#if our Five hadn’t had that moment of peace he’d have continued the same cycle of every other alternate five trying to fix the timeline

[neon-danger]

call me crazy but I don’t hate the umbrella academy season 4

[aitarose]

SKINNY LOVE | ZUKO

PAIRING: Zuko x Reader [fem]

PLOT: Years and years of build up, only to lead to absolutely nothing. Y/N’s constant emotion was confusion, and there was no changing that when it came to Zuko’s feelings.

WARNINGS: angst

WORD COUNT: 1.6k

A/N: my best friend says he might have feelings for me, and i’m so stressed right now i’m going crazy. so here’s a little fic that literally explains our entire relationship and these are all my raw emotions ew. also this is almost word for word our conversation tonight

MY MASTERLIST

Their cycle seemed to be infinite, running in circles on the same track over and over again throughout the course of their lifelong friendship. The friendship that had been more confusing than the most trivial question in the entire world.

Y/N had always considered feelings to be straightforward. Something that could be determined with a simple yes or no answer, rather than continuous strife and struggles, arguments and silence.

She knew what she felt, and she wanted other’s to know that. Communication was no fare for her when it came to anger, sadness, and love—especially when it came to love.

Zuko on the other hand had what some would call troubles in the aspect of emotions. He’d bottle up all of his stress and worries, bursting like a volcano when they’d release. 

After years, decades of friendship and unspoken feelings, Y/N still didn’t know where she stood with the newly crowned Fire Lord. They’d danced around their relationship for what seemed like forever, him never truly speaking the words she’d always wanted to hear.

And after so many rounds of psychoanalyzing his words and phrases, the responses he’d give her after she’d try her best to pour her heart out to him, Y/N was beginning to grow sick of their routine.

It wasn’t that she didn’t love him anymore, she was just so unbelievably tired of it all. Peace was the thing she needed most. Inner peace with herself, her appearance, her confidence.

All the things that she’d never fully realized due to her constant focus on Zuko and only Zuko. The things that made someone unique, what made them them. She was lacking them, and the only way to grow was to distance herself.

So, distance was what she gave him. Y/N moved around the world, never settling in one nation, finding new cultures and traditions to enjoy and bringing them back with her to the Fire Nation every now and then.

During her little conquest, Zuko had found his place beside Mai. Comfortable in his own little bubble, never taking any risks outside of the familiarity of his daily life. He hadn’t grown up—that was the first thing Y/N had come to notice as her feelings were reborn.

It’d taken her two years to move on from him, two years to find love for herself and take interest in people other than her best friend—but the minute she heard that he ended his relationship with Mai, they’d come flying back.

All of her former insecurities pounded in her mind, screaming in her inner monologue, refusing to give her a single second of silence. Y/N was out of breath, completely lost in the sea of her own thoughts.

She and Zuko had stayed in contact over the years of her adventure. Constantly writing letters back and forth, telling each other about their day, their new friends, and whatever was remotely interesting in their lives. 

Although she hadn’t physically seen him in so long, Y/N still felt a connection to him. A connection that pulled her like a magnet the minute he stood before her, smiling his dopey, crooked grin.

When he’d wrapped his arms around her, pulling her into the tightest hug she’d ever been a part of—Y/N’s heart quite literally dropped, falling out of her body, and rolling out into the ocean. 

Her chest was tight, it was almost as if she felt like she was choking on a food that was stuck in her throat. Something that was refusing to come out, no matter how hard she tried to say those three little words—I love you.

And Zuko, himself, hadn’t settled her storm by any means. If anything, he’d encouraged it to rage on, encouraged it to continue to torment and demolish all the self respect she’d grown.

Whilst Y/N had jokingly spoken out the idea of them being together, he’d practically driven her to insanity. “What if I wasn’t joking, Zuko?” She wondered, freezing in disbelief at what she was saying. “What if I did feel that way?”

In response, Zuko simply laughed. His eyes pinched shut, a wide smile overtaking his mouth in amusement at her curiosity. “I don’t believe you, Y/N.” He rolled his eyes, playing with their intertwined hands. “You don’t actually feel that way.”

At that, a light scoff escaped Y/N’s lips, her face becoming contorted and annoyed. “Okay.” She started, shaking her head at the conversation she was about to trigger. “Well, what would your response be if I did?”

Zuko’s looked in her direction, his amber eyes meeting her steely ones. “You’re really baiting me, aren’t you?” His face went a little pale at her slight nod, a large gulp running down his neck. 

“It wouldn’t be a no.” 

Y/N’s smile dropped, her expression growing blank as her heartbeat began to jump out of her chest. What he’d just hinted at was her getting what she’d always wanted, the thing that she’d dreamed of since she was only five years old.

Both of them seemed to be frozen in the moment, neither knowing exactly what was going on as they weren’t aware of what their feelings for each other were. Their lives had become so different, they’d become so different.

Zuko was a leader now, a person that needed to have stability and assurance in his life. He was a traditionalist, he needed rules and regulations to live in harmony with himself and his people.

Y/N, however, was a free spirit. She knew what she wanted in life and she’d be sure to make it happen. Commitment and social standards weren’t on her agenda, as she didn’t have one.

But when it came to Zuko, Y/N would do anything. She’d drop her goals and dreams if it’d amount to one minute of true happiness in his arms. Her love for him had grown toxic, it was poison in her brain.

Poison that could also be considered pure. A feeling of actual and real love for the prince that she’d known for her entire life. Everything about him contradicted itself, the stress he made her feel was practically indescribable.

“Are you being serious?” Y/N was on the verge of hysterically laughing, she was so appalled by Zuko’s response. Her face was bright red, dancing on the line of embarrassment and anger. 

Zuko let go of her hands, his palm running over the back of his neck. He shrugged, sheepishly smiling as he looked everywhere but at her. “Yeah.” He sighed, pursing his lips. “That seemed like the wrong answer.”

“No.” Y/N’s neck snapped to turn to him, her eyes searching for his own. Her voice became breathless, her lungs nearly gasping for air. “Go back. Are you being serious, right now, that your answer wouldn’t be a no?”

As Zuko shook his head to signify that he wouldn’t reject her question, Y/N almost toppled over in shock. “So, figuratively speaking, if I had feelings for you—you wouldn’t reject me straight on?”

Thirty seconds was what it took for Zuko to answer her. Half a minute of earth shattering patience that Y/N had to endure before she heard his simple words. “No, of course not.”

“But what does that mean?” Y/N was now itching for closure. She had to find out what this all meant. What it meant for their past, their present, and the future of their relationship.

“I would have no reason to reject you, that’s what it means.” He simply shrugged, expecting the conversation to be over by now. The talk of feelings was wearing Zuko out, causing a large yawn to form on his features.

He was tired, exhausted at the discussion of romance and secret pining. Communication simply wasn’t his strong suit, and while Y/N fully knew that, she continued to press further.

“You don’t get it, Zuko. You’re confusing me.” She explained, waving her hands out in front of her face. “So, you wouldn’t reject me, but you also wouldn’t say yes to a confession?”

Y/N was pushing him to his emotional limit. The mental blockade that always formed in his brain, beginning to cancel out his words. Zuko’s headspace was starting to empty, sleep being the only goal in mind.

“Those do really contradict, don’t they?” His eyes had begun to drop, opening and closing. Zuko’s body was now resting on Y/N’s, most of his weight being supported by her stature.

Y/N led her best friend towards his living quarters, still having a million questions at the tip of her tongue—whilst only one made its way out. “What does it all mean? You never said what it means.”

As she opened the door to his bedroom, Zuko let go of his hold on her. He gave her a toothless smile, weary from his low energy, and closed the door, giving her a final glance through the crack of light.

“It means that I’m tired, Y/N.” His eyes held her gaze, sending her waves of confessions in a single glance. “I’m tired and I can’t give you all that you need right now. Perhaps we can continue this in the morning.”

But with morning, came no confessions. No discussion of what had gone down the night before. It was as if they’d never been together at all, as if it was just another night between two platonic friends.

In reality, Y/N didn’t believe that she’d ever be worthy enough for someone like Zuko. Someone who seemed to be so unbelievably perfect for her in every way, shape, and form.

Maybe the best way to end this constant cycle would be to disappear. To leave him be, in his own happy little life, away from herself. She’d learned to live without him once, there was no way she wouldn’t be able to do it again.

The only problem was did she really want to live a life without him?

TAGS: @practicallylivesonline​ @cherryskyies​ @shell-bells-ringding​  @xapham​ @mochminnie​ @bombardia​ @xxspqcebunsxx​ @missmorosis​ @mysticpeacecrusade @akiris​ @simpinforsukka​ @protect-remus​ @kaylove12​@lammello​ @user12345321 @duh-dobrik​

[hoe-doroki]

Between Fear and Guilt

pairing: Shouto x American cisfem!Reader

wc: 2.5k

genre: light angst, comfort

warnings: sex is mentioned? rated pg-13

summary: You and Todoroki only started being intimate a couple months back, but somehow you’re already experiencing a dry spell—not by your choice. Today’s the day you’re going to figure out what’s up with your boyfriend once and for all.

edit: I no longer write x reader but here’s my old masterlist - mobile | desktop

Getting Shouto alone in your room had been your favorite sport in your third year. First of all, it was generally easy and, secondly, you were good at it. 

It was that generally that made things tricky, though. At first, it had been easy almost all the time. The two of you would separate yourselves from the class to do homework—and you always would!—but then you started kissing. And over time that had turned  into petting and, as of a couple months ago, the evolved into the whole shebang. But lately, Shouto had started hitting the pause button preemptively, often wanting to actually get your studying done before the evening would devolve into debauchery. And it really was your studying, since you always had to do more than him. Naturally smart, native Japanese, handsome bastard.

You’d been at the tail end of your English homework when you’d pounced tonight. The two of you had been sitting on the floor, leaning your backs against your bed when you’d set down your pencil and started running the back of your hand up and down his arm. He’d glanced at you, expression blank before turning back to his work. You, of course, always got easy grades in English. Shouto always did just as well, if not better since he never made the mistakes a lazy native speaker would. So you’d calculated it as a good opportunity to get frisky. English was the subject the both of you could finish—or bullshit through—the quickest. Since Shouto knew that too, you were hoping that he wouldn’t insist you finish before he let you touch him. 

It seemed you’d bet right. When you started kissing his jawline he caught your lips with his, dropping his pencil as well. You hummed happily as he gave in, his cold hand coming up to the back of your neck to bring you closer. Taking that as an invitation, you pushed his work off his lap and swung a leg over to his other side, quickly situating your lap in his and grabbing both his cheeks in your hands. You were careful of escalating things too quickly, so you sat back a little, comfortably resting on his muscular thighs instead of slotted core to core. Your hands traveled up to his hair, marveling in the slightly thicker texture of his red locks to the white ones. He breathed into your mouth as you closed your fists, not quite pulling but giving a soft scratch and tug to his roots.

His hands were traveling under your thin shirt, feeling your bare sides and grabbing him, and you shivered under the different temperatures of his hands. Neither one was too hot or too cold, but the contrast was always sharp enough that your body would react at first touch. You pulled him closer to you, whispering, “I’ve missed you,” pressing a soft kiss to his neck.

He stiffened and you knew you’d misstepped. In the past few weeks, the two of you had kissed, touched a little, but that was as far as things had gone. It wasn’t like you were dying for affection—you knew your boyfriend wasn’t the most sensitive guy out there; it was what you had signed up for and you were happy with what he could give you—but come on. You’d only started having sex a couple months ago and already you were in a three week dry spell despite being two of the lucky few to have rooms on the only floor without any pervs (Mineta or even Kaminari or Mina), and no one who would yell at you (Iida or Bakugou).

You tried bringing your lips up to his mouth, but it was a lost battle. Already, your boyfriend was far less responsive, his hands coming out from under your shirt and his mouth hardly impassioned as it met yours. You already knew what he was going to say when he pulled away and stated, “We should finish our homework and go to bed.”

You sighed. “I don’t suppose you mean the same bed?”

Shouto wasn’t really one for euphemisms so you didn’t wait for an answer as you pulled your leg back and slumped back beside him, your heated cheeks suddenly more pronounced now that you weren’t as close to him. You wondered if his cold side was putting a chill in the air—it certainly would have made ironic sense.

“I’m sorry,” he said, and it sounded like he meant it. But you didn’t understand why. All you could do was try to push down the toxic answers your brain was feeding to you—that you weren’t good enough, not pretty enough, not talented enough. If Shouto actually thought those things, you had no doubt he would have broken up with you.

“Let’s just finish,” you said, every ounce of your strength going into sounding casual instead of bitter or pouty. You could finish this in ten minutes, five if you didn’t double check your work, and then you could go to sleep and forget about your failures in seduction.

“Y/N,” Shouto said, a hint of insistence coloring his otherwise low monotone, “could you go on birth control?”

Your eyes widened as you turned to Shouto, his long, white bangs hiding his face from you. There hadn’t been a stutter in his words nor even more than a breath of hesitation, but he wasn’t meeting your eyes either.

“Do…Do you not want to use condoms anymore?”

The both of you had only ever been physical with each other so, technically, it should be safe to rely on birth control without an external barrier. But you couldn’t imagine why Shouto would have been withholding sex just because he wasn’t a fan of condoms. It’s not like he had anything to compare them to.

“No, it’s not that,” Shouto said, his breath heavy as he kept eye contact with his kneecaps. “I’ve been looking into the effectiveness of condoms in preventing pregnancy and they can have an eighteen percent failure rate. Meanwhile, the pill, the patch, and the ring are nine percent, the shot is six percent, and an IUD or implant are less than one percent.”

Honestly, you hadn’t even heard of all of those methods before—what in the world was the ring? You’d thought that you and Shouto had been prepared and careful your first time—and all subsequent times, few as they had been—but you suddenly felt that maybe you hadn’t done enough research. Surely some of that failure rate had to come from condoms breaking, right? And if that happened, you could always buy an emergency contraceptive*, right? Although, you’d have to go to a drug store for that and you’d need permission to leave campus, and you’d heard those pills worked the best the sooner you used them…God, maybe you really hadn’t planned enough.

Shouto continued, “I understand if you don’t want to because almost all of those things involve hormones and some necessitate medical procedures. I would do it myself if I could but it seems male birth control research halted when quirks appeared and is only just now making progress again. I’m really sorry to even ask but…eighteen percent? Isn’t that terrifying?”

The last words came out more like a whisper and you could see that your boyfriend really was terrified. His hands were clenched and you could see all the pronounced muscles on his arms flexing with tension as he tried to keep the worst of his feelings in. He didn’t seem embarrassed, but he was obviously caught somewhere between fear and guilt and you wanted to kiss it away, but you kept your distance, not wanting him to pull away from you again.

“And then if something did go wrong, you have irregular periods, so we might not know until it’s too late,” Shouto said. “What would we do then?”

You could see the cycle he seemed to have been putting himself through these last many weeks, the catastrophic thinking. You weren’t sure if he’d imagined that since you’d started having sex every intimate encounter had to go all the way, but maybe it didn’t matter. If you’d been having these kinds of thoughts, you probably wouldn’t want to be touching anyone intimately either, even in ways that couldn’t cause pregnancy. If you’d been that scared.

“Shouto,” you said, your voice low and soothing as you could make it. “You’re right. Okay? You’re absolutely right. I’ll make a doctor’s appointment as soon as I can. You can even come with me if you want, so that you know what’s happening.”

“You’re not mad?” he asked, finally looking at you, and you smiled.

“Of course not,” you said. “I just wish you hadn’t kept this fear so bottled up. I mean, I don’t want to get pregnant either!”

You cupped his cheek, turning his face even more towards yours so he could see exactly how not mad you were. “I know that,” he said. “I guess I was just nervous. Some of these methods can be really hard on people with internal genitalia. I read about side effects with mood swings, more painful periods, weight fluctuation, possible ectopic pregnancies—”

“We just might have to try a few different things then,” you interrupted. “We have time.”

Shouto cracked his first smile of the night. “Of course.”

You put a hand on his leg, giving his cheek a smooch. You didn’t try for more than that, though. If Shouto wanted to hold off on sex until after you were better protected that was fine. It didn’t mean you couldn’t do other stuff, but you didn’t think the moment called for it. You were content to stay connected hip to hip, shoulder to shoulder, glad he’d finally filled you in on his fear.

But then a little thought wormed its way into your brain. It started small, probably the way Shouto’s had before he’d dived into the apparent ocean of research he’d done. But it was already growing, creating a million what-if scenarios in your brain. You glanced over at Shouto, who now looked at peace as you rested next to each other. You didn’t want to ruin that just after he’d gotten something hard off his chest. But, at the same time, now was the time to ask. You didn’t want to wait another three weeks or however long it took for the conversation to come up naturally. No, you had to ask. You had to know.

“Shouto…do you…” You weren’t quite as good at being straightforward as Shouto was. You were honest and always said what was on your mind when the moment called for it, but sometimes getting the thought out was still hard, even with your boyfriend. “Do you…ever want children?”

It wasn’t a question you really wanted to ask. You were both eighteen and this wasn’t something that should make or break a relationship at your age. But you liked Shouto so much that you couldn’t help thinking about things in terms of forever. Maybe it was an immature byproduct of this being your first relationship—you were sure it was, actually—but you didn’t care. For you, what felt real was real.

“I haven’t really thought about it,” Shouto said. “I just know that I don’t want them right now. Do you want children?”

“Like in ten years, but…yeah,” you admitted. “I’ve always imagined having children.”

Truly, ten years was a minimum. A pro hero career would not be made easier by pregnancy or children, so you wanted to wait at least ten years, if not until you were comfortably in your thirties. After all, you were realistic. Your twenty-four-year-old sister had given birth to her first baby last year and, though happy, her life had been totally upended. You couldn’t imagine that being you in just five years.

But you did want them. And even though there were no guarantees that you and Shouto would be together in ten years, the idea of being with someone who wasn’t imagining that same kind of future as you were saddened you. What would you do if he decided he didn’t want them? And with the childhood he’d had, he had every reason not to.

“Hmm,” Shouto hummed. At some point, his arm had slung around your shoulder and he was idly rubbing your bicep. “How do you know that?”

You shrugged against him. “I don’t know. It was always a given. When I think of my future, I see children. Probably just two, not a litter like our families. And I know it’s probably a societal thing, but I don’t care. I still want it, even though it will make being a hero hard.”

“It’s really hard having one parent as a pro hero,” he said. “I couldn’t imagine having two.”

“It’s really hard having one parent as Endeavor,” you corrected. “Iida’s parents are heroes and he has a good relationship with them.”

“I suppose that’s fair,” Shouto said. “But his brother.”

“If fear kept people from having children, no one would ever have children, Shouto,” you said. “I’m not saying it’s not a valid reason, because it definitely is for some people, but every parent fears for their child and every hero fears death. When combined, those things are compounded. But that won’t stop me.”

You didn’t want to have to sacrifice your career for having a family—that was too painful a cliché to live up to. You wanted the other cliché, the cliché of having it all. You already knew you were unlikely to ever be a top-ranked hero—your quirk was just too specialized for that. So you were already working on a side-career to have on top of that, one that would work better with having a family down the line. But Shouto’s dreams were that of being the number one hero, so it was probably harder to see. Harder to see past anything but his father, the actual number one hero.

“I don’t understand how you’re so sure,” Shouto said.

“Because I’ve thought about it for a long time,” you said thinking of your plans of being a therapist, all your life goals—the specific way that you would save people. “You don’t have to decide today. But it would do you some good to work through the fear and find out if there’s anything underneath it.”

