he /can't./

Finally, he picks up the phone. “Dad?”

“Ernest? What's the matter? Is everything-”

“Can I come home?” With his stuff, he means, with the furniture he can't use anymore and his rejected debit card and-

Hugo makes this little noise, a very parental click of concern that sticks right in his chest. “Of course, always.”

Lucien drives him because he's been working solely off his laptop and following Pablo around the East Coast. Ernest isn't a hundred percent on what he does, but it's enough to pay for a rental van and a premium streaming account so commercials don't interrupt their drawn-out silence on the way back North to Maple Bay.

“Do you need to be an asshole about this? I said I was sorry, okay? I'll pay you back as soon as I get money, /god./”

“All I asked,” Lucien drawls, smartass as always. “Is if you wanted me to buy you a bagel. So I'll just buy your least favourite one and we'll carry the fuck on, shall we?”

Ernest officially hates everything forever, but mostly himself.

Dad and Damien welcome them home with big, awkward hugs and lots of understanding when he wants to go to bed straightaway and they left his room the way it was and /fuck/-

Pics or it didn't happen, as the young adults say. If no one sees him crying and hugging his teddy in his mid-twenties, it never took place.

His dignity drops a few more points the next day when he has to beg and plead with his Dad not to tell Pop.

“What if he goes to your place and you're not there?” Hugo insists, hands soapy from washing the dishes. “He'll be so worried!”

“He always calls or texts first, always,” Ernest thrusts another dried plate into the cupboard and balls his fists together. “I'm not gonna pretend forever, honest. /Please/, Dad,  just a few more days, that's all I'm asking. It's my thing to tell him, anyway!”

“Okay, okay,” Hugo holds his hands up in a peacemaking gesture. He tucks some overgrown hair behind his ear- shit, he's gone even more grey. His dads are going grey and he can't afford his own Netflips account. “I won't tell him, but if he calls and asks, I'm not going to lie. Alright?”

“Fair enough,” Ernest sighs through his nose, tucking the cutlery away in brooding silence. Goddammit, he's too old to brood. This sucks.

Hugo watches him a minute before draining the sink. “Have you heard from Carmensita? She's back in town, you two should meet for coffee or something. Get your mind off things.”

Ernest swings his head around, barely listening to the second half of the sentence. “She's back already? I know she was talking about it, but- yeah. I'll text her.”

He does, and they meet up, later that day because his schedule is open indefinitely. He waves to River and Crish, doing something with multiple types of sportsballs in the Cahn family driveway and thankfully too focused to do more than wave back. Carmensita comes strolling out of Mat's house in a flower-print romper and jogs up the sidewalk to him and he's never, ever been so happy to see someone.

Except that time he got lost at Disney World, but we don't talk about that.

“There's my favourite human!” Ernest laughs as she hops up to hug him. He insists he never got taller, she got shorter, but she still gives the greatest hugs. “No more braids, huh? That's a big change.”

Carmensita giggles and teases her fingers through her mohawk, her sides shaved down to thatches of brown fuzz. “I just got it done, do you like it? It's pretty different, for me at least.”

“I love it,” Ernest scratches one side of her undercut until she playfully bats his hand away. “Nah, it suits you. Makes you look cool and smart, like you're gonna mess somebody up but with your know-how instead of your fists.”

“Overly specific, but I'll take it.” Carmensita grins, a flash of snarky white and he feels like he can stand up straighter. They wave again at the over-active River on their way across the cul-de-sac, and 'Sita leans in to him, talking behind her hand. “You heard about Ashley and Mary, right?”

“Yeah, I sure did.” Ernest glances across the street, almost feeling eyes on him from Mary's house. Which used to be Julian's house, but then Julian and Damien talked and agreed to sell it to Mary shortly after her divorce so she could get out of Damien's spare bedroom and have enough space that custody would be a non-issue. Julian was totally cool with it, because he was practically moved in with Mat anyway and Amanda was fully settled into New York- “God, this neighbourhood is weird.”

“Something in the groundwater, I think,” Carmensita laughs, shaking her head. “Craig's the real deal though. He's legit totally cool with it. I was here in time for the first summer BBQ and I expected, y'know, some awkwardness.”

“Folks around here save all the awkwardness for their kids,” Ernest drawl to make her laugh again. It's nearly sticky outside, but he refuses to remove his sweater. He goes bare-armed for exactly two months a year, tans up real nice, and goes right back into his cotton cocoons of happiness. “So how's life n'stuff?”

“Life n'stuff is pretty good. I've got all my boxes unpacked in less than two months, so that's my record.” She slips off her glasses to polish them on her shirt. “I'll show you my place when we get there, I'm teaching piano lessons out of my living room right now, and- oh! You know what tonight is, right? Are you busy?”

Ernest shakes his head to both, he's been too depressed to check social media and he definitely isn't busy. “What's tonight?”

Carmensita grins wide and imitates an airhorn to punctuate her words. “Open mic night! Woo woo woo!”

It's a little different to watch from the audience with everyone else. The Cahn twins are working part-time at the Spoon now and they're the ones doing the backstage stuff. Lucien drives into town for it, Pablo's tour wrapping up with 'boring business shit' that he'd apparently rather skip. The three of them claim a corner table with high stools and enjoy the quirky parade.

His dad was right, it is nice to forget about his bullshit for a while. He recognizes kids he used to see racing around the playground strumming guitars and nervously messing up their lyrics. Back then he would have made fun of them, and maybe he does chuckle a little, but he gives them credit. He hasn't been on a stage in- oof, at least a year. Discounting karaoke, of course. He wonders what Disaster Master Quinn is up to these days.

The night ends, early enough for all the teens to go to bed, with a pretty tight Sunstroke Project cover on theramin. There is much clapping and whooping and thanking before everyone starts clearing out. Carmensita chugs the rest of her coffee, discreetly wiping her mouth on her sleeve. “Alright, let's pay our tabs and head upstairs. Who's feeling Mario Party?”

“You know I am,” Lucien smirks as they gather their things. “None of the car ones though, I hate that shit.”

Ernest loses the thread of the conversation because there's a hiss of static in his ears. He can't pay his tab. His chequing account is a negative number and he can't remember if their register takes credit or not but that's not an option either. He's too broke. To pay for a goddamn /tea./ God, why does he only clue into shit when it's too late?

The thought of asking them to pay makes him wanna puke, so he performs the maneuver that saved him from many a terrible college party: the Irish Goodbye.

The crowd makes it easy to slip away. He lopes through the parking lot and heads into the undeveloped no-man's land behind the softball field. He shuts off his phone, which any rational instinct would encourage him not to do. He's gonna take the long, long way home and- then what? Isn't that just the biggest fucking question of his life- and then what, you witless idiot?

The static does not stop as he hurries through the warm summer air, eventually cutting across the street and walking down the bay. His pulse is really high for no friggin' reason and he probably couldn't type a text if he needed to- wait, is this a panic attack? No, come on. He's too old to get on any of his dads' benefits. He can't be doing this. He can't, he can't-

A car drives up slowly beside him, and he has a split-second of facing his death before the window rolls down to reveal two annoyed, very familiar faces. “You live in my Dad's house, what the hell was your long-term plan with this?”

“Look, I'm sorry, I couldn't pay and I-” Ernest rakes a hand through his hair, pulling on his scalp. “I'm sorry I'm such a fuck-up, okay? I shouldn't have come out tonight, I'm no good to be around right now.”

Carmensita runs her tongue over her bottom lip. “You ditched us over a four-ninety-seven tab?”

“I called it.”

She scowls, undoes her seatbelt, and clambers out of the passenger door, stomping around to his side. “Give me your face, right now. C'mere-”

Ernest hunches his shoulders so she can reach, mostly out of confusion. She takes his cheeks in her warm hands and paps them with each word, like she's trying to wake up a drunk guy in a movie. “We're not hanging out with your wallet! We want to hang out with /you,/ if you'll stop! Being! Such! A! Dumbass!”

“Can you stop smacking my face?”