“Okay. I’ll think about it.”

He said it like it was easy, but you knew that he wasn’t taking it lightly. He was squeezing your shoulder tightly and when you glanced at his face, his eyes were thoughtful.

“But for now…” you said, bringing him back, “doctor’s appointment. I’ll make one tomorrow.”

“Thank you,” Shouto said.

“Of course,” you replied. “You should feel safe with me. All the time.”

He pulled you towards him, but the only way you could get closer was by resting your head on his shoulder. Which is exactly what you did.

“I already do.”

*PSA: Emergency contraception (plan B) is mentioned but, since the reader is of an unspecified weight, this is a great time to remember that plan B doesn’t work for all weight classes! Read that fine print before use—you might have to take two doses or buy a more expensive product (horrible, I know!) We don’t want any unexpected pregnancies around here!

[oh-theres-a-woman]

Blood Doilies; Part Three

A/N: Warnings for mentions of abuse and abusive relationships. Please read at your own discretion. The next chapter will also have the same warning. I understand that such topics can be triggering to some people, this is pure to show what the Female Reader has experienced in married life and her breaking away from that with the aid of the Blinders. Once more thank you for taking the time to read this story, feel free to reblog or comment if you’re enjoying this. 

Taglist: @zodiyack , @itsfrancisneptun , @shelbys-we-get-the-job-done, @amy-booxx​ & @fandom-fucking-shit​

Parts: [ 1 ] , [ 2 ], [ 4 ], [ 5 ], [ 6 ], [ 7 ], [ 8 ], [ 9 ]

Pairing: Thomas Shelby X Female Reader

Word Count: 1923

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You set the tea down on the coffee table noticing the children had both fallen asleep on Mister Shelby’s knee. Offering a smile at the sleeping children. Whispering softly that you could take the children to bed, Thomas simply rose to his footing. Carrying both the children upstairs, calmly following him. Showing the beds for each child. Annabeth curled up into a ball with her little dolly looking absolutely smitten and at peace. Leaning down you kissed the little girl’s head, smoothing the messy mop of hair away from her face. Pulling the blankets up to her shoulders, brushing the back of your knuckle lovingly over her cheek.

Repeating the same action for Marcus, knowing that he’d need another feeding in a few hours time. “You’re a good mother, you do so much for your children,” Thomas said observantly from the door watching on with silent awe. Aunt Pol had always warmed someplace in his heart at her mothering but it had been a time since all the Shebly children had ground. Now the mothering seemed like a nagging.

Maybe it was the war that changed him but watching you at that moment. He didn’t see the harshness of his own upbringing. But the solid foundations of nurturing and admiration. Tommy didn’t quite remember the loving gaze of his mother, only her death. It had been the first of many lives that were lost. Charlie Strong had been the replacement when his father walked out of them and Pol took the helm of mothering. Swift in her workings and proved very stern for the young Sheblys’ that were left like orphans before she swooped in.

However, you were a different case. There was something about your maternal instincts that caused Thomas to stop a moment. Admire the qualities of a woman. The way in your wounds and bruises from an abusive husband, no matter the pain. You carried on your task of being a mother never let anything go to chance or mess with you. Easily smoothing a hand over baby Marcus’s locks whose were just like your own. Beautifully soft with a slight wave in the front. Tucking your son in, you watched him for a moment listening to his breathing, the little snores that left his buzzing button nose.

Thomas and yourself wandered back downstairs to the tea. Looking at each other for a moment. The narrow stairs led to you brushing hands in the walk. Causing you steps to falter for one moment. However, the Blinder once more found his seat again. Marking the page he had been reading to the children as if he’d continue that story for them another time. Picking up his teacup, he added some cream and one sugar. Stirring with the provided teaspoon then offering the spoon to you. Carefully, you poured the creamer not adding any sugar. Enjoying the strength of the tea. Lips slightly pursed together, glancing back to Thomas Shelby again. “Thank you for offering my family this safe house for the time until we get our lives back on track,” you said with a warm blush on your cheeks.

“It is alright, Mrs [Y/N],” Thomas said in a swift and noble tone of voice. Leaning back into his chair observing you. “The Peaky Blinders don’t take kindly to men who bash into their women and children.” Thomas’s words sparked a cool murderous rage in him. His eyes were like a cool fire, burning hotter than any red flame you’d seen in your lifetime. Glancing down at the marks that riddled your body and all that was hidden under your clothes. You hadn’t remembered a day where things weren’t thrown or fists were flying. Once upon a time, it was a social norm for a husband to beat his wife.

“I’ve had it happen all my life, my father was a drunk and my mother a prostitute. I don’t really know any better…” You admitted in a defeated manner. Clenching your fists on your legs thinking about the life you led. “But, I want this cycle to end. Because if I let this keep happening, it’ll only happen to my children and they won’t know how to respect each other or their future loved ones.”  Deep down you knew this was the right thing, the sudden separation to make sure no more harm would come to yourself or the children if your husband overstepped his normal range of violence.

“Do you need my help in any way of separating from the man, because once you're divorced of him that debt owed is only on him. I don’t believe in wives cleaning up their husband’s debts when they have a family to protect. By those marks too, I’d believe you’ve been looking over them for some time too.” Mister Shelby said, reaching into his coat pocket, procuring a silver cigarette case. Opening it and offering you one with a slight incline of his arm. Reaching out you picked up one of the expensive tailor-made, always used to the harsh rolling without a filter.

Placing the stick of nicotine in between your lips, that were chapped and broken from a hit. Picking up a matchbook from the table lighting up your cigarette, then leaning out to light Thomas’s. He leant into the flame. The small light of the match burning embers of life at the end of the neatly rolled tobacco. Watching the embers eat at the paper when Tommy puffed. The flame licking at your fingertips were lighting the sharper features of the Shelby before you, causing a feeling of enchantment to pull over you.

Tingling burns at your fingertips, causing you to finally shake the match and drop it into the ashtray. Settling back into your seat letting out a calm inhale and sighing softly. The sitting room clouded with an illusion-like smoke cloud. Giving a new atmosphere to the room. Like it wasn’t heavy in the topics of conversation. The stress had been disbursed in to the air, exhaled with the carbon-dioxide and smoke through lips and nostrils.

“I need to find a way to get divorced from him, I know it’d help my case that we’re living separately from one another. It would be a year’s process at the longest, I’d need to find a way to keep the tea house. My own business… I don’t want to lose it to him. Need some form of income to keep a roof over the wee ones’ heads.” You muttered, flicking the ash into the crystal tray on the table. Wondering in all seriousness how much it cost to buy because it was impeccable. Everything in the Watery Lane home was beautifully charming and way out of your price range.

“I’m hoping to get settled then go back to work, have a friend lookout for the kids.” You said to the man, who seemed to offer a small nod. Knowing the modest little establishment in your ownership. By far considered the loveliest tea shop in Small Heath, it had charm and class to the small little shop. He’d remembered Ada gushing over it opening some years ago, by a beautiful young woman that had the dream to do so. Through the proper means, she opened the shop by herself. Even without her husband’s help. This seemed like an even biggest motivator for Tommy’s little sister feminist ideals.

“Given your current condition, I’d recommend your healing before heading back to work. Keeping a low-profile due to your husband’s likely retaliation to your left with the children. For your safety, I’d advise you take a week at the least, then return to work. I or one of the Blinders will be there to escort you home after.” Thomas took a swift to inhale of his cigarette. He didn’t know why he was so adamant to protect you. Normally the Blinders would help get rid of the trouble and then recoil. Yet, deep down he knew it's because he’d seen what the government and church would do if they caught wind of things happening.

You’d lose your children. Thomas didn’t want to see that happen, because you’d taken responsibility for your husband’s debt and tried to clear it up. Even in such a state that you were in. Trying to protect the little family you’d been in. Keeping those well-behaved children in line, working the long hours that he found out on an investigation prior. Where your morning shift could start as early as four-five o’clock in the morning for the baked goods. Then until closing hours in the evening. A short break in between to take your children home, giving the neighbour a break.

Only to have most of the money earnt wasted on your husband’s addictions and there were plenty of them. Never in a million years did he even expect anyone at that meeting today. But, there you were to shock him. Taking time out of your day, to see him and try to make things right. Surprisingly, it gave Tommy a little bit of hope for some of the women in this day and age. So, the patriarch of the Shelby family sat there and discussed with you into the long hours of the night. Things were arranged for your meeting with a solicitor under the guidance of Polly Gray. Moral support. Plus, everyone seemed to be as scared of her as they were with Tommy. Bonus.

*********** 

The following days passed quickly with everything being prepared. Marks began to fade on your skin and it restored some of your lacking confidence. You felt happier in the safe house. Not because of the fancy layout because your children were happy, they were settling in nicely. The Shelbys’ came to visit enough. John Shelby bought over his children someday and they all played while business and things were attended to. More often than not it meant walking in on the children all snuggled up on each other and napping; after having an argument or fight. Everything was sorted with a simple nap together, then they were as good as rain. It made you often wish that adults were as simple as children.

By the following Monday, you were returning to work. Your workers had been running the ship well and left things in perfect condition. It was nice to see the faces of the customers again. Hours were long like normal, but that’s how you enjoyed working. Things were peaceful and you didn’t feel an ounce of stress because Thomas had promised to come to pick you up after work and walk you home. It was safe… Well, that’s what you thought.

Hours passed by swiftly and you finished the till counting after hours in the office. The last thing was to do the bins. When you were collecting the bins. Wandering in the dark alley, tossing things into the larger bins outside for landfill. You were so focused on your task that the sound of someone sneaking up on you escaped your knowledge. A rough hand, the smell of hard liquor and cigars filled your nostrils. You knew that scent from anywhere. Your husband. 

He holds a hold on you, smothering your screams of utter terror and pinning your body against the firmness of his body. “It’s not nice to say goodbye in a letter,” he whispered in your ear with vile intent. Holding out in front of you, the wedding band you letter on the letter. Forcefully sliding it back onto your finger as tears fell. 

[wordsturnintostories]

show me your rosettes, baby (g)

summary: The world tour is over and the Bangtan Boys finally get their well-deserved break. When Namjoon suddenly can’t find Jimin anywhere, things take an unexpected and pretty unbelievable turn. “Kim Namjoon!” “Hyung. How common is it for people to turn into cats?” word count: 4.2k note: super long and hopefully super good. ✨

masterlist | moodboard masterlist

[ prologue | one | two | three | four | five | six | seven ]

Namjoon can’t say that he dislikes being a cat owner. He dislikes Jimin attacking his nose at five am. He dislikes not being able to fall asleep again for half an hour because the little one has a spurt of energy and apparently needs to let it out on Namjoon, who is not the only hyung available (cause Yoongi is still sleeping down the hall) but the more alive candidate. He doesn’t dislike the little paws hitting his cheeks when he groans, trying to bury his face in the pillow because it’s still dark outside, Jimin, please let me sleep, just for a bit. He likes the softness when Jimin yawns, turning around and plopping down to snuggle into Namjoon’s throat. The little paws bunch up Namjoon’s shirt and finally, there’s peace, just peace until the cycle starts again and everything is wet thanks to the tongue roaming his face.

It’s not easy to live with a cat that doesn’t let you use the bathroom alone and that cries outside the door until you let it in (he swears Jimin usually only has abandonment issues when Hoseok is away). Namjoon can’t dislike it, because even if he can’t see Jimin in the kitchen just after receiving a phone call about the confirmation for his request to meet Bang Sihyuk today, finding the little one mewling back in the dry bathtub, surrounded by shampoo bottles, is pretty hilarious. At least he didn’t get stuck in the space between the wardrobe and the wall again, Namjoon thinks and shakes his head at Jimin’s need to be held and coddled and touched from several sides at the same time.

“How did you even get there, baby?”

Namjoon hears the endearment slipping out before he can stop it and waves himself off. Jimin won’t remember (hopefully). On second thought, Jimin probably won’t even mind being called baby, so the weirdness of it all doesn’t even matter.

“Strap yourself in for a ride, hyung,” Jackson’s voicemail warns (a little late for that, Namjoon huffs to himself), and by the way that the other rapper lists helpful tips and advice with a husky voice he makes it sound he’s been ripped out of sleep very suddenly. Like an unforeseen realization of all the things he’d missed to say while he was over at Namjoon's had disturbed his sleep and like he was afraid he’d forget them if he went back to sleep. Namjoon snorts but continues listening. “Jimin is going to be a lot more honest now, and I’m not talking about simple stuff. As a leopard, he's just a baby, so everything he really needs, he’ll ask for it. No holding back. Don’t be shocked when you discover a totally different Jimin. The raw Jimin.” It sounds menacing, but Namjoon looks to the cub, scarfing down a whole can of tuna without a second thought. He can live with that. If this is the raw Jimin, then it’s fine. Namjoon believes that the members are already so close that they know almost everything there is about each other.

He takes that thought back after five minutes of trying to coax a shaking Jimin into Tannie’s old transport box that’s been sitting and collecting dust on Taehyung’s wardrobe for a while now. One would think that all the time the dog hadn’t been in there would have been long enough to make the scent disappear but according to Jimin, that’s not true (if the scent even is the issue here, who knows). When the doorbell rings (this time Namjoon knows it’s Sejin because the manager insisted on not letting Namjoon take public transportation to the agency building), Namjoon panics, stuffs one of Hoseok’s pillows into the plastic box and watches Jimin do a complete 180 and snuggle into the fuzzy fluff with a warm purr. Crisis averted. The rapper still isn’t sure whether (or rather, what) to tell their manager and wills himself to refer to the leopard cub as a stray cat he found, hoping that the invented backstory will stick with Sejin (it does somehow, but Namjoon suspects it’s thanks to the missing collar on Jimin’s neck, not the rambled story Namjoon’s pulling out of his ass). He wants to talk to Sihyuk about it all first. Just to be safe. Sejin, proving over and over what a blessing he is, just nods, and hugs Namjoon like they always do after not seeing each other for a long time. (Namjoon knows it’s only been a couple of days, but with all the stuff that’s happened, he really feels like a month has passed in the meantime, and holds on so long that Sejin gives him a suspicious look. Not his fault. Namjoon needs some love and all the hyungs are gone, Yoongi included because he’s in the studio and that’s almost as good as gone.)

The former dog box turned cat box finds a safe place on the backseat of the silver car, right behind Namjoon. The rapper throws a look through the slits in the side before putting a Koya blanket over it. Jimin’s eyes are closed, he’s peacefully kneading the pillow. Reassured, Namjoon takes a place in the passenger seat, relieved to find that one of his two worries of the day has been put on hold.

The ride in Sejin’s car is nice and Namjoon’s anxiety slips away before he notices, drowned in the soft humming of the motor and the vivid images of Seoul’s passing cityscape outside of the passenger seat’s window. t’s easy to start a conversation and Namjoon comes across a genuine smile on his own lips.

“Did you already take time off, hyung? Our break isn’t very long this time. Did you get to do what you had planned out for your wife and kids?”

The conversation goes here and there, like the streets Namjoon knows Sejin has to take to get to his family and friends outside of Seoul. It has a calming effect to think about things so far away, removes the rapper from the moment. He appreciates the sensation of distance. Distance from music, distance from himself, distance from his own circling thoughts. The sweat on his hands dries off, his vibrating leg comes to rest. Talking to Sejin and hearing his stories feels normal, like kind of honest and connection-inducing conversation he often wishes he could have with fans. He feels impressed by what a good father Sejin manages to be despite his demanding job and tells him so. There are many people that Namjoon finds inspiring, but no many of them get so personal with him like this. Namjoon almost forgets about all the stress of the morning.

Sejin doesn’t prod during the car ride either, despite checking out the cat box through the rearview mirror, probably accepting that he’d find out what was going on soon enough. After all, Namjoon had explicitly requested that their manager be present for a part of the meeting as well.

Completely lost in thought and the soft lofi hiphop playlist Sejin enjoys listening to (what a cool guy, honestly), Namjoon slides his hands into his coat’s pockets. Just to be ripped out of the serenity of his daydream by the sharp, cold slide of a foreign object in there. He pulls his hand away immediately and stiffens, eyes wide. Sejin looks but returns his focus to the streets when Namjoon shrugs it off. After the initial reaction of shock, Namjoon tries to think back of all the things he’s put in his pockets today. His phone. Left pocket. Keys, also left pocket. A tiny bag with dried shrimp, for Jimin in case he gets hungry. Left pocket. Then what the hell is inside his right pocket?

Clueless but curious, he lets his fingers slide back in, with the same caution Hoseok uses when doing the laundry and emptying the member’s jeans pockets (he’s been wary ever since someone had left a fake spider in there, as if no one would know it’s you Jungkook, you dumbass, it’s your pants, really great prank). Like before, the cold object presses against Namjoon’s skin, sending an icy shiver across his back like a vicious warning. He understands that it’s paper from the flat surface and feels over it when suddenly, warmth pulses where he’s touching as if he’s been accepted to touch. Not knowing what he’s dealing with here, he carefully pulls out the paper, coming face-to-face with the grey business card from the day before. How did it get in here!? I didn’t even touch it this morning. It’s true, Namjoon had left the card in his jeans yesterday, and had left the jeans in the laundry basket at home, so how did the card get into his coat? Has Jimin maybe-? No. As unsettling as it sounds, he is convinced Jimin didn’t have the capacity to do something like that yet. Once again Namjoon is reminded of the sheer weirdness of the situation and how he seems to not have any say in how this scenario will unfold. Magic. It’s disappointing how his mind-voice seems more stressed than excited over the fact that magic is real, and active in his life. He really hopes Bang Sihyuk will know what to do.

Namjoon still stares at the card, surprised when he can’t see any of the letters on it. He turns it around. Nothing. How will I convince Sihyuk what’s going on when I don’t even have proof? And how will I remember what was written on there before? Just before his inner annoyance has a chance to evolve into something greater, the light catches on the grey paper, covering it with a holographic sheen. Against the rapper’s hopes, no letters appear. However, Namjoon watches a trail of paw prints appear as if an invisible miniature cat was walking over it. It’s cute. But it doesn’t help, not really, so Namjoon decides to just deal with it when it’s time, and puts the card back into his pocket.

“What was that?”

“Jackson gave me the card.”

“For that massage place again?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t check it out yet.”

“He’s been really desperate to get a massage with you ever since Taehyung went with Minjae on Celeb Bros. Maybe I should book one for you guys?”

“Do you think I need one?”

“I think you need a lot of things.”

“That’s fair. But I actually think I might really need a massage after this is all done.”

“That bad?”

“Yeah. I have no idea what Bang PDnim can do this time, but I’m a little scared.”

“Don’t worry. We’re with you guys. We’ll take care of it together.”

“Thank you, Sejin-hyung. I appreciate your help a lot, really.”

The manager nods, slowly rolling into the underground garage at the BigHit staff parking area. Together, they get out, grab Jimin who stays quiet, probably placated by the darkness and Hoseok’s scent, and ride the elevator before they get to the hallway with the expensive black leather couch. Namjoon checks his phone for the time, wincing when the group chat still revolves around the cat photo Namjoon had sent before realizing that the little leopard was Jimin. Granted, they hadn’t texted much since then, everyone off to enjoy their days off without the other members, but eventually, they all gravitated back to each other. Namjoon had figured that it would look suspicious if he deleted the picture post-posting and cursed Yoongi for not bothering to help come up with a good excuse as to why a little cat was sleeping on Jimin’s bed during the member’s absence. “No, Jimin didn’t adopt a cat”,  he’d typed on the first night responding to Taehyung’s curious inquiries. Since then, Namjoon had stayed away from the topic, seeing how it only inspires a fountain of fresh questions. Taehyung would surely pout about not receiving an answer, but at least he isn’t Jimin. Jimin’s pout is deadly. Someone steps out of the office and gives Namjoon and Sejin a respectful nod before leaving.