“Maybe,” Carmensita drops her hands after two more, crossing her arms. “Seriously though, not cool. What's gotten into you?”

“Dude, I forgot that I couldn't afford to buy a bagel, like how fucked am I?” Ernest scrubs his face, palms burning with his need for a shave. “Everything's so messed up right now. I feel like a complete waste of space.”

“Again with this?” Lucien makes an irritated noise from the car, leaning out the window. “Like you're the only one who's ever been broke. How much money do you think I had after college?”

“Why do you think I'm living over my dad's shop?” Carmensita tilts her head at him. “I know you're upset, but you're not on your own, for god's sake. I would have bought you that bagel anyway, you didn't need to freak out.”

“Guhhhh,” Ernest pushes the heel of one palm against his eye. “I'm sorry I'm such an idiot. I can barely fuckin' think right now.”

“Do you wanna go home or do you wanna play video games with us?” Lucien asks, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. “No judgment either way. But maybe decide quick, before some cops come by and get all up in our business.”

Ernest would really like to bury himself in all of his blankets but, in the interest of not continuing to screw up his personal relationships, he picks the right choice. “Video games, please.”

They collectively kick the CPU's ass at getting stars and Carmensita hugs him before he leaves, Lucien's taillights in the distance. “You're not a waste of space, okay? It'll get better, just don't let things get this bad again.”

He almost misses being the one to cheer her up. It's a shitty thing to miss, but at least he didn't go home feeling all squashed on the inside.

Ernest gets up the guts to call his Pop a few days later. He's totally cool about it, even though he sunk how much into that one room. Somehow that makes Ernest feel worse.

“Trust me, my credit in my early twenties was a /mess,/ I was really stupid with my money. It was bad. Like, scary bad. Your gramps flipped his lid when he saw my pile of bills on the table.”

“Mine's a mess too,” Ernest mumbles, knees folded up to his chest as he leans back against his headboard.

“Yeah, but it's more fixable than it looks. It'll just take time. If you owned a car or something that would be kinda rough, but hey, I turned it around, didn't I? Before I met your dad too, no way would he have dated pre-grad school me. Nuh-uh,” Pop laughs, a hiss-crack in his ear because he does this weird almost-silent laugh that Ernest makes fun of constantly. “Tell you what, I'll pay off your card so you're not getting those assholes calling you every day. Then you can focus on finding a job, I heard they have a youth program you'd still-”

“I'm sorry,” Ernest manages to wobble out, a big lump in his throat as the tears burn.

“What?” Pop's voice turns all anxious and concerned, which hurts even worse. “Hey, kiddo, it's alright. You don't have to be sorry. I know you were trying your best, it's really tough when you're starting out alone-”

“I'm so sorry,” Ernest hiccups, covering his face with his hand as he snots. “I can't pay you back and I probably never will and I'm gonna have to put Dad in a nursing home with cockroaches because they just slashed teacher pensions again and everything is so fucked /forever./”

“Ernest, Ernest, listen to me,” Pop's voice strains against the weak receiver of his phone. “Nothing is fucked, okay? No one's mad at you. We'll fix this, I promise. Ernest?”

It's a rough month, for sure. Pop comes to visit. Him and Dad have been really good at not-bitching-at-each-other since he crossed that adulthood threshold. Maybe it was child support that made them fight after all. Pop used to get these little digs into dad, telling him to quit and go into something with a future. Maybe him and money are just cursed or something.

He loses it again when they hug him at the same time. He's only gotten those at graduations and he's all out of those now. “We would do anything and everything for you, do you hear me?” Dad is halfway out of his lawn chair, the three of them on the back porch, having borrowed a little barbecue from Brian. “I'd rather have you here than starving in some apartment somewhere. Everything's going to be fine, mijo. I promise.”

“I'll bring you down for a visit whenever you want.” Pop assures him as he's leaving, hugging him again. It's so weird that he's taller than him now. “If you want to move, I'll help. But honestly, you might be better off here for a bit. Rent is going crazy in the city and it's not worth it.”

“How does a couple hours' drive make such a huge difference?” Ernest sniffs, shuffling in the driveway.

“I mean, I could explain but it's really boring.” He smiles and ruffles his hair. “You'll be alright, kiddo. Don't worry so much, okay?” Easier said than done, but it's well-meant. He accepts it.

He does qualify for extra help at the employment place, but unfortunately he has a humanities degree, which means no marketable skills. Which means part-time at the small bougie grocery store downtown, which is in fact a hell of a lot better than nothing.

“Excuse me.” An older woman clutching a plastic handbag strolls up to him while he's stocking shelves. “Do you have any of those sweet honey mustards?”

“No ma'am, sorry. We ran out.”

She narrows her beady eyes at him. “Why?”

Most of the time.

Carmensita's doing pretty well for herself between the Coffee Spoon and her piano lessons. Not move-into-her-own-place good, but she's got a nice little loft space over the shop. Sick prints up all over the walls, those fairy lights she's always liked, her keyboard set up beside her computer desk all tidy for when the kids come by. Ernest spends his off-hours googling potential side-hustles and making music for the first time in a while.

“-Practically everybody's stressed, yes!” Ernest snaps his fingers with one hand and runs his beats with the other. “But they press through the mess, bounce cheques, and wonder what's next!”

“In the heights! I buy my coffee and I go,” Carmensita sings clear as anything, laying into her keys. “Set my sights on only what I need to know...”

“Girl, how'd you get so good at that? Damn,” Ernest shakes his head after they stop recording. “It's like Mandy Gonzalez was right here.”

“Vocal coaching, son!” Carmensita grins, sticking out her thumb and pinky finger and twisting her wrist. “Taught me how to sing from the diaphraaaaaaagm.”

Ernest cracks up at the low note she hits, spinning around in her chair and staring at the plastic glow-in-the-dark stars stuck to the ceiling. “Hey, do you ever feel bad for being happy? Like, you're not supposed to be, or something?”

“Hell yeah, all the time,” Carmensita stretches, laying out on her secondhand piano bench and popping her back. “Like if I'm having a good day I get thinking, 'oh but if I was at X point, I could be doing Y.' I think I'm scared I'll get complacent or something.”

“Yeah,” Ernest sits up, catching his feet on the carpet. “But like, I don't know how long our whole generation's gonna be stuck like this. So if we can't enjoy this...”

“Oof, heavy stuff.” Carmensita swats at the bag of mini Oreos until he passes it to her, grabbing a handful himself. “This isn't so bad though. Who knows, maybe we'll look back with nostalgia goggles and miss it.”

“Yeah.” He settles back in the chair, toying with the music program on his aging laptop. “Maybe.”

Carmensita sits up, tugging her off-the-shoulder t-shirt back down where it had ridden up on her belly. “Wanna eat pot brownies and watch Bebop again?”

Ernest scoffs. “Is that even a question?”

By the time Pablo and Lucien come down for Thanksgiving Part One (there's always cliffhanger holidays with divorced parents, but it's not so bad anymore, it's just a part of it), his life has a routine. He's too grown to resent 'being another cog in the machine' in any significant way. Predictable income and free time is a blessing and a half and he's not giving it up unless he works his way up to something real good. Which will take time, and energy, and so, so much luck.

But right now he's got a favourite lunch and does his share of the chores (cleaning Damien's weird house only seems daunting, it just takes a lot of furniture polish and a big-ass feather duster). He sees his Pop as often as he can with him jetting all over the continent, texting when they're in different time zones and laughing about stupid coworker stories (his Pop's are more maddening, apparently higher salaries don't strain out the truly incompetent, somehow that's comforting, too).

He can pay for Coffee Spoon bagels now, coming to Carmensita's aid during lulls in her shifts. Both their schedules are pretty regular, so they exchange barely a message or two before coming to see each other at certain points in the week. With what pocket money they do have, they get concert tickets once or twice, go ice skating, and buy fries at the mall, wandering around the stores after dark and trying to pick out new versions of themselves. Mostly they just go home with small things they don't need and pricey chocolate bars they split. When she gets wicked cramps, he hits her up with aspirin and movies they've seen ten times. When he can't get out of bed, she sends him memes and cute dog videos.