“Do you want me to come in with you right away?”

Namjoon shakes his head, “Please give us a few minutes. I’m sorry for making you wait, hyung.”

“It’s fine, Namjoon-ah. Should I keep an eye on the cat then?”

“Uh, no. I need it. Sorry.”

“Good luck then.”

“Thanks, hyung.”

It’s nice in Sihyuk’s office. Always has been (except for the beginning, when it was filled with stacked boxed of copy paper and ink refill cartilages because the storage room had to have its ceiling and power lines renewed) and always will be. The carpet is soft despite being a typical office carpet with three dozen pairs of feet walking over it every day. It swallows both the disruptive booming of heeled business shoes and the accompanying sense of anxiety about entering a CEO’s office. Both those things seem more than misplaced with a human being like Bang Sihyuk. For all the ten years Namjoon has known him, he’s never been less than caring, never called Namjoon in for a scolding with malevolent intent as other company leaders do. Instead, he almost acts like a substitute father, waiting in his office chair with a bright smile as he sees the rapper enter. Namjoon appreciates it.

The large but elegant floor-to-ceiling fish tank on the one side of the room throws shimmering reflexes of light onto the room. (The fish tank is the jewel of BigHit’s office building and stressed staff is encouraged to take a breather in the lounge room on the other side of the tank.) The water reflexes also fall on a familiar sweater and Namjoon chuckles when he recognizes it as Jimin’s Christmas gift to Sihyuk from last year.

“It’s been a while,” Sihyuk says with half a scolding-eomma face and half a cheeky grin as he wraps his arms around Namjoon and pats him on the back. With all the other company bosses Namjoon has seen, he knows he would feel cornered in an embrace like this. Here, however, in this place of warm mutual vulnerability, the doubts and failures of the past week bubble up slowly (but still faster than he appreciates) and he chooses to swallow them down again lest they fall out in a chaotic, tear-ridden shudder. It would not be frowned upon if he were to cry, but the tears would certainly worry Sihyuk and Namjoon came to seek support and guidance, not sow worries.

“Thanks for making time for me,” Namjoon says quickly, choosing to express not only his gratitude but also his reverence for the man who’s made everything possible, who pulled through despite the odds, despite the forces working against their success and when no one else would. The rows of photos of all the agency's artists and staff and self-drawn sketches and paintings (also by them) on the wall the other side of the room illustrate that incredible story.

“Sure. You know I will always listen to you. It’s important to me.”

“I know.”

“By the way, did you hear that Sana delivered yesterday?”

“No, really?”

It is a surprise to hear that since Namjoon has seen the stylist work during their last tour and she hasn’t given the impression that her baby bump had already been so close to the final showdown. Maybe she was one of those women with a tiny baby belly. All members had taken care of her to the best of their abilities, asking about her wellbeing at regular intervals and sneaking her whatever food her weird cravings made her desire. The perks of being a celebrity with enough touring staff to send someone on a quick grocery run right before a concert. The sweet stylist had always laughed and joked around with them, displaying health and giddiness over the prospect of becoming a mother. Only the gender had not been revealed back then, even despite the constant cute begging. Sana was a precious woman, a good noona, a worthy addition to their team and a cheeky jokester on par with Seokjin and Yoongi.

“How is she?”

“Healthy and happy. She sent photos in the staff chat. It’s a girl. Pretty and precious like her mother.”

Emotions evident on Sihyuk’s face, Namjoon once again smiles at just how close-knit BigHit’s community is - a big, loose family of sorts that had learned to rely on each other.

“I’m happy for her,” Namjoon replies, genuinely feeling fuzzy things in his chest as he taps on the different images on Sihyuk’s phone. “She’s lovely.”

Somewhere in the back, next to a potted plant, a scratch and a mewl disrupt the tender peace between the two men. Namjoon looks up, cheeks almost reddening as he remembers what he’s come for and what’s gonna happen now that Jimin becomes restless in the transport box.

“Did you bring Tannie? Are you looking over him today?”

“Uh,” Namjoon scratches his head, the rehearsed lines of conversation escaping his mind shamelessly, “no. I’ll uh, I’ll- can I let him out?”

“Will he pee on my carpet?”

“Possibly?”

“If you keep an eye on him, it should be fine.”

Namjoon walks over to the box immediately, heart racing with every scratch of Jimin’s claws against the plastic. He opens the door and reaches in carefully until a tiny wet snout presses against his fingers.

“Come on, you baby,” he whispers and grabs the little cub. Jimin doesn’t resist, only shuffles around in Namjoon’s grip until he’s comfortable and able to push down Namjoon’s collar enough to rub his cheeks against the collarbone there. It tickles.

“Who is your little friend over there?”

It’s the one question Namjoon dreads and the only question that truly matters now. He feels himself taking a deep breath.

“I don’t- I don’t know how this happened, but this is Jimin. I’m sorry.”

Sihyuk pauses and places the pen in his hand down with a surprised expression.

“Come again?”

“Our Park Jimin has somehow turned into a cat. Into a baby leopard actually, to be precise, and I don’t know-”

Sihyuk stands up from where he’s been sitting and comes around the desk. Namjoon nervously eyes the other from where he’s standing, not sure what reaction can be expected after throwing such a wild claim in the room. He can feel the blood rushing in his ears and as if Jimin feels his stress, he whimpers a little, short tail shivering against Namjoon’s hand.

“Hi Jimin,” Sihyuk says softly, offering his hand to the cat so it can smell him. But the cub growls, sounding a bit like an electric eraser that’s refusing to run smoothly and his nose bumps into Namjoon’s chest. As if the betrayal doesn’t mean anything (it really doesn’t, not when Jimin looks adorable with his bared fangs), Sihyuk holds a hand before his mouth in surprise. Namjoon doesn’t miss the amused crinkles around his eyes. It triggers liters of hormones to flow through Namjoon’s body, proclaiming relief. He’s relieved that Sihyuk is not mad, no matter how weird this is.

“Maybe he doesn’t like me?”

“Maybe he’s just confused,” Namjoon defends Jimin and as if the thought doesn’t sit right with him, also Sihyuk. As much as everyone is allowed and encouraged to express themselves casually with the CEO, Namjoon feels a little thrown off by Jimin’s sudden behavior.

“No,” Sihyuk scratches his chin, making it difficult to tell whether he’s honestly disappointed or cleverly hiding his amusement until he points at Namjoon, “I think he’s playing favorites. Rude.”

They both laugh then and when Jimin wiggles around again, obviously disinterested in their conversation, Namjoon has mercy (and fear of getting his shirt ripped) and sets the younger down by his feet. The leopard immediately rubs itself against his shins like a normal cat would and Namjoon can’t deny the warmth in his chest. Then, they watch as Jimin hops away, drawn by the fish sashaying through the water.

“How long has he been-“ there’s a soft bump as Jimin runs into the glass and the two men laugh as he complains profusely. “Does he not recognize things?”

“Yoongi-hyung and I don’t think so. We’ve observed him the past days but Jiminie doesn’t even respond to his own name.”

“Really? Jimin, Park Jimin,” Sihyuk tries for himself but all he gets is an excited vocalization, a clicking chatter as Jimin observes the fish with this tony paws pressed against the tank glass. His tail sways, completely rapt with the little animals so close and yet so unreachable. It doesn’t help that they all swim around his figure in a curious but almost teasing manner. Over and over, Jimin yips and comes to discover that the glass won’t let him through, won’t let him enjoy the pleasure of a little chase. Eventually, he tires and begs to be lifted into Namjoon’s lap again, where big hands lavish luxurious scratches on his fur. He curls up with a purr.

Namjoon feels himself calm down considerably, and he returns to his original worries and thoughts.

“Wait, why are you not shocked at all?”

He’s mustering the CEO, who has been relatively calm and rational the whole time and who hadn’t even questioned anything.

“Well, I may or may not know more than you. As I should, leading a company like this.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means that I can’t tell you much, but that I will take care of Jimin to the best of my abilities and with all resources available.”

Namjoon sits back, relaxes, fingers scratching the tender skin behind Jimin’s ears and he nods. That’s all that matters. That Jimin will be protected and supported no matter what. Even if mystery remains, Namjoon trusts that things will be communicated with him as soon as he needs to know.

“I think someone’s calling you,” Sihyuk says, pointing at Namjoon’s right pocket. Immediately, the younger sticks his hand into it to see who it is - hopefully not one of the members in some sort of emergency situation - only to grasp not his phone but the ominous business card.

“Oh,” his eyes widen. “My phone is not in here. How did you-“

“But I saw something bright in your pocket, like a screen lighting up. What is it, then?”

In Namjoon’s hand, the card looks innocent. Grey but plain, like nothing special. Just an empty piece of paper. Not even the cat paws are on there anymore. Suddenly, a shimmer sent by the water falls on the card and as if it had been a drop, the card’s surface ripples, drawing circles like it’s made of water itself. Like its sole purpose is to give Namjoon a headache. It’s pretty, the prettiest business card he’s ever seen, no question, but it’s scary. Like it wants something from him. Ready to give it away, Namjoon offers the card to his boss.

“Here,” he gestures for him to take it, “Jackson gave me this when he came over yesterday.”

Sihyuk doesn’t seem to be confused by the emptiness of the card, doesn’t seem impressed with the rippling surface, doesn’t seem to become annoyed by the card like Namjoon is. He simply nods.

“And have you called the number yet?”

“Number?”

Namjoon frowns. Which number is Sihyuk referring to?

“The number on the card.”

He holds up the card for Namjoon to look at but all he can see is nothing. Nothing but the taunting blank surface. What is this? Why is this card playing with my mind? And why exactly did Jackson think giving this card to me was a good idea? Am I going crazy? Jimin complains with a squeak when Namjoon grips his fur too much and Namjoon returns to caressing the cub apologetically before looking back to Sihyuk.

“I’m sorry but I don’t see a number on the card.”

“But it’s a business card, right? So it has to have a number. And there is one, clearly.”

When the CEO places the card back on the table, Namjoon allows himself to touch it again. This is so weird. The rapper isn’t sure if the same rules that apply to ordinary business cards also apply to magical business cards, but he guesses that there should be a number on it from a rational point of view. There’s a distinct feeling of absurdness, however, that he can’t get past - as if what he sees and feels are two different things and as if the sensory feedback in his brain cannot merge the two impressions. Although he’s convinced he’s looking at the real card. The strange feeling lingers until he remembers how the first time, the Chinese characters on the card had changed shape right in front of his eyes to make sense in Korean. Maybe they changed for Sihyuk too? Maybe every person sees something else on the card?

“This is so weird.”

“Let’s call them.”

Should we really? I guess there’s no other way to find out who is responsible for this.

The room is stunningly quiet apart from Jimin’s sleepy hiccups, the soft buzzing of the fish tank and the beeps that signal that the call is not yet connected. Unsure about what to expect, Sihyuk and Namjoon hold eye contact. Then, suddenly, a woman’s voice appears on the other side of the phone.

“Welcome, Bang Sihyuk, Kim Namjoon. I am your automated call agent today. We apologize for not being personally available to take your call at the moment. To continue, please choose an option from the menu. Press 1 to access all gathered data about Park Jimin, press 3 to-“

They both look at each other.

“What the hell.”

masterlist | moodboard masterlist

[ prologue | one | two | three | four | five | six | seven ] tags: @xmagicxshopx, @taeshuworld, @justanemptydream, @hoodmeup, @gingerpeachtae

[arcanalogue]

The Sackcloth And The Cloth-of-Gold

I made friends with artist and children’s book creator Jill McElmurry back in 2011 or so, she’d found me through a mutual friend and at some point reached out to let me know she was a big fan of Arcanalogue. This was during a period when the project was on hiatus, so I was moved and very grateful for the vote of confidence.

Jill sent me Christmas cards annually, and dropped me little notes sometimes. We never met in person, so when she passed away in 2017 it was very jarring. I guess I always figured we’d get a chance to meet and laugh in person someday.

That year, however, I received another Christmas card, from her husband Eric, who reached out to let me know he’d be continuing her tradition. And so he has, for the last two years, which has been a bright spot during the holidays. 

  The other day I came home to a surprise in the mail from Eric, containing these. It’s one of the 1970s Rider Waite decks, with the more muted colors and matte finish, and upon opening it I immediately sat down and counted all the cards, as you must do first thing whenever you’re considering picking up a vintage deck — it only takes one missing card to throw you off, so you have to count them carefully to make sure you’ve got a complete set. 

The excitement was distracting, so it was hard to keep count. 78! The gang’s all here.

Before I started “cleaning” the deck, putting the cards right side up and sorting all the suits into numerical order, I paused for a moment, holding them, appreciating them: the cards had been left in their current configuration by another’s hands. Jill’s? Someone’s. I was picking up where another diviner had left off.

We so often are.

The deck shows a lot of use: some stains here and there, creases on corners from inadvertent folding, and the deck itself is warped into a kind of ripple. I’ll have to be delicate with it, one careless shuffle could result in actual tearing.

I broke the deck into small piles and did a little massaging to help smooth out some of the warping; what you see above is actually an “after” shot. And since then, it’s been sitting here waiting for me to finish this week’s work so we can take a moment to get acquainted. 

I took it down to the riverbank with me this morning, crossing a few naturally-occurring stepping stones to sit on a shady little island of matted flood debris where we wouldn’t be disturbed. And then I just shuffled the cards for a while, smoothly and carefully, the sound overlapping with the shallow water rushing past.

Since resurrecting Cas’s tiramisu recipe this past week, several of my non-ancestral dead have suddenly leapt into focus, popping up in memories and conversations. This week was the anniversary of Dave Moon’s memorial gathering. It was the week I ended up explaining to someone about the tremendous pride my friend Phyllis took in waging a bitter real estate feud with Madonna (whom Phyllis considered one of her only worthy adversaries). 

All of these are people I lost in the past five years, all of whom nudged me ahead in my pursuits, all of whom provided a template for me to follow, whether they realized it or not — and if they didn’t, I certainly hope they do now. 

Working with ancestors is its own mysterious experience; you’re dealing with a lineage that spans so much time, so many strangers mixed among the beloved faces you remember, so many alarming inclusions, all standing atop mountains of the faceless dead whose reach you extend, simply by existing. 

But those we meet and love in this lifetime, what are they? How do we knit them into our fabric after the thread’s been cut? The people I come from don’t have traditions for this, so I’ve had to adapt my own. 

Last week I happened to share a quote from Lawrence Durrell’s Justine, without realizing how apt it would turn out to be. It was accompanied by a picture I’d dug up from 2007, showing a view from another riverbank, near my home in Brooklyn, through several layers of rusted chain link. The full quote is:

“I am neither happy nor unhappy; I lie suspended like a hair or a feather in the cloudy mixtures of memory. I spoke of the uselessness of art but added nothing truthful about its consolations. The solace of such work as I do with brain and heart lies in this – that only there, in the silences of the painter or the writer can reality be reordered, reworked and made to show its significant side. Our common actions in reality are simply the sackcloth covering which hides the cloth-of-gold – the meaning of the pattern.”

What I hadn’t gotten around to sharing was the note I’d found taped to the fence on that bitterly cold day, along with the bedraggled remains of bouquet. 

“In memory of my friend Sandy & her lover. Sandy and her lover drowned in these waters on January 31, 1986 Sandy accidentally backed a vehicle into the water off of the pier. Her lover died trying to save her. Sandy was free spirited, young, beautiful, talented and a loyal friend. I wish I would have had a chance to tell her that I love her before she died. Sandy, I miss you and think of you all the time. Love, Laura”

Pondering Laura’s note back in 2007, I’d written one addressed to my future self:

“Not every day or every year gives you your own story to tell, or someone to tell it to. In the lean times the stories that blow in with the dust, sprout under garbage, or are left taped to the fenceposts, will be enough to sustain you.“

I find these everywhere. Photos, documents, and notes to other people end up in my hands. I carry them a while, sit with them. Sometimes I stash them away, other times I just release them back into the wild. 

I suppose it’s the same with our friends and loved ones. We hold each other for a few moments, and then let go, with no real certainty as to what will happen next. We’re wild creatures who want to be tamed. We’re tame creatures who want to run wild. We are accountable to each other, up until the moment we aren’t. 

And even then, sometimes, we still are. 

The cycle repeats endlessly, and continues onward even after we die. That’s how fabric is made — not from one long, continuous string, but from many fibers wound into many strings, and since the sackcloth of life is very rough indeed, it conceals a multitude of knots, seams, and patchwork. 

And the cloth-of-gold beneath, the meaning of the pattern... I don’t want to spoil the surprise, but it involves nothing truly being lost, not ever. Time holds us. The fabric contains us. It is us. 

Sitting by the Los Angeles river in November of 2019, I cut Jill’s deck and drew a card to instruct me in its use. What would our work be together?

I would have accepted any answer, but this one felt very instructive, consoling even. 

It had occurred to me the other day, I am the dictionary definition of inconsolable. I don’t accept comfort or care easily, not even from those I love and trust. I have to find a way to give it to myself. One of the reason I’ve enjoyed the company of wise, weird, creative elders is that many of those who’ve really tried to care for me have succeeded where others have failed. 

Losing them, I’ve had to learn to give these gifts to myself, on their behalf. The comfort of ghosts is better in many ways than the kind offered by the living. Feeling for the dead, we make a space in ourselves that remains open to them, and working from within that space they continue to influence us. In a way, they become us. Or we become them. Or both, the way lightning actually arcs from the ground and sky simultaneously, colliding somewhere in the middle.

I am inconsolable. At a fundamental level, nothing in this world can console me. But while thinking it over, it did finally occur to me that the cards come the closest; the peace I get from contemplating and writing about them has proven to be my steadiest source of comfort. 

What does that mean for my future? What does any of it mean? Durrell’s words keep ringing in my ears: “Only there, in the silences of the painter or the writer can reality be reordered, reworked and made to show its significant side.“

I have done this, am doing it, will do it. Chatty as I may be, nearly everything I’ve accomplished in life is a product of these long silences. If you want me to show you how it’s done, I can certainly try. If you want to exchange small comforts, even in silence, I would be thrilled to receive them. Per my usual disclaimer: “I will do my best to reply.” 

One reason I tend this site is so I can keep replying long after I’ve departed. In fact, the day after receiving Jill’s deck in the mail, I managed to complete Arcanalogue’s “Search By Card” function. This way I don’t even have to be here to offer an opinion! I’m hoping to backdate some older entries from pre-Tumblr Arcanalogue so the full project — the version friends like Jill enjoyed — is here. 

I left a small post-script on that page, dedicating it to her. Would it have occurred to me if Eric’s package hadn’t arrived? If I hadn’t dirtied every dish in the kitchen making Cas’s dessert? If I hadn’t just been combing through Phyllis’s old emails, or marveling at Dave’s final art project — a mask of his own face, which ended up in the room where he died, earning a special place of honor at his memorial? 

The dead aren’t obligated to tell us what they know about any of this... but it would still be very wise and very kind of us to listen.

[idkthisisjustforfanfic]

Part III - The Untimely Downfall of Strangers

THEN - Day 1011

Being on tour was a lot like working a job 24/7. Days were long and nights were short. I’d wake up to do radio promo, a talk show, some sort of something in whatever city we were in. I’d do a soundcheck, meet and greet, run through any tricky dance moves, wardrobe changes, the like.

If Harry was out on the road we’d maybe watch a movie, play soccer in the parking lot, hang out with my little brother.

Having people on the road made it okay--when Ben or Maya were on summer vacation they’d come out with my mom and Pete. My dad would come to a few shows and my cousins would come when we were on the east coast.

Sometimes, though, it would be just me and Sinead and Nick and the other 182 people that made the show run. I loved my band, I loved the crew that came on the road. But they weren’t the same as my family and friends.

You learn, after a while, that those people need to be your family, or else you’ll go crazy. You start accepting the fact that you’ll spend some holidays with them, celebrate birthdays, share all of the highs and all of the lows.

Sometimes I was jealous that Harry got four other people to do it with. The five of them got to each take part--they were well balanced, a decision didn’t rest on just one of their shoulders. They had someone they could turn to, someone right there, who understood exactly what it felt like to be doing what they were doing.

“Are you ready for hair and makeup soon?” Sinead sat down at the table in catering and looked at me expectantly. I put my phone down--I’d been rereading the last message I sent to Harry.

I hadn’t spoken to him all day--I texted him to let him know what time soundcheck was but he hadn’t said anything back.

He was in Norway, so the time difference didn’t exactly make things easy. I was sat, somewhere in Kansas, in the catering tent in a parking lot behind Arrowhead Stadium.

“Yeah,” I said, forking a bite of food into my mouth. “Just need to finish this.”

“You don’t need to rush,” she laughed a little.

It felt like I always needed to.

“Y’alright?”

I nodded--even though it was a lie. I wasn’t bad, or terrible, I was just surviving. I was keeping myself afloat, but I hated those questions, because it always made me feel like I could cry at any second.

I was so used to just lying through my teeth to convince everyone that I was loving being on tour and I missed Harry so much but that everything was fine. The truth was that tour was exhausting, Harry felt distant, and sometimes I wished I could go to sleep for three years.

“I’m just tired.”

Sometimes I wondered what other people thought about my life--not my fans, not the people who didn’t know me. I wondered what Sinead thought, what Nick thought, what Nathan thought. I wondered what they made of the endless days and nights of performing, the talk shows, the interviews.

Nick was always so proud--he was so happy that I had been so successful and that all of my dreams came true, he was quick to remind me that they had. He was right--at thirteen years old when I moved to California to be on a talent show on a kid’s network, all I wanted was to play sold out shows, play my music on stage, and get to wear fun clothes.

Now I dreaded having to put on whatever sequined potato sack they threw me into--it was itchy and hot and tight.

“Margot,” Sinead said suddenly, I hadn’t noticed that she’d been watching me the whole time. I looked up, offered a smile, and waited for her to continue. “You’re out of it lately--you’re not you.”

My face fell--I couldn’t tell if I was thrilled or terrified that she noticed.

“What’s going on?”

The catering tent hummed with people around us--guitar techs and dancers sat interspersed as everyone enjoyed their dinner. This was one of those moments where I wished I could just pause the outside world, take a moment, and catch my breath.

I stared at Sinead--her all access pass hung around her neck, her lanyard had my name on it in big, gold letters.

“I just miss Harry,” I shrugged.

She eyed me closely, but she eventually decided she believed me. “He’ll be here next week for the American leg of his tour,” she reminded me.

I nodded--I didn’t know if that was a good thing or not.

I did miss Harry--but I missed the old Harry. I missed the Harry that I first met, the Harry that made me feel alive and in love and wired.

I missed the Harry that pulled me out of this funk.

It wasn’t that I didn’t love Harry anymore. I just felt stale and bored and sedentary--I missed the honeymoon stage and feared that our relationship was just convenient. How could he love me if I was this apathetic, tired human with four layers of foundation used beneath her eyes to make everything seem okay?

It didn’t help that Zayn’s departure from the band made Harry even more focused on his future--he’d often be so busy planning out his life that he forgot to factor me in. I think he was ready for a life beyond the band, but terrified of what might happen.

Sometimes it felt like he understood how I felt--sometimes he’d make comments about being excited for the end, he was eager to explore his own music and find other passions--but then he’d remind me that he couldn’t imagine a day where he didn’t get on stage.

I couldn’t relate to that part.

NOW - Day 1695

I heard the driveway alert--signaling Sinead’s exit--shortly after I locked myself in my bedroom upstairs. I laid in my bed, face up, and watched the ceiling fan spin in a circle.

What a day.

If it wasn’t enough to hear from your ex-boyfriend for the first time in eighteen months, pair it with listening to his album inspired by your break up and a fight with you assistant/best friend, and you’ve got yourself a recipe for a headache.

I couldn’t help but think back to the day Harry and I broke up--the look on his face was something I’d remember for the rest of my life. When he left with such little fight, I figured he’d been feeling the same way, even if he said he hadn’t. I figured that he saw it coming--that he’d prepared himself for it and that he had made his peace with it.

My phone dinged on the night table next to me, I flung a hand over to retrieve it. Harry’s name on the screen made my stomach lurch.

It was good to see you today.

For the first time in a while, I felt the rush of emotion in my throat--that ball that forms and blocks the air. Was it good to see me? We’d barely spoken about anything deeper than surface level--but maybe that was a good thing. How did two people with a complex history dive back into the middle of the story when the words were still so unclear?

My feet were on the floor in a second and I headed straight down the hall. Having a house with four bedrooms was great, mainly because one of them because a music room.

I pushed the door open and looked around--I hadn’t spent a lot of time in here. I’d mostly come in and write a song or two and then leave for three weeks. That seemed to be my writing cycle lately.

When I was putting out an album every year, I’d write probably four or five songs a week. I’d have writing sessions with Nathan and Liz, a woman who’d written with me a lot in the past. I’d sit with them in quiet rooms and pour my heart out, something that felt so safe and so healing. Now it felt scary and dangerous.

I went to the piano and sat, playing an E, with a rising base note. I didn’t know what I had to say--I couldn’t quite place the emotion on the keys just yet. I played that for a minute, the repetition lent itself to a calm feeling.

Harry and I had been together for such a short time in the big picture. Three years felt like a lifetime in some ways, but at other times, it felt like three seconds. We’d spent a lot of time talking about the future, but here I was, left with the broken pieces of a relationship and I had nothing to show for it.

We didn’t have the chance to live the life we’d talked about--the house and the kids and the happiness.

I broke another glass in the house we never built.

The winter’s always cold enough, cold enough to kill.

I couldn’t even finish a verse--all I could do was cry over the piano that had once been something so important to me. It’s not that it wasn’t--it’s that so much had changed. I was a different person than I was when I left Harry--I was more whole, I was more grounded, I knew who I was.

I don’t think I ever did before.

And that was the problem--he loved the old me, he didn’t even know the new me.

THEN - Day 387

“I missed you so much,” Harry wrapped his arms around me when I crashed into his dressing room. He hugged me so tight my feet lifted off the floor.

It was a Wednesday night--he was in New York for a talk show with the band and I’d flown in from a music video shoot in Spain. Sinead walked in behind me, my duffle bag in her arms.

“I missed you too,” I breathed into his neck, the scent of him made me feel whole somehow, like I’d been missing more than just my boyfriend.

“Nice to see you too, Harry,” Sinead smirked from behind me. Harry let go of me, placing me back on the ground before stepping around me to hug Sinead.

“Did you think I wasn’t going to greet you with as much enthusiasm?” He laughed a bit, wrapping his arms around Sinead’s waist to lift her off the floor like he had with me. Sinead didn’t react the same way--instead, she pulled her head away from Harry and pretended to gag.

“Alright, alright,” she said as he set her down. She smoothed out her shirt. “Where’s Bridget? Can I give this to her?” She held out my bag.

Sinead--who had the next few days off--was handing me off to Harry and Bridget. I had a few days free and so did Harry--so New York was the meeting spot this time. It was winter--the weather was cold and the air was sharp outside.

“I think she’s in the hallway--she was just in here,” Harry pointed to the door, his eyebrows furrowed in a cute way as he watched Sinead set the bag on the floor.

“Go, Sinead,” I smiled at her. She was excited to head home to L.A. and have a week to herself--the girl had been working as hard as I had, flying all over for a video, then a photoshoot, and then promo in Europe. “Have a good week.”

“Gonna live without me?” She joked, running a hand down her ponytail.

“Yes,” I assured her. “I will.”

Niall appeared from the bathroom and let out a loud victory screech. “Margot Jones? The Margot Jones is in my dressing room!” He fanned at his own face, pushing Harry out of the way to come and throw himself at me.

I rolled my eyes, trying to catch his weight as he toppled me onto the nearby couch.

“Okay have fun, be safe! Call me if you need me!” Sinead called from the door, waving before she let it shut.

Niall--from his spot basically sat on top of me--let out another shriek. “She’s back, she’s really back!”

Liam, who appeared from a different room, took Niall’s yelling as an invitation to jump on top of both of us. “What a night! It’s like a dream come true, Niall!”

“I have a girlfriend under there, y’know,” Harry laughed a little, crossing his arms as he watched his friends suffocate me in the couch cushions.

“And she’s slowly losing air,” I tried to yell past Niall’s elbow in my face.

“Okay, that’s enough,” Harry laughed, stepping forward to pull Niall off of me. “We’d get sued if we kill her, she’s worth a lot.”

I rolled my eyes at his money joke--I didn’t really like it when people brought up my income. I knew Harry understood--he made just as much as I did, so I simply rolled my eyes and stood up when Niall and Liam set me free.

It wasn’t that I didn’t like admitting that I had money--I mean, saying I didn’t was like saying the sky wasn’t blue. My networth was searchable on the internet and I regularly traveled on private planes, it wasn’t like it was a secret.

For some reason, though, when Harry brought it up, I wondered how he’d feel about me if I weren’t Margot Jones. Would he still have fallen in love with me if I didn’t have a few Grammys sitting in my mom’s house?

Would he still want to call me every night before bed if I couldn’t fly out to visit him for a weekend?

I liked to believe that he would--but that’s the shitty thing about how my brain worked. I always had my doubts.

THEN - Day 1124

It had been three weeks since I’d seen Harry. His tour was in full swing, my tour was in full swing, and with each passing day, I could feel my exhaustion grow.

I walked behind Sinead as we headed down a hallway in the venue somewhere in Glasgow--she carried my duffle bag on her shoulder. “Put your pass on,” she said.

I rolled my eyes. I couldn’t help but think it was stupid that I needed a pass--sure, I wasn’t the headliner on this tour, but I knew I’d be offended as hell if someone didn’t know who I was.

I slung it around my neck and stopped short behind Sinead--who knocked twice on a door that one of Harry’s bodyguards stood beside. He nodded in my direction as greeting but didn’t say anything.

Harry opened the door--he had his own dressing room on this tour, and right now, I was thankful for that.

“Hi,” he smiled at her, then looked past her brown hair to let his eyes settle on my tired face. I forced a grin at him, I didn’t care if it looked fake. My flight was long, my tour was busy, I hadn’t slept in about 20 hours.

Sinead stepped out of the way so Harry could place a kiss on my lips. “I’m gonna hit catering,” she said, handing my bag to Harry, who happily took it. His cheery mood almost bothered me.

Sinead--who was just as tired as I was--walked away from us without a goodbye. I turned to face Harry, who led me into his dressing room before placing my bag on the couch.

“How was your flight, lovie?” He sat, patting at his lap to invite me to sit. I walked over and crawled onto him, letting his arms wrap around me.

“Long as shit. And I didn’t sleep because Nick wanted to go over a bunch of stuff for the next leg of the tour. We’re adding a date in Japan and I’ve got to do new choreography for the single.”

He frowned. “When did you last eat?”

Good question.

“Before the flight, I think.”

He ran a hand over the hair on my head--I hadn’t washed it after the last show, it was probably filled with knots and hairspray. “Let’s call over to catering and get you something.”

I didn’t respond. Instead, I let him nudge me off of him so he could walk over to his phone on the makeup counter. He picked it up and began typing a message to someone.

I sat there, staring at the floor, wondering what would happen if I just didn’t go back on the road. There were only two weeks left--twelve shows. The end seemed so far away.

“What’reya thinking about, baby?” He came to sit next to me again. I looked up at him.

“I’m just tired.”

“Margot,” he said my name like he knew I was lying. The tension in the air was palpable, he hated when I did this.

“Harry,” I countered back.

I didn’t want to tell him what I really felt. There’d been a few times where I’d drunkenly tell him that I wanted to quit and we’d have an alcohol-fueled heart-to-heart, only to never mention it again. I don’t think he knew how to address it.

He let out a sigh, scratching the back of his neck. “You can cancel it,” he said quietly, his eyes glued to my face. I hated the fact that he knew how I was feeling without me saying it.

“I can’t,” I shook my head, rolling my eyes at his silly suggestion. But was it silly? Could I cancel shows that thousands of people had booked tickets for?

“You can,” he answered my inner-question, his green eyes locking on mine now.

“I’m fine,” I told him, standing up and walking over to my bag--I knelt down reached inside for my phone.

“Margot,” he called my attention again, rising from the couch to come towards me. There were voices outside his door, he lowered his own so they wouldn’t hear us. “What is going on? When are you gonna admit you need a break?”

“When I actually need one,” I shrugged, biting my lip. I stood up and turned to face him.

“When are you going to admit that you need one now?”

There was a knock on the door before Bridget opened it. She had a plate of food in her hand--presumably for me. “You’re exactly who I was looking for,” she smiled at me.

“Not tonight,” I told him.

NOW - Day 1697

Nathan sat on the couch in the studio with a notebook in his lap. He’d been thrilled to hear from me--we’d only texted a few times in the last year or so.

Nathan had been probably the most supportive of me taking a break--aside from Harry, at least. When I was writing and recording an album, which was arguably more than half of the battle, I spent at least eight hours a day with Nathan.

He saw me cry at the piano and he saw me burst through the door with the glow of young love. He’d just about heard every detail of my life and he helped me make it more polished and ready for the rest of the world to hear.

“Is it good?” He asked.

“It’s fucking great--I mean, Jeff Bhasker produced it--he’s worked with everyone.”

Nathan nodded, waiting for me to say more.

“It’s kind of rocky, but kind of Indy as well, it’s a lot of things. It’s brutal, lyrically.”

His eyes went a little wide as he rubbed at his strawberry blond beard. “About you?”

“I’m assuming,” I laughed a little. “Unless he got his heart broken by someone else in the last year and half.”

“Probably not,” he smiled at me. “Are you mad about it, though?”

“That he wrote about me?”

He nodded, resting his arm on the back of the leather couch. Sun streamed in between the curtains--Nathan always kept the studio pretty dark. He said it was a better ambiance.

“I mean--he has every right to tell his side of the story. But that’s the thing--it’s just one side of the story.”

Nathan let out a sigh, a smirk played at his lips and I knew he was glad I was here. “So lemme hear yours,” he motioned to the guitar that was in a stand next to me.

I reached over and picked it up, placing the capo on the 4th fret.

“What did you just say? No, I heard you right the first time, I heard you right the first time. Are you trying to hurt me? You know you’re supposed to lie, when the truth is so unkind.”

Nathan listened on, his eyes closed as I started the chorus.

“There’s nothing on your skeleton, your heart is gone, you’re acting like it doesn’t even matter, like I don’t even matter.”

I paused--I didn’t want to go on if he didn’t think it had potential. He opened his eyes and looked at me.

“Are you gonna do a counter release?”

I knew he was going to ask. “I don’t know. I’ve got enough to do an album of just stuff from before the break--I was writing a lot in the summer of 2015 before shit hit the fan.”

He laughed and reached for a pen on the coffee table. “How many?”

“Like eighteen--eighteen good ones.”

“Eighteen songs?”

I nodded.

“Well fuck, Margot,” he laughed. “We’ve got some work to do, then.”

NOW - Day 1701

“There’s nothing on your skeleton, your heart is gone, you’re acting like it doesn’t matter, like I don’t even matter,” I sang alone in the living room. I was recording an updated voice memo on my phone, hoping to send it to Nathan by the end of the day.

He loved the song I’d played for him--he wanted me to work on a pre-chorus and a bridge.

The driveway alert went off--I set my guitar down and stood from the couch, walking to the front door to see who was there.

A small black car had parked near the street--Harry climbed out of the front seat with sunglasses on. He wore a blue button-up short-sleeved shirt.

I opened the door and stepped out, unsure of how he’d gotten my address. “Hi,” I called out, causing him to look up from the driveway as he came closer.

“Hi,” he breathed out, holding a hand up to block the sun. He picked up his pace to come to the front step. When he was in front of me, he hesitated and then sighed--almost as if he was relieved that I answered the door. “Do you have a second?”

“Uh,” I looked back into the living room. It’s not like I was really doing anything--but I had no idea how long a second was to him. “Sure, what’s up?”

“I just wanted to touch base with you--uh, about the release.” He looked back up to his car--most likely nervous that someone had followed him here. “Can I come in?”

“Yeah,” I said quietly, stepping aside to shut the door behind us once we were both in the entryway of my house. I knew what he was doing--he was warning me. His album would come out and I’d be getting emails and calls from people--did I know he was writing it? Had I spoken with him? Did he tell me anything about it?

We’d texted a bit the day after we had coffee--he asked more about my writing and my plans for future music. That’s when I stopped responding.

“I’ve talked with my PR people about different responses--I mean, I figure people will ask me questions about you.” He sounded robotic, almost--he sounded like he’d rehearsed his words before he came, or worse, like someone was telling him what to say to me.

We’d long been used to getting prepped for interviews--knowing the answers we’d give before questions were asked. This felt strange though--I didn’t want him to feel like he had to avoid my name. I’d been a part of his life, a part that was important enough for him to write about.

“It’s fine, Harry, I trust you.”

The words sounded ironic coming out of my mouth--I’d spent the last week being angry and annoyed with the way his album was painting me, but here I was saying that I trusted him to answer questions about our relationship.

I knew that Harry cared about me--even if his lyrics made me out to be the bad guy.

“You’re thinking,” he said, a bit of a smirk crossing onto his face.

I rolled my eyes and headed towards the kitchen. I figured he’d take a cup of tea. “I’m always thinking.”

He laughed, following behind me as he took in the sight of my house. “I know--it’s your fatal flaw.”

I turned quickly look at him over my shoulder, causing him to lose the smile on his face. “Sorry.”

Asshole. As if I wasn’t aware that my constant state of mild panic had fucked up everything. I didn’t need him to remind me.

I reached up into the cupboard to get the black tea he liked, pulling it down to the counter. He stood in silence in my kitchen, and I suddenly felt like the growing apart we’d done was irreversible.

I grabbed the teapot from my stove and filled it with water, I wondered if he liked the way I decorated the kitchen. “I sound like a jerk on your album.”

He was quiet for a second and waited for me to turn around. When I did, he sighed. “I wasn’t trying to make you sound like a jerk.”

“I know you weren’t.”

How did I tell him that I hadn’t meant to hurt him? How did I tell him that I left him because I had to--not because I wanted to?

“I was just writing my experience of it. Just trying to be honest.”

I nodded again, dropping my gaze to the floor. “You hurt me too, y’know.”

“What do you mean?”