Dad and Damien are gross as per usual, but they're also way less nosy than they used to be. It's weird to just take off for the day or night without any further questions. Though coming back is a different story.

“I got your text,” Hugo leans out of the study (yes, they have one, of course they do) when he hears Ernest's sock feet shuffling up the hallway. “What happened?”

“I don't know,” Ernest shrugs, unbuttoning his uniform shirt. “A sewer main burst while they were working on the parking lot. The fire department scooted everyone out of there pretty quick, it smelled awful. I had better get paid for the full shift.”

“You have a right to, you weren't the one driving the backhoe.” His dad grins, re-shelving a book before shutting the door. “On the bright side, unexpected free time is always a bonus.”

“It sure is, and I'm gonna use it to take a well-deserved nap.”

“Oh.” A beat while he fixes his expression. “Okay, I'll record that documentary for you.”

Ernest turns, hand on the ornate doorframe. “Is that on today?” Hugo's eager nod goes right between his ribs and he smiles. “Nah, I'll watch it with you. Naps mess up my sleep schedule anyway, make me all cranky in the morning.”

“As opposed to any other morning?”

“Rude,” he snorts while his dad chuckles. “I'll be down in a minute, okay? Just gotta get changed and stuff.”

“Okay.” Not five minutes into changing and checking his email, he gets a text.

HV: You want to order in for dinner? Two-for-one at the pizza place

HV: We can get those chicken bite things, I have a coupon :)

Ernest laughs, oddly reminded of coming home to Duchess after high school sleepovers. He sends a quick 'sure dad,' and takes some of his recycling down. They spend the evening in their boxers on the couch in the den, three of the four hairless cats Damien had adopted when they came through the shelter (he didn't last long post-Duchess once he had a taste of pet ownership) snuggled up beside and on top of them. It's not their first or last night spent this way.

He does quietly scream to the heavens at the mere suggestion of a girlfriend. “I'm a cashier- oh, sorry, 'customer service associate.' All I've got to offer someone right now is pocket lint and my winning personality.”

“But that is precisely what you should be offering in a relationship!” Damien insists, winding black tinsel up the staircase while Ernest does the same on the other side. “If wealth was a prerequisite, only the rich would fall in love.”

“I don't need to be rich, but I do need a little something to put in my dating profile, you know?” He's already down a few pegs courtesy of his 'no sex for me please' sexuality, but he won't bring that up now. Tis the season, and all that.

“You have much to include! You are in possession of many fine qualities,” Damien smiles at him, looking less vampire and more nerd with his hair up in a bun and his glasses on. His outfit is like Dickens and Mary Shelley had a weird baby, though. “Your father and I just think it would be nice if you had someone special in your life, that's all. We're not pressuring you to bring someone home for the holidays.”

“Well, that's appreciated,” Ernest ties off the tinsel, zipping up his hoodie again. What did thermostats ever do to fathers, anyway? “I'm just kind focusing on me right now. I'll get in a relationship when I'm in a better spot.”

“Ah, that is fair,” Damien grabs another handful of tinsel for the top banisters. “But love can happen upon you when you least expect it. Such was the case for me both times.”

Ernest had never decided if Damien getting sappy about his dead husband or his very-alive husband who is also Ernest's dad was worse, they might tie for first place.

EHV: Plz never let me become this gross n sentimental when I'm old plz

LB: You cry at Hamilton now and you've seen it so many fing times

EHV: ELIZA DESERVED BETTER GDI DON'T START W ME

CS: I WILL CRY AT ITS QUIET UPTOWN UNTIL THE DAY I DIE FIGHT ME SCRUB

EHV: YEAH THAT'S RIGHT

LB: Oh ffs I forgot this was the groupchat

Speaking of awkward sad times, this year's holidays are busy and bright and not as rushed as last year where he could barely visit anyone for more than a couple hours, but the same anniversary comes around. He's celebrating a third Christmas up at Damien's parents place over New Year's weekend, laughing it up while everyone is maybe too drunk, but he has a sixth sense when that text buzzes in.

CS: I wish missing someone didn't hurt so much :(

EHV: I know <3

CS: Dad's sad, but he's got Julian now

CS: I'm just by myself up in my old room, they're asleep already

EHV: Aw, shit. Do you want me to call you?

CS: No, you're with family. I'm fine

EHV: Everyone is tipsy and Dad is losing at trivial pursuit

CS: Okay then yes please <3

He makes his first appearance at open mic night in the cold and crisp new year. One technical glitch makes him nearly piss himself but it otherwise goes okay. Carmensita sings right after him, her dad on guitar and it's so frickin' good.

“God, you guys are so cool,” he says afterwards, spinning a bottle of Windex around his finger and taking Wild West-style aim at the glass in front of the baked goods.

“Glad I've still got it,” Mat grins, going back to counting the money. “You should do more of these, everyone was super into it. There's another place that does really good open mics out in the boonies, it's a cafe-arthouse thing.”

“You think so?” Ernest had immediately repressed all memory of his performance upon leaving the stage, it was a good coping technique.

“We should start a YouWatch channel!” Carmensita exclaims, as if for the first time, though she's been bugging him for weeks. “We'll do covers to get the subs, then post our own stuff! I bet we could get sponsors!”

“Mister Sella,” Ernest says very seriously. “Are you aware that your daughter is selling out to the man?”

'Sita hits him with a broom, but he does decide to take the leap. Not like starting a channel takes a lot of upfront capital investment, exactly. They do pool money for one good mic, and figure they'll work their way up if it turns out to be worth it. They pick songs from their early teens to indulge their own and others' guilty pleasure fix, and they do weird remixes of things that aren't songs, and he convinces Carmensita to do tag videos. It's fun, and some people like it. Not a ton, but hey, maybe someday.

They only complain on days they're not recording, not wanting to wreck their voices. This time they're slumped on Ernest's bed, him whinging continuously after his first attempt at online dating ended in utter failure, therefore he should give up and never try again, right? Less money on dating, more money to eventually adopt dogs?

“Ernest, I want you to try something.” Carmensita reaches over and covers his eyes, her voice only a little exasperated. “Envision what you want in a relationship. Dad taught me this, I used it to figure out where I wanted to go for college.”

“Okay. Does it work, or is it some hokey bullshit?”

“Quit being rude and humour me, dammit.”

“Alright, alright,” he laughs, feeling her well-manicured thumb jab his cheek. He wets his lips while he thinks for a moment. “Uh, I wanna be with someone who's funny and nice, fun to be around.”

“Okay, can we get a little more depth than that?”

“Give me a second here, woman,” he snorts. “I want- someone who's chill, who likes some of the stuff I like- not everything, but we gotta have stuff to do together, you know?” Carmensita hums. “I want- I really want someone I can build a future with. I don't wanna just play around, y'know? I want someone responsible- heh, maybe not too responsible. But someone I can trust, someone I can see myself having kids with.”

“Woah, you want kids-plural now?”

“Well not a whole bunch, but two would be nice. They can play with each other- anyway,” Ernest gulps, strangely caught up in the thought process. “I want someone who when I look at her- I just want all the good stuff in the world for her. She's going places and she's talented- I want someone who I really get, who gets me back. When people talk about marrying their best friend, that's- that's what I want. Someone who- accepts me, and we can be ourselves around each other, always.”

They're quiet a moment, Carmensita's hand still on his face. She takes it away slowly and smiles softly. “So, you want what you have with me, but with kissing?”

Ernest blanks for a solid thirty seconds before raising his finger. “Okay, first of all, when did you get so smooth?”

Carmensita laughs, loud and cute, sweeping some loose curls off her forehead and looking at him with these eyes- he's never seen her look at him like that until now. Or maybe he was just that clueless. “Is that really all you want to ask me?”

Ernest swallows, loud enough to hear it, sitting up a little straighter. “Can I- kiss you?”

“I don't know, can you?”

He groans outright, dropping his head on her shoulder while she giggles. “One of these days, 'Sita, one of these days.”

She smells really nice this close, maybe it's her shampoo? It's damn good, whatever it is. Her hands end up on his shoulders, not pressing, just holding him. He lifts his head and god, that little moment of eye contact before they both lean forward-

First kisses are not usually perfect, but he's willing to call this one close enough. She's warm and soft beneath his lips. His arms slip around her waist and it's like she was made to fit against him. He outright sighs when they part, kissing her nose just to hear her laugh again.

“Are you-” He can't quite find his words right now, his mind cycling through all the new and so very nice stimuli his senses are taking in. Carmensita's always been beautiful to him but he never thought, never let himself- “Do you- are you sure you wanna do this? I can't- I really like you, but I don't think I'll ever be able to do the physical stuff. You deserve-”

She presses a finger to his lips and he silences himself immediately, distracted by the light of her eyes. “There's nothing I want that online shopping with discreet shipping can't provide. None of that 'you deserve better' crap. I want you, if you want me back, then we should keep kissing and see where it takes us.”

Ernest works his jaw for a few moments, then nods. “Yeah, I can get behind that train of thought.”

Carmensita's laugh as he pulls her in for more smooches is the sweetest sound he's ever heard.

They end up cuddling up and falling asleep together- hahaha an asexual sleeping with someone on the first date, hahaha, puns and stuff -a bonus of neither of them having morning shifts the next day and Carmensita not having anyone expecting her back at home. He wakes up before she does, spooned up behind her, all their clothes rumpled, the blankets cocooned around them. He kisses the nape of her neck and sighs. He feels content, for the first time in a while.

The softest of knocks precedes the door creaking open. “Hey, Ernest, do you want- /oh/.”

The door shuts quickly, rousing Carmensita and making Ernest groan. “So much for keeping quiet about it.”

“Were we going to?” She yawns, sitting up and stretching. “Also, I'm bringing my silk pillowcases or we're only sleeping at my place. How do you live like this?”

“I dunno, I'm a mess.” He laughs and sits up, a tentative hand on her back. “I just- I'm scared. We've been friends for so long, I don't want to risk it going badly.”

“But if we don't risk it going badly, we also don't risk it going well.” She clumsily boops his nose, smiling dopily at him. “Guess which outcome I have my money on?”

“Girl, what money?” He laughs when she jabs him in the stomach. He leans in for a kiss after a moment, realizing that they can do that now, and smooches her cheek gladly. “So, if the Dads know, that means we're officially an 'us.'”

“We are.” She grins and kisses his cheek back. “I like being an us, it's pretty great so far.”

“It is.” He grins back, feeling like he can't stop. Shit, it's really happening. Is he in love? Is that an okay word to use after literally one very unexpected day? Probably not out loud.

He walks her downstairs, and they whisper-laugh a few walk-of-shame jokes before she heads out in her poofy pink coat, leaving him alone with the giddy feeling in his gut. In the dining room, Dad and Damien are doing maybe the worst acting job he's ever seen. “Are you two gonna make a big deal out of this?”

“Make a big deal out of what?” Damien inquires with convincing innocence, frying pan and spatula in hand.

“Yes, is there something we should make a big deal out of?” Hugo smiles, legitimately doing the newspaper crossword like he's a goddamn cartoon character.

Ernest sighs and drops into his chair, accepting several pancakes from Damien. “We literally just started- dating, I guess. No wedding bells, no grandbabies, nothing crazy yet, so please relax.”

“You know we're not like that.”

“Certainly, I'm not my mother.” Damien chuckles, almost unconsciously rubbing Hugo's robe-covered arm while they eat. So gross, but also goals.

“But, out of curiosity,” Hugo teasingly elbows him. “Did you kiss her yet?”

The dads laugh while Ernest howls. He'd text his Pop for backup, but he will get the exact same shit in different wording. He pulls out his phone and texts Lucien instead.

EHV: Hey Carmensita and I are dating just FYI

LB: About gd time, you've been heart eyes at her for literal years

CS: What

CS: Lucien why would you not tell me this

CS: I COULD HAVE SAVED SO MUCH TIME >:(

EHV: Oh shit group chat again

LB: Let's rename these things plz

EHV: Sorry babe <3

CS: Np hon ;*

LB: And here I am, third wheeling it again

EHV: You are basically married stfu

LB: That does not make this better

CS: Ladies ladies, you're both pretty

EHV: Sita knows whats uppppp

LB: Finishing BNHA this weekend y/n?  

CS: Y, obvs

EHV: Also Y, I'm off at 7 don't watch ahead

LB: Don't walk so slow and we won't

EHV: Eat a dick

CS: G2g, love you guys

EHV: Love ya too

LB: <3

LB: Also, straaaaaaaaaaight

EHV: Fuckin really dude

LB: Someone has to

LB: Tell Dad I'm coming for dinner tonight

EHV: Will do, bye weeb

LB: Cya loser

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Hope you like the fanfic, I’ve included a few of your suggestions :)

4 MONTHS AGO

‘Okay – yeah, I know – no, I… no, of course not! – I will. I promise. – Bye. – Yeah bye, goodbye. Bye dad!’, Stiles hung up the phone, exhausted, and dragged a hand through his hair. His dad had been worried sick about him as he had driven all the way to the East Coast, alone. He just turned eighteen, but he wasn’t a baby anymore. Stiles understood his father’s good intentions, but sometimes…

He stepped out of his trusted Jeep, rotating his head around the parking lot, taking in the many buildings he’d seen a year ago when he first visited the university. He grinned, happy nerves building in his stomach as he picked his backpack (He’d fetch his luggage later. It wasn’t a necessity now.), took the map out of the front pocket and started walking to the main building. The university, George Washington University, accommodated dorms for students who needed them. Seeing as he previously lived in California, it was a requirement.

‘Alright,’ he murmured, ‘Madison Hall.’ After knocking over someone’s boxes and nearly getting hit with a soccer ball, he finally reached his residence. He briefly remembered the name of his roommate, Scott, who he had been matched with over the summer. They’ve talked a little bit between then and now, mostly about rules and if there were any allergies. (Apparently, Scott was allergic to mushrooms. Luckily for him, Stiles never ordered a mushroom pizza.) He’d seen a grainy picture of him as well, with only his tan skin and crooked jaw standing out. Stiles just hoped he wasn’t asshole, he’d seen enough of those to last a lifetime.

The corridors were relatively empty, considering it was the week before classes started. Perhaps he was quite late, or the others were all last minute. He didn’t know. He didn’t care.

Just as he was about to open his door, it flung open, startling Stiles. ‘Wow!’ The guy on the other end was frozen for a moment too, until his hands shot forward. ‘I’m sorry!’ Stiles coughed, laughing awkwardly, ‘It’s ah, fine. Are you Scott?’ ‘Yeah,’ Scott had an easy smile, ‘Stiles?’ ‘Yep!’, he grinned. Scott seemed nice, at first glance. He hoped it would stay that way. ‘Cool. Come in.’

The room was, as expected, dull and small. It had two, simple twin beds with matching nightstands. Two dressers, two desks, two corkboards, a “grey but it was once white trust me” wall colour and a tiny bathroom that contained a toilet, sink and mirror. The common showers and kitchen were down the hall. The right side was already occupied with what Stiles assumed was Scott’s stuff.

‘I took the bed at the window, if you don’t mind,’ Scott said. ‘Yeah, I don’t mind,’ Stiles dropped his bag on the free bed, ‘have you done anything already?’ Scott shook his head, ‘No. I just wanted to go to the activity fair when you came. Wanna join me?’ Stiles shrugged. ‘Sure.’