“What do you mean?” I looked up at him. “I mean what I said.”

He closed his eyes tight and took a deep breath, as if he were annoyed. “Can you explain what you mean, Margot?”

I licked my lips, willing the tea to boil faster so I could have something in my hands.

“You never called me when I was in rehab.”

He swallowed. “I didn’t know you wanted me to.”

I scoffed at this--why would I not want him to? “I didn’t know I had to tell you that’s what you should have done.”

“Margot, I didn’t come here to fight.”

“Why did you come, Harry?”

He crossed his arms. “I wanted to see how you were doing knowing that it’s coming out.”

“Doesn’t seem like I have any option, right? That’s pretty typical. Grin and bear it, Margot.”

He shook his head, annoyed with my anger. He walked around the island and sat on a stool, resting his head in the palm of his hands. He gripped at his hair and sighed again. “I didn’t call you because I had nothing to say. I didn’t want to break up, you know that.”

“I didn’t enjoy hurting you, just so you know. I didn’t like breaking your heart.”

“I didn’t say you did,” he looked up at me. “But I still don’t really understand why you left.”

THEN - Day 1143

Sinead had texted me, asking me to come back to my dressing room after sound check. We were somewhere in Pennsylvania, the white hallways of venues had long blurred into one for me, I was lucky if I could find my way to the stage most nights.

I counted the squares on the cement walls as I walked--36, 37, 38. I rounded the corner and was met by the open door of my dressing room--Sinead sat on the couch next to my mother. Nick was standing beside them and Harry was leaned against the wall.

My mother had been on the road with us, but Harry was a surprise.

“What are you doing here?” I looked at him, somewhat disappointed at the sight of him. Every time he smiled at me, every time he told me he loved me, I knew I was heading down a dead end street. I needed to end things.

“Sinead asked me to come out,” he replied, his face was straight and his eyes looked sad and tired.

I looked from Harry to my mom, then to Sinead, and then to Nick. I knew what this was. I’d seen it in movies.

“We just want to talk with you, honey,” my mom smiled at me. She, too, looked sad and tired--was that how I looked all the time, even when Bonnie slapped a decent amount of makeup on me?

“Oh lord,” I rolled my eyes, walking towards them to take the empty seat that apparently had my name on it.

Each of them had confronted me separately--you’re not yourself, Margot, Something’s up with you, are you sure you’re okay? Maybe it wasn’t the same as this, but I knew how they felt, they’d made it plenty clear.

I didn’t know how to answer those questions because I didn’t know what it was. I was sad, I was tired, I was incredibly on edge and I didn’t sleep well. When I closed my eyes I could hear the screaming crowds and sometimes it felt like my whole world was caving in.

I didn’t have energy, I didn’t have motivation to do anything. I had to drink enough coffee to keep myself awake long enough to perform the second set.

“We’re worried about you,” Nick said. “We think you need to take some time off.”

I looked to Harry--I knew this was probably brought on by him. He’d been the one to actually tell me I needed a break the last time I saw him. He didn’t understand, though--I couldn’t. I didn’t know what that looked like.

“I don’t need a break,” I shook my head, trying my best to keep my voice steady. I knew that if I became emotional and got too anxious they’d be quick to use it as ammunition.

“Margot, you absolutely do,” my mom tried to reason with me. “You’re exhausted and you’re working too much and you should just come home for a bit. Maybe we can go back to Raleigh, you can see your old friends.”

“Mom,” I shook my head. I had no idea how to respond, because the truth was that she was right. I was tired, and I was sick of my job, and I was bitter about the fact that everyone wanted to know what I was doing 24/7.

But the truth also was that I signed up for this and now it was my life. I signed up for putting my life on display and that provided for my family and my siblings and me. And now, I didn’t know who I was without my career.

For seven years I had been Margot Jones, popstar, singer-songwriter, actress--I didn’t know how to be a 20 year old. I knew how to be a girl with experience well beyond her years, trapped in the body of a kid.

“Margot just hear us out,” Harry was annoyed now. He pushed himself off of the wall and came to stand closer to me. “You’re going crazy, practically. You’re angry and you’re irritable, and you’re tired.”

Again, none of this was news to me, I didn’t know why they were treating it like it was.

“I’m fully aware of how fucked up I am,” I shot back at him. Sinead seemed to be surprised by my outburst, but Nick watched on with a steady gaze. I stood from the chair in which I sat and took a step back from Harry. “I don’t need you to point it out.”

I headed for the door, but I could hear Harry’s footsteps behind me in the hallway. Great--the last thing I needed was everyone on my crew knowing what type of bullshit he was trying to pull.

“Margot, no one is trying to force you to do anything, we want this to be your decision.”

I kept walking, my eyes set forward. I was angry, but it wasn’t surfacing. I was sad, but it wasn’t breaking through. The more emotion I felt, the less I could show it.

“Will you just talk to me?” He raised his voice behind me.

I stopped short, turned on one foot, and stared at him. “I don’t have anything to say.”

He rolled his eyes. “Of course you do.”

“I don’t care, Harry. I don’t care about any of this,” I motioned around. A man pulled a hand truck by us with more sound equipment and Marcie, my stage manager, offered a small smile as she stayed close to the wall.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that I don’t give a shit about anything! That’s a problem.”

He nodded slowly, now he was unsure what to say. He kept his eyes on mine, neither one of us dared to look away.

“If I could fix it I would, but I don’t think I can. If I take a break, I’m never coming back.”

He opened his mouth but no sound came out.

I knew what he was thinking. How could I leave something I loved so much? How could I be sick of it? How could I not love making music and touring and being paid to do it?

All I wanted was a normal life--sometimes I saw my brother in college, going to class, going to parties, and I wished for a second I could leave my house without getting a picture taken.

I wished sometimes I could just be a person with a name and a job, maybe I’d work in graphic design, or maybe I’d be a vet.

I wasn’t anyone, though. I was an image that was created by a label--sure, I let them do it. I let them promote me and whore me out and post my image up on billboards. I had thousands of people who thought they knew me, but they didn’t know shit.

I knew that if I took this break--this stupid hiatus that everyone was pushing for--I knew I’d never come back. I knew I would leave and sit in a house somewhere in the woods and I wouldn’t be anyone.

I didn’t know what was worse, at this point.

THEN - Day 103

My plane touched down in London and it was raining--I’d been so many times before. I’d played shows and done appearances, but I’d never been here to meet someone. My weeks had become a countdown to seeing Harry again, and my days were spent waiting for another text.

I’d suddenly become amazing at mental math, constantly determining the hour in whatever time zone he was in. My stomach constantly had butterflies.

Sinead was back in L.A.--it was shortly after the New Year, and my mom had only given me permission to come all the way to London if I brought security with me.

The lights in the small cabin lit up, the pilot made an announcement to me and Jack, and I grabbed my bag. I couldn’t wait any longer.

My relationship with Harry was still new--he’d spent plenty of time with my family, but I’d yet to meet his sister and his mom. I couldn’t help but wonder what they thought they knew about me--I was past the point of fame where I could assume that someone didn’t know who I was.

I climbed down the stairs and onto the pavement, straight into a black car and towards wherever it was that Harry was staying. Jack made a few comments about driving on the wrong side of the road, but I couldn’t focus on much besides the fact that I’d get to see Harry.

I’d never felt this way--I’d never felt like I could be so authentically myself with someone, especially lately. The past few years had been worse than I expected. At first, being famous was fun. There was money and there was traveling and writing and singing and meeting people who loved me more than I’d ever loved anyone.

After a while, though, it started to feel stale. I started to feel like I was just maintaining an image that I didn’t create. I was fulfilling the role that so many people had put me in--the role that my fans saw and the role that they showed on TV. I didn’t know who I was. I knew who Margot Jones was, but sometimes she felt distant.

Harry made me feel like we were the same--like the Margot that everyone idolized wasn’t the greatest thing about me. He made me feel like a girl who loved chocolate and journaling and swimming and talking late at night on the phone.

He made me feel like I was real.

Right when I felt like I could float away, he pulled me down to earth.

A man from Harry’s security team led me in the back door of a hotel--sneaking around made everything more fun. We weaved down a hallway, past a hundred doors that all looked the same. Eventually, the tall man with a black shirt chose one to knock on.

“Hi,” Harry smiled when he opened the door. He opened his arms to receive me, I took in a breath, appreciating his scent and the feeling of having someone’s arms around me. “I missed you.”

“I missed you,” I looked up at him. “I’m really nervous though.”

“To meet my family?” He laughed, shaking the hand of the security guard before shutting the door behind me. I nodded. “They’re going to love you. How could they not?”

“They don’t know me, they probably know who I am, but that’s not--that’s not me.”

I set my bag down by my feet. He stared at me, a small smile set on his face. “I know they’ll love you.”

“How do you know that?” I rolled my eyes a little.

“Because,” he shrugged. “I know they will. And besides, I love you.”

He hadn’t said that before. I stared at him, my lips turning into a smile--I felt like I could cry. I knew he meant it, I knew he felt it, I knew because I did, too.

THEN - Day 1168

Harry knew that something was wrong. He didn’t kiss me goodnight and he didn’t tell me he loved me. He was mad that I wouldn’t talk to him, he was mad I wouldn’t tell him how I felt, but I didn’t have the words.

His band had just released their album, and I flew to New York to visit while they did promo. The whole summer had been like a build up to this moment. I couldn’t pull him any deeper with me. I know he cared--I know he wanted me to be happy, to get help, but that was too hard. Maybe this was how I was supposed to be.

I slept in my own hotel room--I needed my space, I needed time to think. It’d been seven years of pretending, and at this point, it felt like I couldn’t last another second.

New York was cold and the leaves were mostly gone--dormant like the emotion inside of me.

He’d knocked on my door after I asked him to come over. I opened it, and I think he knew right then. He looked at me with big green eyes, almost glossy with emotion, but he didn’t say anything. I stepped aside and let him in.

I wondered, for a second, what would happen if I told him everything--all of the sadness, uncertainty, and fear that slept inside of me, waiting to come out. I figured he wouldn’t understand, I figured it would cause him too much pain.

He walked to the couch and sat, his eyes on the floor. I sat across from him, waiting to see if he’d ask what I wanted--he let out a sigh and rubbed at his eyes. “You can’t do this, can you?”

I didn’t really know what he meant, but I figured that he was right. I didn’t feel like I could do much, these days.

I shook my head when he looked at me. He closed his eyes quickly, almost as if it hurt to look at me. I stood from the couch, suddenly feeling like I needed more room to breathe. He looked too sad, too hurt, I couldn’t know that I was doing that to him. I’d already hurt him enough.

“So that’s it? We’re just quitting--no reason. No explanation. Just because you’re--” he stopped.

“I’m what?” I challenged him, the anger in his voice seemed to rub off on me.

“You’re sick.”

“I’m not sick,” I shot back. I didn’t feel sick. I didn’t have a fever. I didn’t have a stomach ache. I walked to the bed in the bed and sat.

“You won’t accept help.”

“I don’t need it.”

“Yes, Margot. You do.”

I stared at him for a minute, there was a part of me that wanted to cry and admit that I didn’t know what to do and I was scared. I couldn’t pull myself out of this endless hole and it felt like everyone else had stopped trying.

The walls of the hotel seemed to blur, the four slabs of sheetrock were suddenly the same box I’d lived in my whole life. The windows that looked out over a bleak New York were simply slivers of hope--a glimpse into a world I’d never know.

He came to stand next to me, looking down as I avoided his gaze. “You can leave me, and you can end this, but you need to get help. Okay?”

His voice was distant, words strung together in a melodic tone that I knew was supposed to mean something. His face was a memory, his green eyes used to spark adrenaline in me, but here, in this moment, the only word I could mutter was: “okay.”

Was it okay? Was I okay? Was he okay?

How had everything crashed down like this? How had the polished and scripted idea become such a desperate and empty scene? A cold hotel room in the middle of New York was the sterile setting of my heartbreak.

There was a pit in my stomach made up of words I hadn’t said--things I’d kept from him all summer, all year. I knew it was going to happen, I knew it needed to happen, but now it felt wrong. The thought of him leaving and walking out the door sent a fire in my heart and a wave of fear through my veins, but I couldn’t say that out loud. He was the only person who seemed to care--he was the one who made me feel real.

“I’m sorry,” he said, holding my gaze for a minute before I had to look away. I could see the water in his eyes--the emotion that I was so disconnected from--and I wish I felt guilty. I didn’t want to see him in pain, but the part of my brain that felt empathy had long been turned off. “I love you, y’know.”

I nodded.

He always had.

He was quiet now, waiting for me to say something in response. I loved him--I loved him with every piece of my heart, but saying that didn’t seem like it would change anything. I could trace over the last six months like I’d done every night for weeks, but it felt like that would only delay the inevitable. I was a one way ticket to ruining his life.

“Say something,” he spoke again, his voice lower this time. I brought my head up, offering him a small smile. I could feel the pain in his voice, and I wished I could show him that. I could sense the urgency in his voice, but I didn’t have any words.

I’d been saying so many words for the last seven years that the well was dry. He had to understand that.

“Harry,” I breathed out his name, the slump in his shoulders told me that he felt just as hopeless as I did. “I think you should go.”

The words were easy to say--harder to feel. Did I mean it? Not really, but I had to convince him I did. If I made it clear that this decision wasn’t easy he’d have a harder time going, he’d look back over his shoulder, he’d question every step.

That would make it harder.

He stood from the bed, pausing again to see if I’d say anything else. I looked up at him, trying to get a good look at him. Here was the person who saved me, the person who made me whole when I felt like a shell of myself, and here was the person who made me not afraid to try.

He nodded in response to my silence, keeping his eyes on the ground. I could see his wet cheeks, though I hadn’t seen any tears actually fall. He leaned in, pressed a kiss to my forehead, and left.

NOW - Day 1701

“I didn’t enjoy hurting you, just so you know. I didn’t like breaking your heart.”

“I didn’t say you did,” he looked up at me. “But I still don’t really understand why you left.”

“You really want to get into this, now?”

I didn’t know what he wanted from me. He came here, he showed up, all I could do was make him tea and tell him that I could handle the shit show that his album was about to spark.

I don’t think people ever got sick of news about us--we’d been broken up for a year and a half, and there were still headlines about if his vague instagram was about me or if I was doing okay after the split.

If there was one thing everyone knew, it was that I left him--he made that pretty clear. I was the villain--the magazines and the gossip sites painted me as the girl who ran away and the girl who needed rehab.

The girl who was just too sad.

He was the poor guy who had to deal with the media circus when I went away--no one could reach me for a comment in the backwoods of Tennessee while I sat on a couch in my therapist’s office crying into a box of tissues. He had to answer the questions and he had to exist in a world where I was now the bad guy.

“We haven’t ever gotten into it. I can’t read your mind. I wish I could.”

“You don’t,” I said quickly. He wouldn’t do well with the constant fear and worry and sadness. It wasn’t as bad now, sure--it was more manageable and I was getting better and better at tolerating it, but he certainly didn’t wish he could be inside of here with me.

“I wish I knew what happened to us,” he rephrased his words, keeping his eyes on me.

“I wish I knew what happened to me,” I said.

He was being selfish--he was doing that thing where he acted like he was the only one who was affected by my mood, by my anxiety, by my depression. He didn’t have to live with it.

He was quiet for a minute. The tea kettle whistled and I poured the water into two glasses. I slid the box of tea towards him, I could have made it for him--just a splash of some milk and a little bit of honey--but I didn’t want to seem too forward.

“I could have helped you.”

I knew he would take it there--I knew this would become a thing. He’d have some hero complex and I’d have to explain why that only happened in movies.

“People can’t save each other, Harry. That’s not how it works.”

“I said ‘help.’”

“I know what you said.”

He dipped his tea bag into the water in his mug. I brought a spoon to my own and stirred, watching as the color from the tea bag seeped into the hot liquid.

“I loved you, I just wanted to help.”

I took a deep breath--his intentions were good, I knew that. “I know. But you couldn’t have. I left because it was something I needed to do alone. I ruined your summer--I ruined our relationship. I didn’t want you to get taken down with the ship.”

He looked up at me now, his eyes on mine. I think he was surprised.

“You weren’t going to take me down,” his voice was quiet--sad, almost.

“I already had, Harry. Everything in your life that summer became about me and making sure I was okay. Everyone’s life revolved around me. That wasn’t fair.”

I wondered if I should tell him that I missed him, that I wished he could have helped. Instead of speaking more, I sipped at my tea.

“I’m sorry you felt so alone.”

I kept my eyes on the ground, I knew if I looked at him, I’d cry. I didn’t feel alone, I was alone. No one could take the pain away from me, no one could make me feel okay. I had to roll my sleeves up and do the work.

“I didn’t know what you needed and I didn’t know how to ask.”

I laughed a little at this, offering a small smile when I finally mustered up the courage to look at him. “I also lied and said I didn’t need any.”

He shrugged, mirroring my smile. “There’s that too.”

We were both quiet for a second--he sat at the island and drank his tea, I stared out the window at the waves that crashed on the sand. The warmth from my mug felt good on my skin, for a second, I didn’t feel so uncomfortable.

“Do you think your fans will hate me?”

He looked up at me, the glass was raised to his lips. He swallowed, set it down, and then tugged at his lower lip, pondering my question. “Dunno--they’ll not be pleased, I’m sure.”

I stared down into my mug, watching the tea bag float effortlessly. I think what I really wanted to know was if he hated me.

“I don’t want them to, just so you know,” he laughed a little, watching me and waiting for me to make eye contact. “That’s not the point of my album.”

“I know, but, they will. I was a dick.”

He was quiet now. I don’t think he wanted to agree, but he also knew I wasn’t wrong.

“I’m sorry I didn’t explain why I broke up with you.”

He nodded, another pause of silence passed between us. “I appreciate that.”

“You’re supposed to say ‘I’m sorry I wrote a whole album about you being a dick,’” I teased him.

He let out a hearty laugh, throwing his head back as he grinned. “Right--I meant that.”

[raendown]

@kaiyaru The contract has been signed and the goods have been delivered. 

Pairing: MadaraTobirama Rating: T+ Word count: 5393 Summary: He knows what he has done. He's known that they would come for him.

Follow the link or read it under the cut!

For Want Of Reason And Mercy

The gloves didn’t help. Several thousand dollars had gone in to the research and development of a single measly pair of gloves and they didn’t even work as they were meant to. Tobirama clenched his fists in his hair to smother the urge to drag his arms across the table and send all of his carefully organized work crashing to the floor. None of it had helped.

After everything he had given, everything he had sacrificed, all the hurts that he had weathered with nary a complaint, he’d thought by now the universe would see fit to let him catch a break. Even the smallest of mercies would be welcome by now but instead the condition only seemed to be worsening.

His nose wrinkled when he realized what he’d just done, using that word in the silence of his own thoughts. It was the government’s word, ‘condition’, and it seemed that the line between his truest desires and the agencies he had long sold his soul to were finally blurring if he’d started to use it himself. But what did it matter, he wondered, if were to finally become what others had accused him of being for so long now when all of his efforts came to nothing in the end?

When the government first began its campaign against those with ‘the condition’, it caused a great stir among the people who had once considered him one of their own when Tobirama gave himself willingly in to the clutches of the very people seeking to destroy them. There were stipulations to it, of course. In pursuit of something greater he had given up his freedom, his rights, and everyone he loved. His body had been subjected to unending tests both invasive and painful and he had suffered all of it without complaint because he truly believed in his heart that he would find the perfect solution, the missing piece of the puzzle that would lead him to happiness.