*

‘Where are you from?’, Scott asked, examining the colourful stands. Stiles scoffed, there was a club for literally everything. ‘California. North.’ Scott smiled, ‘I’m from South-California.’ Stiles had wanted to say something about why the fuck he was always smiling, when Scott’s face lit up even more and ran towards a booth. ‘You wanna audition for a band?’, Stiles crinkled his nose, staring at horrible posters with stock photos they got from Getty Images. ‘Yeah, why not? I play guitar.’ ‘I think every American guy plays guitar.’ ‘Do you?’ ‘No. The drums.’ ‘You should audition too!’ Stiles laughed shortly. ‘No.’ Scott shrugged, putting his name on the list where already a few other names were noted. ‘Are you going to join something?’ ‘I don’t know,’ Stiles mumbled, eyes skating across the field, ‘Is there a “solving bloody murders”-club, by chance?’ Scott looked up, staring at him weirdly. ‘You like that?’ Stiles smiled, ‘Well – yeah. It’s fun to figure things out.’ ‘You have friends who liked that too?’ Green eyes and strawberry blonde hair smiled at him in his memory. ‘Yeah.’ Scott seemed to realise Stiles didn’t want to talk about it, so he resumed blabbing out his guitar, which Stiles appreciated. He’d rather not think about his relationship with Lydia.

Near the end of the night, posters of “All Time Low” and “Paramore” hung on Scott’s side of the room, whilst Stiles had one up from “Star Wars” and “The Mummy”. Pictures of mums and dads pinned on the boards, books neatly placed in drawers as well as clothes. (‘Do you only wear shirts?’, “Do you only wear flannels?’)  Scott’s guitar was placed in one corner, and Stiles’ yarn had a dedicated spot that was not allowed to be touched by anyone other than himself.

‘Have you seen Star Wars?’ ‘Uh – no.’ ‘What. Scott!’ He laughed, spinning in his desk chair. ‘I don’t know. I don’t like science fiction.’ ‘Scotty, you’re going to watch that. That’s my mission this year.’

3 MONTHS AGO

‘I can’t believe you dragged me to this.’ ‘Dude. You won’t get carded.’ ‘… Fine. But still,’ Stiles waved his hands at the bar, ‘Instead of learning, like I should, you dragged me to a concert.’ ‘Where I’ll be playing!’ Stiles rolled his eyes aggressively. He wasn’t a fan of punk pop, which Scott knew, so he had no idea why he had asked Stiles to come. Perhaps for moral support. But couldn’t he, like, support him from his room?

‘Look. I’ll buy you as many beers as you want, at we’re back at uni in three hours,’ Scott sent him the warm smile that seemed to be his brand. Stiles rolled his eyes, answering his smile with a pat on his shoulder. ‘Okay.’ ‘Thanks, man.’

An hour later, Scott and the band, named “Alpha Pack”, were bringing the entire pub into a frenzy. Mosh pits being made as the music swelled, people (read: girls) screaming as the lead singer, Isaac, came forward towards the stage. Stiles snorted. Why was he wearing a scarf? Isn’t that hot?

His eyes drifted to Scott whose hands swiftly strummed chords, a sheen of sweat glistening on his forehead. Speaking of hot.

It was a fact that Scott was a handsome boy. It was objective. Grass in green, a couch is a piece of furniture, Scott is handsome. It wasn’t like Stiles had felt any attraction towards him. But… Well, Scott looked very nice right now. 

Stiles was familiar with these feelings though. They didn’t scare him. He has only had girlfriends, but he knew he liked boys as well. There just haven’t been great candidates around. The topic of relationships hasn’t come up yet between them, but he assumed Scott was straight. Not because he knew, more so to protect himself. He had a strong sense of self-preservation, including protecting his heart. This guy had to be his roommate for a year, he’d rather keep things friendly and light. No need to make things intense and heavy. But in that moment he couldn’t help wondering what Scott’s lips tasted like.

*

‘What did you think?’, Scott asked, huffing and cheeks red. He plopped down next to him. ‘Like I said, not my thing. But you did ah, you did good,’ Stiles patted his on the back, pursing his lips into a smile. His perverted thoughts about Scott were shoved to the back of his mind and slowly withering. It was probably the heat, Stiles thought. He gave his beer to Scott. ‘Thanks.’ Stiles observed the people around them, ‘You have a lot of fangirls.’ Scott grinned cheekily. ‘Yeah. This girl, Malia, came up to me when I was cleaning up.’ Stiles briefly remembered the girl. Tall, confident, blond-brownish hair. Pretty. ‘So, you got her number?’ Scott shook his head, suddenly appearing very shy. ‘No. I mean, she gave it to me. But… I don’t… I don’t like girls.’ Stiles eyebrows rose involuntarily, and Scott winced. ‘No!,’ Stiles yelled out, panicked, ‘I’m not homophobic or anything. Just surprised.’ Scott visibly relaxed. ‘Thank God. I thought I had to pretend to be straight for an entire year.’ ‘Nah. I’m bisexual, so.’ Scott smiled, ‘Cool.’

2 MONTHS AGO

‘Ah, come on!’, Stiles yellow, throwing popcorn at the screen.

With the money Scott earned with playing gigs and Stiles’ shifts at the University coffee shop, they were able to buy a tv from Craigslist. It was honestly one of their best investments yet. As of right now, a lacrosse game was on, and the team was playing terribly. A week ago, they found out they both played lacrosse. The only difference was that Scott was captain for three years, whilst Stiles… well, he usually sat on the bench. Scott snatched the bowl from him. ‘Stop throwing the popcorn!’ ‘They deserve to be hit with something.’ ‘Throw your socks or something.’ Stiles sputtered out a laugh. ‘Whatever.’ They missed again. ‘Alright!’, he shot upright, throwing a sock at the screen. Scott laughed. ‘I can’t see more of this. I’m gonna shower.’ ‘Leaving me alone with this horrible game?’, Scott gasped, eyes dancing amusedly. ‘Yes. Goodbye.’

As Stiles wandered towards the common showers, a small smile played on his lips. Scott and him had become great friends over the past two months. He’d never had a best guy friend in high school, as most of his friends were girls. Boyd was fun, but they never connected on a deeper level.

‘Fuck my life.’ Stiles had forgotten to bring his clothes. Knowing how college students were, he either made it to his bedroom with a few chuckles of passer-by’s, or someone snatched his towel away. It was one or the other. Stiles prayed it was the first. Sneakily, he sprinted through the hall, tightly holding on to the blue towel around his waist. His door was in sight. Smiling relieved, he busted through the door, smashing it shut. ‘What the fuck happened?’, Scott asked, frowning. ‘Oh.’ ‘Yeah, I forgot…’, Stiles lingered off, suddenly feeling very conscious of his body. Scott was fixated on his chest, staring at it in a way that made Stiles feel funny. ‘I ah, forgot my clothes.’ It seemed to snap Scott out of whatever daydream he was in, flushing red slightly. ‘Right. Uh. Yeah. I’ll,’ he pointed to the tv-screen, stepping backwards and bumping against the couch, ‘ouch. Anyway. He abruptly turned around, leaving them both red faced. Stiles quickly grabbed some clothes and dressed himself in the bathroom. As he sat back down on the couch, a weird energy surrounded them. ‘What’s the score?’, Stiles asked, anything to erase the intensity of the situation. ‘It’s over. The other team won.’ ‘Fucking hell,’ Stiles grumbled. Scott chuckled.