Now here he was with gloves that failed to contain the ice which formed from his fingertips and no other avenues left to follow in his biological research. The project, it seemed, was a dead end. Despite millions of dollars and hundreds of the Elemental Nations’ most brilliant minds all working together, it appeared that there simply was no cure for the condition of being blessed with heroic powers.

Tobirama first discovered his abilities, as all supers do, when he hit puberty. It was his first and only crush which revealed to him the ice running in his veins. And of course it hadn’t taken very long before the people closest to him began a running joke about cold-blooded Senju and frozen hearts, jokes which became mournful refrains when he willingly devoted his mind to helping the factions seeking to destroy people like them. He knew very well what they thought of him. ‘Traitor’ was the least of the names he had been called.

If they knew his true reasons for why he did what he did would they sing a different tune?

Probably not but it mattered little anyway. They might never know now, not when his only way home seemed an impossibility. If he could not stop his own powers then he could not return home and if he could not find a cure for himself then he stood a good chance of being put down by the people he had worked under for five long years now. Life, he thought blandly, was just unfair.

He was watching the crystals form on his fingertips with despondent emptiness, completely unmotivated to do anything but sit and wallow in his misery, when the noises began. Muffled explosions sounded in the distance while the very earth groaned around him. Sirens went off only moments later but Tobirama couldn’t bring himself to move. Clearly the facility was under attack – a successful attack by the sounds of it – and he couldn’t find it within himself to care, let alone worry. Let them come. Whoever it was knocking at the door, it felt poetic that he might meet his death at last at the hands of those he had betrayed for nothing.

Outside in the hallways he could hear footsteps thundering passed, guards and soldiers rushing to the fight and probably to their deaths, but Tobirama continued to sit still. Evacuation messages rang harshly through the loudspeakers and still he remained. This laboratory was his choice, the doom he had given himself, and the idea of dying here gave his battered soul an odd sort of ironic peace.

As he listened to the sounds of battle drawing closer he tried to imagine who would come through the door. It was hard to tell without the war cries and shouting that used to accompanies such displays of power, a habit he himself had pointed out as dangerous because it made them bigger targets and distracted them from defending themselves. He was still mentally cycling through all of the supers he knew of with explosive or ground related powers when the entire room was rocked by a massive blast just outside, the metal door rocketing inwards with an unholy metallic shriek. Two imposing figures strode in to the room with their hands raised and their heads swiveling to case the room.

Both of them stopped when they saw him there in front of his table, small and quiet, diminished. He didn’t have to look up to see the shock on their faces.

“Tobirama?” one of the called out softly and he barely contained a wince. How he had missed that voice.

“Brother,” he greeted in return. “If I may call you that still.”

“Traitor,” the other man growled. Tobirama’s heart clenched in his chest.

“Hello Madara.” He waited but the silence only continued to stretch and none of them said anything further. Somewhere in the building the fighting raged on, other supers exacting their revenge against one of the facilities researching a way to ‘fix’ them. Finally, when it became obvious that his mere presence was enough to shock these two in to indecision, he spoke. “Do it. I will not try to stop you.”

One of them gasped – Hashirama, probably – and one of them slammed their fist against something.

“You could come with us, you know. You could make this right,” Hashirama begged. It was a tempting offer, to be honest, but Tobirama hung his head and stared down at the ice forming and cracking around the fingers of his gloves.

“I made my bed. I am prepared to lie in it.”

“Why, Tobi? Please. You never told us why. How could you–” Hashirama cut himself off, overwhelmed, but Madara had always had enough words when others had none.

“How could you betray us!?” he thundered. “How could you betray your people, your family, yourself?

“There is no point in explaining it to you. My reasons are…well. There is no point now. Go ahead and kill me; I’m sure you’ve been wanting to do so for quite some time now. As I said, I won’t stop you.”

Enraged snarls sounded from behind him but what surprised him were the fingers that brushed against the top of his head, sliding in to his hair and gently petting him in the same way his nightmares had been soothed away as a little boy. Tobirama caught his bottom lips between his teeth and fought to compose himself before looking up in to his brother’s eyes. It had been so long since they’d seen each other. He noticed that Hashirama’s hair was even more ridiculously long than it had been before and that he’d made several updates to his super uniform.

He barely held in a protest when the fingers in his hair pulled away and he was relieved that they didn’t go far, tracing the three tattoos on his face which he’d designed to both hide and highlight his greatest shame.

“Could you kill me?” Hashirama asked him. Tobirama gave him a helpless look.

“Never.”

“Then how could you ask me to do the same to you?”

Light flared when Madara huffed impatiently, the flames licking up and down his body growing in his irritation. “Don’t treat him so softly. He betrayed us, he doesn’t deserve it!”

“He’s my brother!”

“No, he’s a traitor to his own kind!”

Pausing to breathe deeply, Tobirama dared to look in to Madara’s face for the first time since they had arrived, the first time in five years. As soon as he saw the older man’s expression he wanted to hide away again and erase that image from his mind. Behind the anger and the hatred was a very deep pain and knowing he had caused that made Tobirama hate himself just that little bit more than he already did.

Something deep down inside fluttered at the notion that Madara might still care enough to be hurt, that the hatred hadn’t entirely smothered the tenuous bond which had once existed between them, but Tobirama mercilessly bore down on that feeling and denied it. There was no going back from what he had done, he knew that very well. Whatever potential there had been between them was gone now with no hope of ever reviving it. Tobirama forced himself to look Madara in the eye and accept the consequences of the actions he had chosen to take.

“You then?” he asked. “Will you be the one to kill me?”

“Hn. You would deserve it.”

“I know.” His words seemed to startle both men, though Madara recovered faster. Anger shadowed his face once more as he stepped back and fell in to a stance Tobirama recognized easily.

“We’re not murderers like your new friends are, we don’t kill people who won’t fight back. So come on, then. Get up and fight me! Come on!”

Hashirama make a bit of effort to calm his friend down but Tobirama only sighed in resignation. When he hauled his body up out of his chair he felt a thousand pounds heavier, a hundred years older, and tired enough to lie down in his grave with no help. But if it was a fight that Madara wanted, if it would give him closure…

“Very well,” he murmured. “Brother, if you would kindly give us a bit of space.”

“Trying to protect him? It’s a little late for that,” Madara spat at him, clenching his fist as the fires running along his limbs flared again. His emotions had always been so easy to read in those flames.

Knowing that any answer he chose to give would only incite the other further, Tobirama opted for silence as the ice crystals on his fingertips slowly encased the rest of his hand and crept up his arm. It had been a while since he really let loose. He could feel the power inside him stirring, chilling the air immediately around his body even without trying, and shuddered for what he was about to do. He knew that there was little point in trying to negotiate his way out of this fight. Once Madara got an idea in to his head it was nearly impossible to talk him out of it.

Still, Tobirama refused to throw the first punch, as it were. He took his stance as was expected of him and pinched his brows together when he felt the way his fingers were already growing stiff with ice.

“I didn’t want it to be this way,” he murmured. “But I had…no control.” It was the closest he could give them to an explanation.

Madara did not take his words calmly. Incensed, the older man came forward in a whirlwind of flame and smoke. Tobirama closed his ears to his brother’s cries for them both to stop as he dodged, half-heartedly throwing up a wall of ice to block the fire reaching for his face. Some part of him wondered if it wouldn’t be easier to just allow his ice to slip, to let the fire consume him and end things in the way he felt they should.

The thought was a stupid one, he knew that even as he considered it. Madara would never be the type to find closure in an easy win. If they were going to have it out once and for all he was going to have to put some effort in to this and allow Madara the victory he deserved, a hard won triumph, a proper display of skill from them both.

It was the last thing Tobirama wanted and the only thing he had left to give.

A burning projectile roared passed his ears. Tobirama spun and retaliated with a beam which cut through the flames heading straight for his face, extinguishing them before they ever had a chance to reach the temperature Madara was clearly going for. Incensed, his opponent removed something from his belt and lit them aflame before hurling them across the room. Tobirama caught them in frozen spires called up from the ground then raised those same spires up and threw them back as deadly spears.

Back and forth they traded blows, neither making any true headway nor landing any real hits, and Tobirama could think only of how tired he was, wading through memories with every step and dodge and twist. Despite the years gone by Madara’s fighting style was as familiar to him as though they hadn’t spent a day apart; coming up against it now was like stepping back through time to a place where he’d still had that shining hope in his eyes, still looked towards a better future. Those dreams had died inch by inch in the time since.

Watching the table he had spent hours and days and weeks hunched over go up in flames was like watching the lighting of his own funeral pyre. Tobirama bit down on his lip, dodging behind a metal buttress and giving himself a moment to close his eyes, to breathe.

“Get back here Tobirama! Answer for what you’ve done! Fight me you coward!”

His eyes opened again, slowly, reluctantly.

“There are many things that I am,” he said quietly, knowing the other two men would be straining for any sound of him. “I am a traitor and a monster, I am cold and I am wrong and I am not the man that others once dreamed I could be. But one thing that I am not is a fucking coward.” Stepping out from behind the buttress, Tobirama strode purposefully towards the epicenter of the flames engulfing the room.

“Found you,” Madara growled, rolling his shoulders. Tobirama peeled back his lips.

“You cannot know what I have faced. And for what? Nothing. I have seen darknesses and lows that you won’t see in your worst nightmares, never flinching from the path I chose, and for what!?”

Madara sneered, flames rising from his shoulder unbidden in his anger. “You tell me!”

“For nothing. It was all for nothing. You want me to fight? Fine, let’s fight! Call me a fucking coward, huh?”

They met in the center of the room, clashing and rebounding only to come together over and over. Hashirama’s helpless cried were drowned out by the hissing of the steam that filled the room the longer they stayed so close but he dared not try to interfere. Flames rose and fell, ice formed and shattered, and in the eye of the storm Madara and Tobirama clashed with the same furious passion that had always existed between them.

He could see the inevitable end when it came. Tobirama had, of course, known it was coming even as he desperately prayed that Madara would see it too, would have prepared for it, but his hopes were unfounded. The trouble with pitting fire against ice was that most people tended to assume that the flame would win out, melting the ice for an easy victory. What they failed to take in to account was that Madara’s body could only grow so hot before he would burn himself up like a miniature supernova; Tobirama could grow as cold as he wanted with no more adverse effects than the thickening ice that crept up his limbs by the minute.

If only the damn gloves had worked.

Had they worked he would not have caught Madara in the chest with a blast of his natural element. Nor would he have had to listen to the cry of pain and dismay as Madara doubled over and fell to his knees. Tobirama’s knees hit the concrete as well and he caught the other man before he could topple over, laying him down gently and ignoring the weak protests to get away. His entire body trembled with the effort to draw breath past the pain of what he’d just done.

“From the moment I met you, I knew I’d hurt you eventually.” His fingers found Madara’s hair while the older man shivered uncontrollably, his body striving to raise his internal temperatures. “I just…I had no control. I still have no control. Five years of research and experiments and I still – look…I’m killing you. With nothing but a touch.”

Hashirama rushed forward to pull Madara from his arms and Tobirama scuttled backward until he ran up against something, pressed back in a fruitless effort to disappear in to the walls around him. When he raised his hands to look at them, the ice was so thick his fingers were nearly fused together.

“I tried to make it go away,” he whispered. “I’m so sorry, I failed. I failed myself, you, everyone.”

“What do you mean you tried to make it stop?” Hashirama asked cautiously.

“This.”

He held out his hands, his heart shriveling just that little bit more when he saw Madara flinch away. Tobirama dropped his eyes to the floor and wondered, if he simply kept still for long enough, would the ice creep over him thicker and thicker until he’d grown his own tomb?

“You – you were trying to find a way to take away your powers…because you…oh. Oh Tobi.” Hashirama’s voice was indescribably sad. Tobirama could not look at him. Still propped in his friend’s lap, Madara coughed until his throat was clear and added his voice to the conversation with a worrisome wheezing sound.

“What? Don’t just say ‘oh’. What the fuck is he talking about?”

Tears gathering in his eyes, Hashirama took a shuddering breath. “He came here for you, to ‘cure’ himself so that he could never hurt you. That’s it isn’t it? That’s why you left, why you came to this awful place. You – oh Tobi. Please. Please come home.”

“Don’t be stupid,” Tobirama said to the floor. “I can’t. I have no more control now than I did then. The ice builds and I can shake it off but I can’t stop it from forming! I’ve tried everything!”

“E-everything?” If there were anyone who know to be wary of where Tobirama’s imagination could take his experiments, it was Hashirama. And in this case he was more than justified in his worries – he was right.

“Serums, injections, DNA modification, gene splicing, radiation, herbal medications, and now…now even my experiments in to technology have failed me. I can’t stop this no matter what I try. Every horrible thing that I’ve done since I left, it was all for nothing.”

“I don’t understand,” Madara admitted quietly. He struggled to sit up and Hashirama hurried to help him. Tobirama dared to flicker his eyes over in their direction and was relieved to see a bit of healthy color returning to the other man’s cheeks. Absently, he lifted a hand to brush at his own, tracing the one of the three marks which Madara himself had burnt in to his skin during the confrontation when he left home.

Every day for the past five years he had looked in the mirror and told himself that they would be worth it someday. They were all that had kept him going through the darkest nights, the thought that he might be able to go home and make his confessions, beg for a chance to score Madara in to his heart the way he’d been scored beneath the skin.

“He loves you.” For having spoken so quietly, Hashirama’s voice sounded deafening in Tobirama’s ears. “You don’t remember when we were kids? Before we all developed our powers and Tobi used to fight with me so that he could sit next to you while we all watched TV?”

“That’s – no. No he – impossible. Tobirama, tell him he’s wrong!”

Unable to meet Madara’s eyes now that the truth had been bared, Tobirama kept his silence and stared at his frozen fingers.

“Tobi?” Hashirama ventured. “You keep looking at those gloves you’re wearing. Will you…tell me about them?”

“You always hated listening to me blather on about science.”

“I didn’t hate it. I just never understood it. Will you tell me about it please?”

“What’s the point? They don’t work.”

Even without looking up he knew that Hashirama would be giving him those patented puppy eyes of his. “Please?” came the plaintive whine and Tobirama knew he would answer. What else could he do? He owed them so much and had no other way to make it up to them.

Sighing, he shook out one hand until the ice cracked and shattered then ran his fingers through his hair, tugging viciously on the strands.

“They’re a special nano-interactive material that I designed. They were supposed to identify the super genome and neutralize it so that whenever I wear them they cancel out my powers and I can interact with the rest of the world without risking frostbite or worse. But they don’t. The technology to alter the genome in any way simply doesn’t exist yet and this was the last project of mine that they were going to fund. Without funding I don’t stand a chance of exploring that avenue.” Finally he found the strength to look up, if only to meet Hashirama’s eyes with an expression of utter emptiness. “I don’t have any other options. I’ll never be fixed.”

“You’re not broken,” Hashirama reminded him in a stern voice.

“Brother, don’t…”

“No, you listen to me. You were the loudest voice protesting when people started calling the supers freaks and the government started trying to outlaw us all. And then you got your own powers and I never understood how you could change your mind against yourself. But I do now. So let’s talk about it okay?”

Tobirama groaned and dropped his head back in to whatever he was leaning against, still pulling on his hair. “Talking won’t help.”

“You don’t know that. I know you, you always have a hundred contingency plans.”

“I’ve used them all,” he pointed out dryly.

He nearly jumped out of his skin when Madara spoke up gruffly, “So make another.”

Raising his free hand up above his tilted face, Tobirama looked hard at the way it was still gathering its thick shell of ice. The fingers were all completely fused together now. It was going to take a solid blow to crack it all back off.

“Yeah! Come on Tobi! You always used to say ‘start at the beginning’ so do that! What else did you try?”

“Ev-er-y-thing. What do you not understand about that?” His words came out a frustrated snarl but Hashirama was far from deterred.

“You tried turning off the, uh, the…genome! The genome as a whole. What about when you just tried to turn off what you can do? Like, the cold I mean, when you tried to just block the cold.”

Tobirama turned his head slowly, his eyes wide and the shriveled heart inside his chest skipping several painful beats. “I never tried to do that,” he whispered. Silence followed his admission, broken only by the now fading sounds of the dwindling battle in other parts of the compound. Both of the other men were staring back at him as though he’d gone mad all over again and he honestly couldn’t blame them.

It was so simple. How could he not have thought of something so simple?

“Just turn off the cold,” he mumbled, only half aware of the hot tears spilling down his cheeks. “I see. Not the entire gene but the isolated signals which tell my body to produce cold. It wouldn’t have to be gloves. It could be anything. A shirt, a pair of socks, a necklace.”

“You’re as dumb as you are smart,” Madara growled. Tiny little flames were licking up the sides of his arms again and Tobirama stared at them, mesmerized, while his brother leaned forward eagerly.

“But that’s good news! You figured it out! Why are you crying, Tobi?”

“I already told you, they cut my funding. I have a solution that I cannot achieve now. Everything I’ve worked for is right there at my fingertips and I am still unable to reach it.” His fingers were icing together again where they were still buried in his hair, freezing the strands to his skin so that every shift of his body came with a slight tug from the top of his head.

When the other two men fell silent he assumed they agreed, had seen the same depressing conclusion that he had come to. He was startled enough to clench his fingers stiffly and crack the ice when he heard one of them snort derisively, looking up to find Madara with his face pinched in irritation.

As a super Madara had chosen the name Soulfire for the flames he produced and the way they flared in times of strong emotion as they had been doing since he walked in to the room. They were there again now, rippling up the sides of his arms and in small patches on the tops of his feet in a visual display of his loss of control. Tobirama had seen those flames rise from the man’s skin every time they argued back before he left; somehow it was comforting to watch Madara’s temper boil over, like no time had passed and he hadn’t thrown away half a decade of his life for naught.

It was also a relief to see his flames returning after nearly having them permanently extinguished.

“You fucking idiot,” Madara snarled. “So you’ve got no money here, big fucking deal. You know who else can raise money for research? Us, the people you abandoned. You don’t think your brother would shift hell and earth to find whatever you ask for just to get you to come home?”

“I don’t think you understand how much money research and development of these projects costs–”

“Where the fuck do you think all of our equipment comes from? Our outfits? Do you know how long it took that Namikaze kid to figure out a way to fully fireproof my clothes?”

“Oh. I hadn’t–”

“You hadn’t thought of that, yeah. Clearly!”

Tobirama snapped back out of sheer habit, “Would you stop cutting me off!?”

“Ha! There! There he is!” Madara sneered at him in a smug, triumphant sort of way. “Meek and demure just doesn’t suit you, snowflake.”

“It’s Freezeout and you know that!”

“Well you look like a snowflake!”

“Fuck you!”

“I wish you could!”

Both Tobirama and Hashirama jerked in surprise but Madara did nothing more than huff irritably, not taking his words back. Thin tendrils of smoke drifted up out of his wild hair, nearly thick enough in its own right to act as a second cape, and some distant thought in the back of Tobirama’s mind marveled at the fact that they hadn’t set off the fire alert systems in here yet.

With his cheeks flushed red Madara stiffened his spine and thrust a finger in Tobirama’s direction.

“Don’t look at me like that. You know damn well how often I looked at you before you disappeared. Maybe if one of us hadn’t been a spineless coward and just said something then maybe this whole mess could have been prevented but that’s neither here nor there; no use blubbering over what-ifs. Just get your stupid frozen ass off the floor, have some pride for fuck’s sake – apologize to your brother maybe for breaking his goddamn heart – and get your ass home. You’ve got a problem. We have the means to help you try to fix it.”