*

‘So, you like him?’, Kira’s voice said. He pressed the button of “speaker”, so he could fold his laundry. ‘Yeah.’ ‘And he’s gay?’ ‘Yep.’ ‘So why won’t you ask him out?’, she sounded exasperated. Stiles smiled. Kira was always one that loved a good romance. ‘Because,’ he trailed off, thinking of all the horrible scenarios that could happen. He’d reject him, he’d laugh at him, things would get awkward, he’d get jealous if Scott brought a guy in their dorm. ‘If it doesn’t work out, it’ll be awkward.’ ‘Or he doesn’t reject you and you live happily ever after.’ ‘I thought I’d be living happily ever after with Lydia and look what happened,’ he grumbled, throwing a flannel in his dresser. ‘Do you still talk to her?’, her voice seemed further away, he subtly heard papers ruffling. ‘Yeah. Sometimes.’ ‘That’s good,’ he heard her smile, ‘Anyway, has he showed any interest?’ ‘Well… he does sit close to me on the couch, but maybe he’s just a touchy person.’ ‘Or he likes you.’ ‘And he has looked at my chest when I was half naked in our room?’ She sputtered, ‘Was that your way of flirting?’ ‘No!’, he yelled, blushing, ‘It was an accident.’ ‘Of course,’ Kira quickly replied, ‘but you have to consider it, Stiles. Maybe he does like you, or has thought about you differently. I mean, it must be fate, right? Two guys, attracted to the same sex-‘ ‘I like girls too.’ ‘- in the same dorm room. He’s your type, and there’s a big chance you’re his type as well.’ ‘But.’ ‘No, buts.’ ‘I swear to God, Stiles. If you don’t ask him out, I’ll hunt his phone number down and do it for you.’ Stiles’ eyebrows rose, grabbing his phone. ‘Please don’t,’ she’d actually do it. He knew that. ‘I won’t if you do it.’ ‘… Fine. Not today, though. But I will.’ ‘Good.’

1 MONTH AGO

Holy shit. Holy fucking shit. Stiles was sitting on the curb at the front of a fraternity house, music booming from inside and red solo cups scattered on the ground. A nearly empty can of beer was in his hand as he stared in front of him, eyes terrified as he recalled what happened. He kissed Scott.

It was honestly an accident.

Isaac had invited them. He was in this fraternity (Stiles couldn’t remember the name, he was a bit drunk. Just a little bit, though.) and as Scott was part of the band, it was expected of him to come. Naturally, Scott took Stiles with him. Over the past months, they’ve been nearly glued to the hip. He didn’t know why, it just worked. They clicked.

They’d all been dancing to the music, drinking beer after beer, and suddenly there were shots, and then there was this girl who looked a lot like Lydia and then he took another drink and then

And then his lips were on Scott’s for a good ten seconds before he realised what he was doing and ran away.

And here he was now. ‘You always fuck everything up,’ he mumbled, angry drunk tears falling from his eyes. It was December, not even the new year and he’d already made things go south.

He licked the last bit of beer from the can, crushing it and throwing it on the ground. He stood up, dusted the dirt of his jeans and began walking to the dormitories. It was only three miles anyway.

NOW

They haven’t talked about it. It was three weeks ago. Stiles sighed, looking up from his workbook and staring at the corkboard in front of him. Scott’s presence was tangible. They were both intensely studying for the exams, spending even more time together as they hardly left this room. The last time Stiles had gone out was six hours ago, which was for breakfast.

‘Do you wanna grab lunch?’, Scott’s voice suddenly broke the silence, making him jump in his seat. ‘Sorry.’ Stiles shrugged. ‘Yeah, sure,’ he rolled away from his desk, stood up and grabbed his bomber jacket. ‘Where d’you wanna eat?’ Scott stared at him for a moment. Stilese’ eyes flickered downwards. He had a feeling something was going to happen. Something bad. ‘Why aren’t we talking about it?’, Scott eventually said. ‘Because,’ Stiles tried to find the words. Because I’m ashamed. Because I don’t want to be rejected. Because I like our friendship. Because I like you. ‘it’s awkward. It was an accident.’ Scott crossed his arms, furrowing his brows. ‘An accident?’ ‘Yeah.’ ‘So, you didn’t like it?’ ‘Well…,’ Stiles gulped, ‘I did like it. That’s the problem.’ His confession hung in the air like crackling electricity. Scott’s eyes widened exponentially. ‘Oh.’ ‘Yeah.’ ‘Well…,’ Scott’s warm smile tugged at Stiles’ heartstrings. God damn it, what was this boy doing to him?, ‘Good thing I like you too, then.’

Involuntarily, Stiles beamed at him. Scott returned the gesture. ‘Good, now we don’t need to awkwardly dress ourselves in the bathroom anymore.’ Scott chuckled, cautiously grabbing his hand, ‘Right, because that’s the first thing I think about.’

[neytinintransit]

seoul talk (ed. 1)

Or more like seoul searching, but I guess some good soul talk is a solid first step. To me, Seoul was a city of relationships. And when I say that, I’m not restricting the term to romance (although it definitely makes up a large pice of the pie). There was not a single day where Eric and I hadn’t found ourselves surrounded by both new and familiar faces. Part of the reason for our newfound popularity stood in the fact that most of the people I knew in Asia just happened to be in Seoul. But what made the experience special was that everyone would always bring one or two of their own friends to tag along, and naturally, that helped our humble little two-man team evolve into a squad (underwater squaw wus good). Everyday, we formed new relationships and strengthened existing ones. 

Being in Seoul really helped me appreciate all of the friends I found myself lucky enough to be surrounded by. After traveling for a while, the concept of homesickness doesn’t feel as foreign as it should, and you begin to long for some sort of anchor that can root you in stability. I think most people have this problem, but I never felt that in Seoul. I think that I can always find myself missing some parts of the warmth and friendship that I found there.

Staying true to the theme of this post, Eric and I immediately made our way over to meet with Michelle minutes after we got to our Airbnb. Originally, we had planned to get some Korean fried chicken with her in Hongdae, but this little devil kept escalating things. Eric and I were experiencing some serious alcohol trauma (hangovers) from the previous night and had no intention whatsoever of ingesting anymore of that toxic waste. In fact, we literally made a pact before meeting up with Michelle that we were going to take it easy tonight, but it was Michelle’s last night in Seoul and I guess she wanted to rally before the big send-off. We ordered one or two bottles of soju, and after we finished the modest amount of alcohol and the not-so-modest amount of chicken, she convinced us to go to a bar and grab one or two drinks. Something I learned while abroad: never trust those friends that take you to the bar for “one or two” drinks.

We ended up at this bar called Thursday Party, which was the typical go-to pregame spot for most internationals. To be fair, we had some pretty good conversation and catch up. We also dipped our feet in that stranger danger zone and had a couple memorable interactions with some people around us (i.e. some drunk girl who was alone and kept asking for alcohol, beer pong with some Canadians, Michelle’s unwanted wing-manning). From there, everything became a blur. I love poisoning myself, destroying my liver, and making embarrassingly bad decisions.

To be honest, I don’t even remember going to McDonalds. I only know we went because I’ve got hard-photo evidence of this happening. Despite the memory loss and continuation of my never-ending hangover, being around Michelle was especially refreshing, and I think that was one of the best ways I could’ve started my stay at Seoul. It was nice remembering what it felt like to appreciate another human being as much as they appreciated you. It’s been a while since I’ve genuinely had that in my life, and I think it’s an important part of finding a sense of belonging. On an slightly unrelated, light-hearted side-note, Michelle also got us started off on our seven-day bender.

Beyond my conscious knowledge, we woke up with plans to grab bing-su with Michelle. Bing-su is basically Korean shaved snow, and that good-good looked a bit like this:

When we got to the joint, I was greeted by my arch-nemesis Stephanie, Michelle’s younger sister. According to Michelle, her sister goes on auto-hate mode for any “new guy” in her life. I don’t think there’s a single time where I haven’t seen her glaring at me. It’s okay though, because deep down, I feel like Steph actually enjoys my company even though she’s take jabs at me every little chance she gets. Because in between each insult, we manage to sneak in a nice little conversation about something going on in our lives. Well, regardless of whether or not she likes me, I think she’s cool and that’s all that matters. Plus we’re facebook friends, so it’s official

After bidding our frowns and farewells to Michelle as her bus drove off into the distance, we made our way over to Gyeongbokgung, the royal palace of South Korea. Stephanie must’ve really wanted company, because she decided to stick around us for the rest of the day. The humidity was brutal, and so were my sweat glands. For the duration of our bus ride, Steph wouldn’t stop pining about how I was basically a fountain and needed some portable fans so I wouldn’t drip everywhere. I don’t blame her.