“Wow Madara…” Hashirama gave a low whistle, clearly a little impressed with his friend’s speech.

“F-fine.” Swallowing thickly to clear his throat for a handful of shuddering breaths, Tobirama nodded once. “Fine. Yeah. I…that’s okay? I know what I did…that the others might not want me to…”

Lunging across the space between them, Hashirama tackled his younger brother in a tearful hug. “Of course it’s okay! We’ve all missed you so much and I know the others will listen when we tell them why you left. They will! I promise! And I’ll shave all their hair off if they don’t!” Tobirama grunted but allowed the affection, trying not to give in to the urge to sink down in his brother’s embrace and never come out to face the world again.

“That’s no threat, you’ll just grow it back out for them,” he murmured. Hashirama laughed and hauled him up on to his feet. Once he was standing he staggered under the weight of another hug, this one nearly lifting him off the ground.

“You’re really coming home?”

“I never wanted to leave, you know.”

Madara snorted. “Then you shouldn’t have.” Despite his pointed words he looked much less angry than a few moments ago; it seemed he had released it all with his impassioned speech. Tobirama freed himself of his brother’s clutches and then he stood facing the other man, the one he had left home just to find a way back to. Madara looked back at him with one eyebrow raised expectantly.

“I’m sorry,” Tobirama choked out.

“Hmph, you better be.”

Without saying anything else he stormed across the distance between them and took hold of the fur around Tobirama’s shoulders, hauling him in for a bone-crushing embrace that lasted barely a handful of seconds before they were forced to part again, Tobirama’s ice creeping between them and making Madara hiss with pain.

“Fuck, sorry, I – I can’t help it.”

“Yeah, I know. But you’ll fix that. You fix everything, right?”

“Not everything. I never got around to fixing your ego.” His words weren’t nearly as pointed as they should be, rough edges smoothed away by lingering hesitance, but Madara barked a laugh anyway.

“Good luck trying,” was all he said and Tobirama dared to smile ever so slightly.

Hashirama was beaming at them both so widely his face looked like it might split in half but they both ignored him, all three of them making their way towards the exit. Several of the ceiling tiles had fallen in all the excitement and lay blocking the door when they got there. It took only a single crook of Hashirama’s finger for the door to grow outwards and press the tiles away so that the trio could pass.

As they watched their enthusiastic companion bound off to throw himself back in to the fray, Tobirama paused just inside the laboratory when he felt something brush against his knuckles, his head darting around to see what it was. Madara wasn’t looking at him but he was shaking out his hand in a deliberately casual manner, steam rising from his gloves.

“You’ll find an answer,” Madara said quietly. “I believe that.”

“I won’t stop until I do,” Tobirama promised him.

Madara nodded then strode forward with the same confident step that had first caught his eye so long ago. Shifting his weight and clenching his fists, ice scattering to the floor like shards of glass, Tobirama followed after him with a smile still tugging at the corners of his mouth, hope winding through his ribs like a long forgotten friend come home to rest. His eyes fell once more to the fingers that had brushed his own, that he longed to hold, and his smile widened just that small bit more.

The future was his own to shape from here on out, as it always had been. This time he would make the right choices.

[creepycreepyspacewizard]

Oooh are you wanting prompts? How about “Don’t be silly. I want to stay up with you.” ❤️

[Thanks for the prompt, this got a little out of hand. NSFW, post TLJ, CW: past violence, injuries, choking. @keepinghimclose ]

There was a rumour amongst the officers that Kylo did not sleep. He meditated they said, as if the barely controlled pillar of rage that stood at the viewport right now had ever successfully meditated in his life. He had told Hux once, on one of the rare nights where he’d willingly indulged with the General in alcohol and deep conversation, that he had tried to sit, legs crossed, in silence for hours at a time when he’d still believed the name of Jedi was within his reach. All he’d gained from that was a temporarily numb ass and the ability to sleep sitting up. No, if Kylo ever meditated it was in the gym and the endless repetitions of his training forms. Sweat was his preferred outlet for stress, as Hux himself could now testify after the events of the last hour or so. Hux himself wasn’t all that sold on the idea. Not the sex- the sex had been fantastic even if fucking a Force adept meant he had to work hard to keep his thoughts in check; but the exertion, the (his mind crawled away from the thought) the stickiness- that he could do without.Previous partners had called Hux a pillow prince as if it were an insult, but the only insult Hux saw in it was the lack of ambition in the title. He smirked to himself in the dark. He’d always aspired to be a ‘pillow emperor’.

But that wasn’t the position he found himself in now. Kylo was Supreme Leader for no better reason than being able to kill Hux with his mind, and if the Supreme Leader wanted rough energetic sex across every surface of his quarters then Hux would provide it. Honestly Hux might have been willing to provide it once in a while whatever the circumstances- Kylo was unspeakably attractive under all those robes, but the whole ‘imminent death’ element was an unexpected aphrodisiac.Some horrible masochistic part of his mind reminded Hux that Snoke had been able to kill him at any second too, but he shut off that thought process before it began. For a brief moment Hux considered getting out of Kylo’s bed and raiding his cupboards for alcohol to drown the errant thought, but the mattress was unexpectedly soft and his limbs were already protesting the exercise of the last few hours. It wasn’t often Hux had to support his full body weight from an overhead beam.There were no rumours amongst the officer ranks about Hux’ lack of sleep. Everyone knew he didn’t sleep. It was a bad habit fuelled by tarine tea, caf, and an unseemly amount of stimulants. His work required focus and his work never ended, so he never slept. That was an exaggeration of course, he rarely went more than seventy two hours without getting a good five hours sleep. That’s what sedatives had been designed for after all. Kylo had been staring out of the viewports for a very long time now. Hux could see Kylo’s broad reflection in the transparisteel. He had to hope there were no TIE wings out on exercise at this time of the cycle. He wasn’t much of a pilot himself but he was pretty certain that seeing the Supreme Leader like that would make him crash into the nearest bit of hull.  Hell, he was very aware of the fact that he’d had that cock inside him less than half an hour ago and it’s size would still surprise him if he encountered it without advanced warning. At the viewport Kylo gave an odd little sigh and straightened his frame.Hmmm… could he hear his thoughts? Hux had always assumed so.“Stop.” The word broke the silence like a blaster shot, resonating oddly through the dark room like it hadn’t been little more than a whisper.“Supreme Leader?” The title still clung to his tongue every time he said it out loud. Kylo didn’t seem to notice.“Go to sleep, General, give us all a rest from your scheming mind.”Hux feigned looking around the room. He could see Kylo’s eyes reflected in the glass so he must be able to see him. “Us, Supreme Leader?” He asked, leaning over the edge of the mattress as if to peer under the bed. “We’re the only ones here, unless the possibly mythical Knights of Ren are hiding under your bed.”The noise Kylo made might have been a snarl if it had come from an animal, but it came from a man so it merely sounded strange and a little pathetic.Hux changed tack. Baiting him was far too easy at times. “You wish me to sleep here? Or should I return to my quarters where I can scheme in peace?”This time Kylo turned to glare at him. He was breathing heavily, those ridiculously ample pecs rising and falling like empires. Hux was so busy dreamily fantasising about fucking them that he didn’t hear any part of Kylo’s response.Suddenly Kylo was across the room in three short steps. His hand- warm and real and solid as steel- was around Hux’ throat without a word of warning, and Hux found himself half hauled up from the mattress. Under the cover of black satin sheets his exhausted cock made a valiant attempt at rising to the occasion.“I’m sorry, what was that?” He managed to choke out around his constricted airway. His hands had automatically come up to grip Kylo’s wrist. He pulled them closer, pressing more firmly on his own throat.Kylo dropped him like Hux had stung him. Hux let himself smile. He hadn’t used that trick in a decade, though the slow but persistent swell of his cock suggested that perhaps it wasn’t a ‘trick’ any more.“No more scheming,” Kylo said, leaning close as if he were berating a wayward pupil but also refusing to meet his eye out of some kind of embarrassment. “You live here now. You don’t leave my sight.”“Well, I never took you for that type,” Hux muttered distastefully. He looked deliberately towards the refresher.Kylo curled his lip. “Stop. You know that isn’t what I meant.”“Do I?” They stared at each other, Hux still reclining amongst the sheets while Kylo leant over him with trembling fists. Kylo should have been in control of the situation, but once again he didn’t seem to be in control of anything. Hux could feel the bruises deepening across his throat but he knew the room was dark enough that Kylo wouldn’t notice. He could also feel his own ego rising to meet the challenge just as it always did.Kylo raised a hand towards his face and Hux was briefly proud that he didn’t flinch. Instead the smile solidified into a sneer.“You’re not actually afraid of me,” Kylo said. He didn’t sound surprised, just curious.Hux raised an eyebrow at the statement just as Kylo’s hand fell to run down his side. He hissed as Kylo squeezed the bruises run along his ribs, but again he didn’t flinch away from the contact.“Fear is relative, Kylo, surely you know that.” He said with far more confidence than his situation warranted. “You’ve made your point- you can kill me in an instant, you can steal the thoughts from my mind, you can shatter my bones… but do you really think that makes you special?” Hux sat up, pushing against Kylo’s hand again. When he continued speaking he was almost surprised to hear that he was breathless. “Do you know how many of my officers carry poison? Did you think my blade was the only one on the bridge? Snoke was almost as powerful as you, wasn’t he? Do you really think any of this is new to me?”Instead of the outburst Hux was expecting Kylo regard him in silence for a beat, then he was crawling slowly onto the bed. Hux wanted to pull back, suddenly unnerved if not actually afraid, but the hand on his ribs had slipped around to cradle the back of his neck.“I think some things might be.”A treacherous blush raced over his face when that plush chest hoved into view again, but Hux kept his voice steady as he drawled a careless “Hardly.”Kylo laughed unkindly. He pulled away and turned back to the viewport, his eyes fixed on the same point as before. The lost of his heat was shocking despite the brevity of the contact and Hux suddenly hated himself for that even as he craved more. “Your feelings betray you.”Hux scoffed. He hadn’t had a feeling he was willing to acknowledge in thirty years and he had not intention of changing that now. “What are you doing?” He asked instead. He’d never sleep now with so much adrenaline in his system, so he rose and padded across the room, wrapping the sheet around him as he went. Kylo might be content to risk exposure to the universe, but Hux hoped he had at least this much dignity left.“There,” Kylo pointed. “Our position in the galaxy relative to Alderaan- the light of its destruction will reach us soon. I wanted to see it.”Hux nodded. Kylo had long admired his grandfather, of course he’d want to see one of the great events of Darth Vader’s life. The sheet swished softly against the floor as he came to a halt at Kylo’s side.

Kylo didn’t look at him, but he stepped slightly closer to Hux’ side.“Go to bed. Sleep. Get some rest.” “Don’t be silly.” Hux said dismissively. He’d always admired Tarkin more than Vader, and wasn’t this his achievement? He should witness it in his name. And if the bed was far too cold without Kylo in it, well no one else would need to know about that. “I want to stay up with you.”Kylo looked at him. For a moment Hux thought he would say something, but he turned back to the window without a word.

[gaypasta]

do you want fries with that?

chapter 10/? Read on Ao3 Chapter Directory

“Can you recycle candy wrappers?” Richie held up a small piece of pink bubblegum wrapper, no bigger than his finger.

“No, it’s usually coated with a thin layer of plastic.”

“Isn’t plastic recyclable?” “Yeah, but not that one - or at least when it’s been added onto paper. I think.”

Richie nodded and tossed the paper into one of the bin bags, the other, which was to be used for recycling - was sitting by Stan, who sifting through a ridiculously huge pile of bottles, throwing the empty vodka and beer bottles into the recycling bin. “Beverly really enjoyed the party, huh?” Richie smirked as he pulled on the elastic strap of a small white bra, shooting it at Stan like a rubber band.

Stan peeled the bra off his shoulder with disgust and folded it, leaning over the bin bag to set it neatly on his pillow, “Yeah, I think she left in a hurry, she left her jacket and purse here too,” Stan glanced over at her waterproof jacket, which was folded neatly on his bed. Not that it had been left like that, Stan had picked it off of his floor and folded it after making his bed. He treated other people’s items with respect.

“Reckon your parents coming home spooked her?”

“Probably, she didn’t expect them to come home to get ready for work and rushed out, or at least that what it looks like.” “Think she went out the window?”

“No, only you do that.”

Richie shrugged, “She would though.”

Stan thought about it for a moment before replying, yes - Beverly probably would. Both her and Richie are as reckless as each other.

Stan dumped an avalanche of beer and cider cans into the bin bag, which resulted in a wince from Richie, who wasn’t expecting the noise. They continued cleaning in peace, Stan methodologically moving from one area to another, picking up cans and bottles and food wrappers and putting them in one of the two bin bags. Next he would check the area for any stickiness, if any soda had spilt on his carpet he would have to steam it - which would prove difficult as the steamer is very loud and there’s no way he would be finished steaming the carpet when his parents got home - even if they were working late tonight. Next, he would pick up any small debris, such as confetti or chips - he wasn't just going to let the vacuum take the brute force - what was he, a monster who wanted a broken filter? Then he would dust, then if applicable, varnish. He wouldn’t go as far as to disinfect, there was no need - although he knew all too well that Eddie would disagree. There’s a reason Stan didn’t even attempt to ask Eddie for assistance.

He glanced over at Richie who - quite frankly - was all over the place. He picked up a crinkled paper bag and shoved it into the wrong bin bag. Then he would move more cans and debris out of the way to dust, then going back to somewhere else that had caught his attention. Richie seemed to find the concept of focusing on one thing at a time foreign, like a toddler just running around the room touching as many things as possible. Stan just shook it off, it was better than nothing.

Stan had let Richie clock out at the same time as him, despite Richie’s shift not being near finished, which caused a mild uproar from Eddie, who looked like he was in the second stage of decomposition. Richie just threw a weiner at him and told him to ‘stick it where the sun don’t shine, buddy,’. A HR nightmare, granted, but Eddie visibly paled and went back to his work, shaking his head at a burnt pan and scrubbing it furiously. Stan presumed he was probably imagining scrubbing Richie’s smug smile off of his face. He’s been there.

They cycled home together, Stan’s dirty apron (Richie insisted it hadn’t even been worn, despite Stan pointing out the ink marks around the pocket) folded neatly in his backpack, alongside his spare apron and the keys to the Diner. Richie kept his apron on for the ride home, the string at the back almost getting caught in the wheel several times. The heavy winter sun threatened to blind them as they cycled down the winding avenues and backstreets Stan had led them, but they had got there - noses bright red and a lot of shivering beneath their coats, but they had got there.

They hadn’t talked much on the way over, Richie did his usual trying to swerve into Stan, but besides that, there wasn’t all that much discussion happening. Richie noticed, but Richie always noticed when there was silence, he always felt an almost compulsive need to fill it.

“So…” Richie’s voice cracked slightly, “Gary’s Mom really did piss in your cornflakes, huh?”

Stan groaned and rubbed his eyes, “Ugh, Richie - I just wanna forget about it.”

Richie shrugged and moved a full bottle of some bright neon liquid out of his way as he scavenged for more empty cans, “I get it though, rude customers can be absolute badgers. Badgers R Us, badger central, breaker-breaker we have a code 4-24 badger breakout - please respond.”

Stan looked up at him in confusion, “Badgers?”

“Yeah like… dickheads, annoying cunts - you get it.” Stan threw a rolled up pair of socks at Richie’s face, it hit his face and fell to the ground unceremoniously.

“No using the C-word in the house, you ‘badger’.”

“Oh, sorry your majesty. Holy place of the Lord, is it?”

“He’s always watching, you know. You’re never safe.”

“Smite me.” Richie kicked the socks back over to Stan, who picked them up and delicately placed them back into his drawer. They were red socks, so they had to go between his black socks and his orange socks. He shifted a few pairs of black socks over to make room so that it would be aligned right, “You should’ve just kicked her out, save the arguing.”

“I couldn’t just kick her out, Richie.”

“I would’ve.”

“Which is why you haven’t got promoted.”

“Fuck off, the world isn’t ready for my unreal management skills. The world would be cowering at my feet, CEOs would be slitting their wrists in fear of losing their companies to me. I’ll be the world’s first ever trillionaire.”

“World’s first ever famous loudmouth.” “Shut up, that’s Gary’s Mom.”

“She’s not famous though.”

“She’s our most famous fussy customer.  Mike loves seeing her coming.”

“Our famed bit-terrible person more like.”

“Bitch? Were you going to say bitch?”

Stan flipped Richie the finger and went back to tying off the bin bag he’d filled. Richie huffed and let go of his bag, it hitting the floor with a heavy sound of glass. He found his way to Stan and dropped himself behind him, so they were sitting back-to-back. The warmth from Richie’s back bled into him a little, it was almost therapeutic. Stan could hear the faint noise of a fingernail on tin. It echoed around the room, seeming to bounce on the walls.

“You get too hyped up about what people say, you know.”

Stan’s back straightened, “And how do you suppose that?”

“You’ve been walking around like someone just gutted your cat all day. Just because some square was being a bitch. You’re gonna meet a buncha rude-ass fuckers in your life, Stan - no point being all mopey and woe-is-me when you do.”

“You’re the only rude-ass fucker I know.”

“Har-har-har,” Richie sarcastically retorted, “I’m being serious. Why you gotta let someone like that put you in a mood?”

Stan sighed and relaxed into Richie, hiking his knees up and resting his elbows on them, “It’s just - I don’t know - she was so unnecessarily hostile it was unnerving -” “I know like who the fuck cares if your kid gets diabetes! Let him have the candy!” Richie fisted the air.

“What I was going to say,” Richie lowered his arm, “she was so hostile about you. About the very thought of her son being near someone who’s gay. She spat it out as if she was talking about a criminal or a pedofile - like with that amount of putrid hatred, I just can’t understand it. I get that some people find it unnatural - hell it is unnatural - but so are radios, and planes and cars and no one has problems with those. No one actively hates them or thinks they’re the work of sin.”

“She probably thought she was talking about a paedophile, to be fair.” Stan heard the pop and fizz of Richie opening a can.

“Did you just open a beer?” Stan felt Richie nod his head, his messy hair tickling the back of Stan’s neck, “What do you mean?”

Richie swallowed the mouthful of beer and tapped on his can nonchalantly, as if this was a conversation he needed to put little thought into, “Gay people usually are pedos, that’s what they think, at least. Probably thought we were fattening up her kid because I simply just cannot resist some glorious love handles.”

“People don’t really think that though, it’s not the thirties anymore.” Stan held a little doubt in his voice.

Richie let out a laugh, not necessarily sour but not particularly sweet either, “I’ve been called it dozens of times. Oh, little sheltered one, you have a lot to learn about the cruel mistress we call society.” Stan glanced over at Richie, who was taking another drink of his beer. His movement must’ve caught Richie’s eyes as he lifted his attention from his drink to Stan. “Do you want one? It’s five o’clock somewhere my man. Unless yer en Eireland! It’s alwaes foive o’clack there so it is!”

“If I say yes will you promise to not do that God-awful accent again?” Richie laughed and reached across to a can of beer which had been abandoned by his dresser. Probably from Stan hurriedly clearing out the kitchen and dumping it on his bedroom floor before he was late for work. Richie worked his finger under the ring and popped it open, handing it to Stan.