We actually made plans to meet up with John Suh that day. Apparently, he was on some short vacation from his military vacation and had some time to spare before going back to base, so he joined us on our little expedition. Back when he was at Princeton, we never really spoke much. Even though we went to Beijing together freshman summer, I could only count a handful of memories with him. After spending so much time with him this summer, I could safely say that that’s probably one of my biggest regrets. We actually get along really well, and it’s really nice to have a friend who likes the same style of dance as you (~Cali urban vibes~). On the east coast, there weren’t that many people who were into the styles of dance that I was, so it was a bit isolating in that respect.

John’s the sharp-looking military boy to the right. Oh yeah, about my outfit. There are several vendors around the area that rent out Hanboks (traditional Korean Garb) for about thirty bucks USD. Somehow, Eric talked me into the whole immersive experience, so we hiked over the closest store and got all suited up. Somehow, Eric talked me into doing a lot of crazy things, but thankfully this was one was one of the better decisions that we made. 

Above, we have the King and the Prince. I let Eric take over with the king outfit this time since he’s the one that’s actually Korean- plus it gave me plenty of leeway for those daddy jokes that made the man plenty uncomfortable. Half the time, I couldn’t stop laughing in disbelief at the fact that we actually went out of our way to put these clothes on. As silly as I felt, I’m glad we did it. We had a taste of what it felt like to be old school Korean gangstas, and people treated us like mini celebrities. There were at least three or four occasions where strangers came up to us asking for a photo. The best part was when they came up to me speaking Korean and I had to give them that blank, shameless stare, exposing myself as a poser. About an hour and two ankle blisters later, John’s vacation time was up and Eric and I had to go return our new superhero outfits. We went scavenging for food after our failed attempt to enter the museum of modern art (since it was closed). After a short meal, we dropped Stephanie off at her bus stop and Eric and I headed home to rest and wash up. Waking up hungover and walking all day long in hot, stuffy clothing was a sure-fire way of feeding the burnout.

Oh, I almost forgot. Friday, June 30 was a very special day, because it was Michelle Jeong’s birthday! By the way, this is a different Michelle than the one mentioned above, so to alleviate the confusion, I’ll refer to her as Meesh. Meesh and I were friends way back in high school (fun fact: we actually went to Sadies together). We shared the same nightmarish internship one summer in high school, and hadn’t spoke much until we reunited in London during our junior year of study abroad. She was the closest friend I had while I was in London, and I can’t imagine what the semester would’ve been like without her support. I really wouldn’t want to, growing closer to her in London was easily the best thing that happened to me during those few months. It’s funny to look back into your past and discover all these disjoint narratives that somehow found themselves mingling and me(e)shing together. Meesh’s family moved back to Seoul after both siblings graduated college, so I haven’t seen her back on the west coast in a while.

After Eric and I washed all the humid grime off our bodies and put on some fancy clothes, we headed over to this bar in Itaewon for Meesh’s birthday party. Itaewon is the most international neighborhood of Seoul. If you’re an expat and you can’t speak Korean, Itaewon’s probably the place you’d be living. It’s also a pretty fun place to go out. When we got there, I was surprised to run into John Shin, my best friend’s boyfriend. Unfortunately he was just waiting for us to come so he could say hi, but he had to leave soon after. At the bar, I met a number of Meesh’s close friends from Cornell. Meesh would always tell me so many stories about her friends back at school, so it was really interesting to finally meet them all in person. I was also shocked at how many of them were in Korea at that time. 

A good number of drinks and a happy birthday song later, we walked across the street to this place called Club Made. Originally, Meesh really didn’t want to go clubbing, but her friends sort of coerced her into it. That night as an oddball, because I was the one who had to take care of Eric. After he puked on my arm (which is totally OK because I put him through much more stress throughout the trip), I decided it was about time to head home. We left the club at around 3AM, and after we realized that it was impossible to call a cab at that hour, we decided to go back and stay in the club until 5AM when the subway opened up again.

And so we did it. Eric and I stumbled back into Club Made, stole a handle of Absolut from an abandoned table, met some new friends (who go to NYU and USC!!!), and continued partying until the sunrise. After the club closed, we headed back to the Airbnb. Or at least I thought we were, but my trip back home was a little more complicated. I was half awake when Eric woke me up, but in that situation we definitely round down. Apparently after I stood up, Eric assumed that I followed him out of the train and onto the platform. But I didn’t. In my half-awake, drunken stupor, I sat back down in my seat and fell asleep for a good five to six stops away. I woke up in a panic and realized Eric had texted me the address and key code to get back into the apartment earlier that day. Unfortunately, my battery was at around 2% and I knew that if I wasn’t able to memorize that information before my phone died, I’d probably die along with it. 

Luckily, four years of cramming BS in college did me well, and I was able to get the information down right before it powered off. Cab drivers in Korea don’t really speak English, so I was lucky that I found one that was able to understand whatever the hell I was telling him. After I charged my phone and reunited with a very relieved Eric, I found this gem in my messages: 

I laughed, but he was pissed. 

After a long nap, Eric took me to this little slice of paradise called Hangang Park. In retrospect, strolling along the river was probably one of happiest, most peaceful memories of the entire Asia trip. We purchased some kimbap on the way there and scoped out the area for a nice, shady spot to relax. Summers are especially humid, so naturally the bulk of the crowd congregated underneath a massive bridge that overlooked the river. People had tents and blankets sprawled out along the lawn, and there were a group of people singing and performing for the crowd. They had some of the most beautiful voices I’ve ever heard in my life. Part of me wishes I went up to them and asked them if they wanted the photo, because they seemed so genuinely happy in that moment. Eric and I sat there for a while, enjoying the music and food while observing a few people perform these crazy tricks on bicycles. 

I also managed to snap a photo that I thought captured a “nice guy” moment for Eric. Basically, there are a number of old Korean women scattered throughout the park that are paid(?) to pass out fliers and sell snacks. They probably don’t have much money and need to work these jobs to make it to the next week, because conditions are grueling. It’s unbelievably humid out, and most people just brush them aside or ignore them. I guess Eric felt bad, because he got up out of nowhere and bought some food that we didn’t even eat. I promise this was one of those actually-candid photos. It’d be kind of fucked up if it wasn’t. 

After we soaked up enough of the peace and zen around us, we decided to go on a little stroll along the river. I don’t know if this sounds pretentious, but the large public pool-fountain construct reminded me a lot of Plaça de Catalunya in Barcelona. The surroundings were just so full of life- splashes, youthful laughter, tiny plodded footsteps could be heard from all directions. I know this is probably a misguided judgement, but I found it difficult to imagine an unhappy childhood growing up somewhere with this in the backyard. I think there’ve been less than a handful of memories where I felt that genuinely content and at awe with the world I live in, and this was one of them.

Unfortunately, our time at Hangang park came to an end. We met up with Eric’s uncle on his dad’s side of the family and a few of his other relatives for ayce (all you can eat) shabu shabu. After meeting his dad’s side and hearing about his mom’s side, I could really see both parts of their personalities in him. It was really interesting to piece the different puzzle pieces together- I wonder what people think about me when they meet my parents. Anyway, we had a long, hearty dinner and I enjoyed spending time with them. Eric seemed really happy to be able to see them, since he grew up with most of them and they moved to Korea about half a year ago.

By the time dinner finished, it was pretty far into the evening. Guess what that means. That’s right. More alcohol. We hurried home to put on a pair of pants, since that’s what we considered “nicer” clothing, and made our way out to our first night in Gangnam. We made plans to meet up with Sally Hahn, one of my friends from Princeton. Meesh was supposed to join in, but she bailed toward the end because she didn’t want to go out two nights in a row. What a party pooper. Well, she’s actually pretty fun to party with, but I’m just bitter because her company would’ve been greatly appreciated.

Having Sally around was still great, though. If I’m ever back in Seoul while she’s there, I’m definitely going to hit her up because she took good care of Eric and me. First, we went to this Korean bar-restaurant thing. I forgot the name for it, but typical Korean bars are food joints that sell alcohol. The alcohol’s relatively cheap, but the gig is that you need to purchase some food in order to purchase the alcohol. That’s where the bars make the money, but I guess it all evens out in the end. Plus that food was mad dank (Erthan Slohng lingo). We went out to this club called Octagon, which is one of the highest rated clubs in the world. It was pretty expensive- I think that night hurt my wallet the most. I guess you get what you pay for, though, because we had a ton of fun. Some guy wearing an Anonymous mask started a cypher, and you best believe I found myself at home there. Actually, who am I kidding. The only time I’m brave enough to freestyle is when I’m well-enough inebriated to the point where there’s no way my freestyle looks any good. Some tragic happenings occurred that night as well, but for the sake of everyone’s reputation, I’ll leave that a mystery for you to never figure out. 

Keeping up with the pattern, we woke up with our lovely splitting headaches and aching bodies. Eric had plans to meet up with his mother’s side, but I had promised Meesh we would spend some more time together before I left for the next destination. And thus, Eric and I temporarily parted ways for the first time (while sober, and with a clear sense of direction). 

Lovely, lovely Meesh brought me to this beautiful man-made river called Cheonggyecheon. Apparently, it used to be a massive sewage dump that polluted the streets with a rotting stench. Sort of like the smell you’d catch a whiff of walking by my college dorm. One of the Presidents realized how much public spaces affected the livelihood of its inhabitants (duh), and spent tons of money reforming it into what it is today. Sometimes, I wish cities in America would make better use of their public spaces. Even in NYC, everything has a bit of a rustic, rundown vibe to it (unless we’re talking big corporate buildings).

Meesh and I actuallly ran into a little Muay Thai tournament that was taking place near Cheonggyecheon. It brought back plenty of memories (and trauma), since Meesh was there when I started taking on Muay Thai seriously and competing in London. I made the mistake of purchasing some spicy pad thai, and found myself sweating a good amount more than I should have a few minutes into our walk. After melting a trail of sadness for a good fifteen minutes, we found a restaurant that served pigs feet. It sounds weird, but I grew up on that stuff and I can promise you that it’s something you definitely don’t want to knock until you try. We ate our fill as we caught each other up on our lives. It’s crazy how much can change in such a short time period. It’s only been a few weeks since, but I bet if I met up with Meesh for another dope, scrumptious pig’s feet feast, I’d have just as many new things to tell her.

Eric was planning on meeting us later in the day, so Meesh took me around some nice spots to kill time. I can’t remember the name of the place (mainly because so much of my brain-space was hellbent on remembering the names of locations near my Airbnb so that if I got lost again, I wouldn’t be scared of getting lost and dying), but there were all these cute little shops and boutiques littered across these stone-brick streets. If Meesh and I were dating, that would have been one of the most ideal date locations, and that’s me talking by LA standards. I thought my hometown was a place that shipped out romantics, but I guess there’s a reason why every other person’s holding hands with someone on the streets. There was this one shopping complex (The one pictured above. Look at Meesh btw, isn’t she adorable.) with shops spiraling up to the top. At the top was this little “love lock” things where couples could go and attach locks with their names written on them to a fence. Y’know, one of those things. It’s actually pictured in my profile photo for the blog if you still don’t know what I’m talking about. And if you’re still confused, go peep my travel album on Facebook (shameless plug).

After Eric arrived, we got some shaved ice and went shopping for souvenirs. Well, more like we walked into a shop that happened to sell souvenirs- we were really there for the AC, because all three of us were literally melting through our pores. I was feeling especially tired toward the end of our time with Meesh, so I mainly stood in the background and let Eric and Meesh interact with each other. I felt so exhausted from the consecutive disasters that happened the two nights before that I couldn’t muster the energy to maintain conversation with these people, even though they were both people very near and dear to my heart.

As usual, we said our goodbyes to Meesh and moved onto our next destination. I thought it would be a crime to call myself a dancer, come to Seoul, and not take dance class. So to prevent myself from committing any crimes against humanity, I dragged Eric to his first dance class at 1Million with me. We went to a random dance class, hoping we would learn some dope choreography, but instead we took Jay Kim’s class (sorry for the hate, but I just couldn’t dig it). I still had a ton of fun dancing, though. Becoming a part of the dance community was one of the most dynamic changes to my senior year at Princeton, but I can easily say that dancing has made me a much happier person at the core. We met some guy (sorry I can’t remember your name!) from Vegas who was also traveling Asia post-grad, and grabbed dinner with him after class. 

When we were released from Jay Kim’s cornyography (get it? corny choreography = cornyography) dance-den, we were lucky and fortunate enough to enter a long, seemingly perpetual spree of torrential downpour. What made the situation even better was that the only person who had an umbrella was Eric. After waiting a good fifteen minutes, we gave up on the world and admitted defeat to the crazies that were doing the rain dance in some basement to ruin our lives. The station was about a ten-minute walk away, but somehow with all the rain, it turned out to be a fifteen-minute sprint away. Even though we all were soaked head to toe, even though I nearly slipped and cracked my head open a few times, even though that day is probably the reason why my shoes smell like shit today, I don’t think I would have chosen to not run in the rain that night even if I had a massive, protective hamster ball that would’ve protected me from any moisture from above. I don’t know if you’ve ever done it, but going out into a blanket of thundering rain with no protection is probably one of the most exhilarating corners of life. Running through it is even better. I guess I still don’t really know what it means to be alive after 22 years in this body, but I felt so incredibly alive that night. 

That long day was unfortunately the preface to a long night. Eric and I had mountains of laundry because we did a great job of overpacking, and we had to do laundry before leaving for Taipei the next day. And so as all bro-y Californian dudes do while they wait for laundry, Eric and I drank a bottle of makgeolli (Korean rice wine) and put on face masks.

The stuff of nightmares, am I right. You’ll also notice that there’s clothes hanging from the curtains in the background. That’s what made that night long. Almost everything that could have possibly gone wrong (and right) happened during our stay in Seoul, and the night before we took off, the owner came up to us with a bag of heavy, soggy, washed clothing and told us that the storm broke the drier. Under pressure, we jerry-rigged a little hang-dry system out of everything we could possibly hang clothes off of and prayed that everything would be dry in the morning. I can’t really remember if the clothes were ok in the morning, but I do remember going to Taipei. Things always sort themselves out somehow. Or you die. But usually you don’t die.

Throughout the entirety of our stay in Seoul, we had flurry of hello’s and goodbye’s to both old and new faces. I’ve always felt that part of growing up is about learning how to develop your relationships with people around you. And now, I think I’m finally beginning to understand the exact weight of those words. Developing these relationships isn’t just a one-track process of fortification. It’s a dynamic process in which we create relationships anew, build them into friendships, and loosen some old ties to make room for the new. Sometimes, the old ties tighten up again, but sometimes they don’t. And that’s totally OK. 

I think that I’ve always understood the last part, subconsciously. But to truly grasp it and accept it is something I need to learn, and something that I am still learning. It’s scary to know that something that was once so special might not be at some point in the future. But it’s also exciting to know that something that might have been a small encounter- be it someone you met at dance, someone you said hi to on a bus, or someone who was your Airbnb host- could develop into an invaluable, lifelong friendship. Of course, it is just as much a possibility that the loosening will never happen- that those relationships and friendships will last your entire life. But consciously knowing that they might not, and accepting that they will not if the situation were to arise– that’s the hard part. I guess this is a long, drawn out of learning that life moves on, and that’s I’ll eventually find some way to be content irregardless of whatever direction it may move in. 

Sorry for the long post, but I guess it just means that I was really living throughout this entire experience, collecting stories here and there to add to my little trove of memories. I always know I have an overall positive experience when I have plenty of stories to tell, even if those experiences are negative ones. Because it’s our narratives and the way we tell them which give our lives life. A few years ago during the summer, JD and I saw a quote scribbled on the back of Vesper Bar in Amsterdam that read: “Summer is the time when you drink triple, see double, and act single.” I’m glad the 22 year-old me was able to learn and apply something I learned in my college years.

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Taipei bound here we come wooowooo aww yea put that street food in my belly unf.