The pair sat in silence for a moment, in the midst of a half-tidy, half-messy room with the wind dancing through the room every so-often and sending a shiver down the boys’ spines.

“There’s no need to get your knickers in a twist about it, Stan. Really.” Stan sighed and nodded, he knew he was being a little overly sensitive about the entire situation but the way the woman was so overtly disgusted by the thought of someone who was gay or that way inclined was making his stomach sink every time he thought about it. He was a religious man for the most part, sure. And he recognizes that in Leviticus it’s recognized as a sin, but only God and servants of God can judge. Stan has no authority to judge anyone for their sins and neither do the awful people of Derry. “I’m used to it by now. Hell, why do you think this handsome and charismatic devil wound up with you sad sack of losers?”

Stan took a small drink and shrugged, “Always assumed it was because you are the personification of tackiness. Do people at school really know about it?”

Richie shrugged, “At school? Those assholes barely know how to wipe the shit off their own asscheeks nevermind knowing anything about me. They hear rumours and they think a lot of things. Just so happened that this rumour wasn’t completely wrong - not that I’m telling them that.”

“I suppose they do always call us a bunch of queers…”

Richie laughed, “Yeah, I got my head flushed in the toilets outside Gym one day because I said one of the guys off the basketball team had good form.”

“You know what good form is?”

“Not a fucking notion, his ass just looked great.” Stan and Richie had a chuckle at that. Stan felt oddly at ease in his messy room, with Richie’s hair tickling his neck.

“Hey, Richie?” Richie made a grunt in response, grabbing for another beer, “Want to watch a movie?” Richie made another grunt, a happier grunt.

So Stan stuck on a movie while he and Richie finished up the cleaning, it only took about twenty minutes but by then they were both ready to relax. They were lying on the bed, the TV tilted on the dresser so they could see it from their viewpoint on Stan’s single bed. Richie wanted to lie on the floor, but Stan pointed out to him, why would he have a bed if not to lie on? The floor was spotless, all of Stan’s possessions were in their rightful spots and the house had been vacuumed. Richie had taken care in ensuring that the bin bags were in the wheelie bins and that there was definitely no stray cans laying around the house.

There was only one problem, which Richie had been so keen on pointing out, there was still a fair bit of alcohol left. About a dozen cans of beer, a couple stray ciders and a half bottle of what appeared to be an expensive brand of tequila. Richie stares at the collection, longingly throughout a good portion of the movie. Stan rolled his eyes, “You’re not having another. You’ve already had two.”

Richie fell into the bed in a huff, “You’re not my real Dad!”

Stan gave in and reached down for a beer for Richie and a cider for himself - he recognized that this wasn’t something that he would normally do, in fact, Stan wasn’t really one for partaking in drinking at all, but he figured that after a day like that he deserved it. Not to mention that the quicker that this alcohol is gone - the better. Stan knew that Richie wouldn’t take it home as his Mom would probably indulge herself. Stan kind of assumed it was best not to ask - if Richie could’ve taken it home, he would’ve.

Stan watches Richie for a moment, gulping down his drink as if it was the last one he would ever have, dribbles of beer running down his chin and dripping onto his creased t-shirt. His hair was in disarray and his glasses were crooked - as usual. Stan looked at Richie, his messy clothes, his mismatched socks and was expecting himself to have a need to fix it. He was waiting for his mind to try and force him to brush out Richie’s hair and fix his glasses and basically just change his entire outfit, but no. Not today, at least. Today Richie’s wonky glasses were merely as they were - wonky. His mismatched socks were nothing more and nothing less as a bold fashion statement. And the beer running down his chin? Just plain gross.

Stan looked around his room, his door wasn’t just closed right and he could spot a dirty smudge of god-knows-what on his doorknob. The string on his curtain was wrapped around itself and swung left and right with the breeze from his open window. He looked down at Richie’s shoes which were placed delicately beside his bed, the laces were tied wrong and they were facing the bed, not the door. All these things Stan had noticed, but he had to look for them. He found himself seeking out a reason to be irritated, but there was none - because even though all these ticks would have normally sent his mind crazy. He just took them as is. He knew they were there and the existed in the same way the moon does - you can look at it, and see that it exists, but it does nothing more and nothing less than that. Without the moon, we would be simply that, without the moon. The dirt on the doorknob or Richie’s shoes are nothing more than that, just what they are - existing the way that they were meant to.

Stan felt relaxed, for the first time in a while. Maybe it was the alcohol, maybe it was toying with his head. Or maybe it was Richie, who was so content in being unperfect that Stan could stare in awe at him for a week. Stan realised it was beginning to get dark, which meant that it was coming time for Richie to return home before it was impossible to see clearly. The thought of being in his home - which had been previously full of his friends laughing and dancing and having fun - alone made him feel almost scared. He had been left home alone when his parents were working late many times before, but since he had a taste of companionship on those nights, it felt almost too bitter to let them go.

“Richie, do you want to stay over tonight?” The words were out of his mouth before he had really even thought about them. He didn’t really need to though, Richie was always a welcome addition to the Uris household.

“Sure, let’s get hammered.” Well, that wasn't exactly what Stan had in mind, but if needs must.

“Sure, I’m not taking any tequila though.”

“Cool, double tequila shots for Stan, got it.” Richie nodded as he jumped off the bed and waltzed to the kitchen, as if Stan’s home was as familiar as his own. Stan thinks back to the times that his parents had invited Richie over for dinner after the boys were out playing all day. He always wondered why they only ever invited Richie over for dinner - maybe his parents had been more observant of his friend’s homelife than he ever had. The small inkling of guilt was soon washed away when Richie came back into the room with two shot glasses in hand.

He poured them both a shot of tequila and he had hit is back before Stan had even had the chance to smell his own, he really wasn’t a fan of tequila at all - or any spirits at that, but Richie had already downed his - and Stan wasn’t going to break the tit-for-tat rule. So he knocked the shot back and swallowed it as quickly as possible, trying to get the liquid out of his mouth as quickly as possible. He coughed as his throat burned. “That was disgusting. How do people actually like this stuff?”

Richie laughed at Stan’s reaction and mocked him before grabbing himself another beer, “I don’t think anyone actually enjoys drinking it. It’s like coffee - all the adults have basically peer-pressured themselves into thinking it’s good because it’s a thing adults drink.”

Stan scrunched his face up, “Coffee   is pretty gross.”

Richie nodded, taking a swig of his beer and putting his attention back to the movie. Stan wasn’t even sure what part of the movie they were at, his attention had been all over the place for the past while. All he knew was, after a good ten minutes or so, he began to feel the familiar lightheadedness that he had felt last night. He only had two drinks though, surely he can’t be feeling the effects of alcohol already?

“You up for another shot, my guy? I know you pretend to hate this alcohol stuff but I know you secretly live for it.” Richie hadn’t even gave Stan time to respond before he was pouring another shot and Stan didn’t even have time to conceptualize what was happening before he swallowed the shot. He just took whatever Richie gave him to drink without question. He swiped a bit of the clear liquid off his lip and hissed as it burnt a papercut he never even knew he had.

“Richie - I think I’m drunk?”

Richie stared at Stan as if he had grown an extra head before his face twisted into somewhere between shock and horror, “Please, tell me you had breakfast this morning because I know for a fact you were too busy for your lunch break today.”

Stan thought for a moment before shaking his head, “No I woke up late.” The world seemed to continue to move slightly after shaking his head.

Richie dragged his hand down his face, before handing Stan back his half-empty can of cider, “That’s your last drink of the night, you lightweight. I’m going to order pizza to help sober you up while I have a smoke before you puke all over the beautiful carpet I spent thirty-five years cleaning. Capice?”

“G-got it.” Stan took the drink and relaxed into the pillow, trying to focus on the blurry moving people on the TV as Richie, clearly a little tipsy himself, clambered over him to get to the house phone in the kitchen. Stan could hear soft thud followed by Richie cursing and calling the coffee table a lot of names. Stan cradled his lukewarm cider as he heard Richie give the pizza order down the phone, listing off Stan’s address with as much ease as Stan.

It wasn’t moments later when Richie bounced back onto Stan’s bed, a smoky air following him. “You were quick,” Stan noted, words slurring slightly.

“I realised I still had enough tequila left for a couple more shots and what sort of fool am I to pass that up, Stan?”

“I guess a pretty big - uhhhhhh- fool.”

“Good attempt there, bravo.” Richie remarked as he lifted the tequila and took a shot directly from the bottle, Stan watched in a mix of horror and amusement - surely Richie was going to puke. Richie hissed as he took the final shot, and Stan swore he saw him gag a bit before he grabbed the cider out of Stan’s loose grip and took a swig of that, swirling it around in his mouth. Richie groaned as Stan told him to put the bottle in the recycling bin - which had already been taken outside. He did as he was instructed, and came back with a red face and less stability in his step. What was it about going out in the cold that made your alcohol hit you like a train?

They lay there for several minutes, Richie draped over Stan’s legs and Stan sinking into the pillows, watching the movie. Stan could see Richie swaying every so often, trying to keep his head balanced on his hand - or maybe it was Stan that was swaying. Either way, someone in this room is most definitely not sober.

The sky was pitch black and there was no sound bar the soft revving of cars driving past and the so familiar static sound of Stan’s hand-me-down television. The movie was coming to a close soon, if Stan remembers right. He wonders briefly what they were going to watch next before giving up on the train of thought - Richie would surely pick something half decent. Stan felt Richie squirming over his legs for a moment before laying still. Stan assumed that Richie was just trying to get comfy on top of Stan’s bony knees. That was until Richie had repeated the action about five more times and Stan finally barked out, “What are you squirming so much for?!”

To Stan’s surprise, Richie shot up like a rocket and looked him dead in the eyes. Stan straightened up in the pillows, wondering what was up with Richie, but he fell back into the pillows when Richie grabbed his face and drove their lips together for the second time that weekend. Stan’s heart starting speeding in his chest as Richie slowly worked their lips together - and after Richie was sure Stan wasn’t going to pull away, he climbed on top of his best friend and held his face, his pinky finger occasionally making contact with his eyebrow.

Stan, although in a state of shock, couldn’t help the fact that he was working his lips alongside Richie’s and instinctively pushing his body up to get closer to him. He felt the softness of Richie’s tongue pass into his mouth and he couldn’t help but give in to Richie’s mouth. The feeling of Richie’s mouth on his, and the closeness of their bodies made Stan’s arms break out in goosebumps. The dizzyingly violent taste of tequila bounced between their tongues and the taste of cheap cigarettes only ceased as a reminder to who Stan was kissing. If the feeling of Richie’s hair tickling his face, or Richie’s fucking knee an inch away from his crotch wasn’t enough - the taste of Richie was dancing along his tongue and into his stomach - not like a fire or a flame - more akin to the soft amber glow of a cigarette.

As Richie moved into Stan - pushing him further into the mattress - Stan could almost push dirty thoughts from his head. Almost. He found himself grabbing onto Richie’s creased shirt for dear life - as if the shirt itself was stealing the oxygen from his lungs. He traced his hands up to Richie’s collarbone and with a touch as delicate as a feather - danced his pointer finger along it. It felt oddly intimate - the knots that were winding in Stan’s stomach only tightened - he was afraid he might choke.

Stan was ripped almost violently from his internal fixation on his best friend, when he felt a soft, tentative nip at his lip. It wasn’t sharp or particularly painful - but it was something. It was a gateway into something a lot darker, a lot drunker and a lot of things that he and Richie were not. Best friends don’t bite each other like that. They don’t leave bruises or anything like that.

Stan jerked from Richie’s mouth and held the spot Richie had toyed with under his finger, looking down at the space - or lack thereof - between him and Richie.

“H-hey, Richie?” Stan’s voice cracked a little unexpectedly and he cringed inwardly at how nervous he sounded.

“What?”

“This isn’t going to make things weird, right?” Richie sat up a bit so he could focus a little better on Stan’s face. Stan could feel his face prickling with heat - he could only imagine that his face was glowing red, which didn’t really help his impression of trying to look cool and collected, “Like - we’re best friends. This isn’t weird at all?”

Richie tilted his head to the side, “Making out with your bro? Nah, totally cool. Best way to spend an afternoon if I’m honest.” Richie caught a glimpse of the utterly unamused Stan and rolled his eyes dramatically, “Listen - simple science. If you make out with me - just for kicks, funsies - whatever - then when you go to make out with someone you actually care about, a girl or girlfriend situation, then you’ll not completely suck. Do you hear the gospel I’m preaching?”

Stan wasn’t completely convinced, “We’re drunk.” Stan murmured, meeting a face of confusion on Richie’s face, “People do weird stuff all the time drunk. It doesn’t mean anything, people shove fireworks up their ass when they’re drunk - it doesn’t make a face on their character though.” Richie stared blankly at Stan for a moment, almost as if he was looking to say something - he didn’t though. He just fixed his glasses and moved back onto his heels, as if to move off of Stan. Stan held him in place though, fingers catching the loop of his baggy jeans.

“I - uh - I mean,” Stan coughed, having a little difficulty finding his words, “We don’t have to stop.”

And like that, Richie moved swiftly back into Stan’s mouth - as if any longer away from it would have physically hurt him. They moved together with a little more confidence, their mouths clashing with a little more force, and small breathy noises escaping into the room from their open mouthed-kisses in harmony with the static of the VHS tape needing to be rewinded. Stan slipped his tongue inside Richie’s mouth and felt Richie’s lips move slightly into the form of a smile, before grabbing Stan’s face with a certain authoritative glee that Stan didn’t dare object to.

He could feel what he could only deduce to be Richie’s boner pressing against his own groin - not intentionally, or so he thinks. Richie isn’t grinding on him or humping him or anything, he’s just moving through Stan’s mouth and brain like a cunning snake, slipping through him and toying with his head. Stan could feel the whispers of his first and only wet dream licking at his consciousness.

He could almost feel Richie sucking marks into his skin and toying with him, playing with him in such lewd ways that he blushes to think that his mind even conjured up the image. He felt an urge for it, to feel Richie against him. It was natural - of course - he was in the midst of puberty with someone lying on top of him - what else would his hormones do?

In his mind, Stan knew he wanted more than that - he wanted to feel intimate with his best friend in a way that would only make sense to him and Richie. No one else on earth had a friendship as inconsistent and riveting as them, and Stan wanted everyone to know. He and Richie weren’t like everyone else - they balanced each other in such a perfect way that Stan knew that it had been nothing short of fate - a cruel fate, albeit when Richie was in a mischievous way, but they seemed to dance around each other perfectly in harmony without any need for choreography.

Stan groaned into Richie’s mouth as he moved his body closer to Stan, the two were almost moulding together at this point - and both of them were nothing more than hormonal messes, needing the touch of each other liked frenzied starved dogs. They were grinding into each other - hoping that the other wouldn't notice, doing anything to relieve the ball of tension in their stomachs. Stan gripped at Richie’s hair and prayed to God to turn a blind eye on his current sinning.

Stan couldn’t take it anymore - he needed more than kissing, his body was on fire in a way that he had never experienced before. Without something more, Stan felt as though he was going to faint. “R-Richie, I need-”

And as Stan’s luck would have it, the doorbell rang throughout the empty home - cutting through the two boys’ moans and exertion. Richie blinked at the closed door, almost as though he had forgotten where he was. He fixed his glasses and attempted to tame his hair, as if Stan’s desperate grappling hadn’t made it frizzy beyond redemption.

“Pizza, it’s the pizza.” Richie laughed, “Cockblocked by pizza - not sure how I feel about that one, to be honest. It’s difficult to be disappointed by pizza.”

Stan nodded, not really relating. He kind of wanted to ring the pizza boy’s neck. Hormones sure are a wild ride, huh.

[theseshipsshallsail]

They say that ghosts are imprints of the soul, either afraid of death, or unable to let go of the place they haunt. As a musician, Elio was wont to embrace latent superstition, however the longer he found himself trapped in this feeble imitation of life, the more he couldn’t help but wonder if what he actually needed was an exorcism.

Oliver’s presence was a powerful thing during his time in B, but to Elio, his absence was almost tangible. Suffocated by the longing that dogged his every step, he’d tried desperately not to think of his erstwhile lover since his family’s return to the villa, but each creak of a wobbly floorboard brought to mind furtive movements on an antiquated bed frame, and the rustle of a breeze through the peach trees was the rasp of encouraging whispers in the middle of the night.

His ghost spots were everywhere - the books piled high on his father’s desk, the soft-boiled eggs at the breakfast table, the pieces of writing paper held down by half-chewed pencils. Each crystal clear flashback was a cruel reminder of what he’d lost, and Elio’s irritation grew stronger as he berated himself for his own introspection. 

Eight months may as well be eight years when it felt like you were standing still, and Elio still cursed the bubble of hope in his chest whenever the telephone rang late in the evening, or a letter arrived with a United States postmark. His stomach would ache like the first time Oliver held him, touched him, made love to him, but the fear he’d been lied to all along never got any easier to bear. 

Like Icarus, he’d flown too close to the sun, and like a fool, he’d believed his father’s words when he crashed back down to earth, only to have his illusions shattered with a single phone call. He was convinced they were two parts of a whole, and yet Oliver had moved on with his life without so much as a later, and it was Elio who remained cleaved apart. He was coated in amber, his memories preserved forever where he straddled two worlds at once. An existence in which he both loved and loathed Oliver in turn.

Without a doubt, the weeks following Oliver’s engagement were the worst of his life. Too ashamed to show his true feelings, he’d cried his weight in tears every night, soaking his pillow as he choked down sobs. Elio had stayed faithful to a dream, and in those moments he couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, his heart poisoned by regret as he finally accepted he was just another notch on his other half’s bedpost.

“Sami, darling. What time did he say the train would arrive?”

His mother had been smoking by the window for the past twenty minutes, and Elio pinched the bridge of his nose as he leaned his head against the doorframe. He’d barely slept since he’d learned of Oliver’s visit five days prior, and the dark smudges beneath his eyes made him resemble little more than a spectre himself.

“Do not fret, mia amata,” his father replied, pressing a kiss to her cheek. “Il cauboi will be here soon.”

“Too soon,” Elio muttered sullenly, evading his father’s gaze as he selected a well-thumbed Paul Celan anthology from the bookcase.

As far as he was concerned, Oliver wasn’t welcome back at all. Everything was still too raw, too exposed, and Elio had no idea what was expected of him. 

He could have made his excuses - accepted Gianni’s invitation to stay in Milan, hiked the trails of Monte San Primo - but out of morbid curiosity he’d opted to confront his demons. Literally. He would never have Oliver again - though evidently he’d never truly had him to begin with - but the what-ifs and maybes rippled through his mind like a pebble cast into the lake, a constant buffer to his self-recrimination.

Throwing himself onto the couch, Elio lit the last of his cigarettes as he lost himself in the familiar prose, and was halfway through Abend der Worte when he heard the low rumble of a car engine outside, shortly followed by the crunch of tyres on gravel.

His parents rushed off in a flurry of excitement, so Elio sighed, slid his book onto the side table, then dragged his feet in their wake. Oliver was already getting out of the taxi as he stepped onto the veranda - shirt-collar wide, sunglasses obscuring his eyes - and the sense of déjà vu was staggering. On the surface, he appeared just as he remembered him, but Elio noticed his skin had lost it’s golden glow, and his hair was no longer the sun-bleached blond he saw in his dreams. 

“Oliver!” his mother cried, seizing him in a hug and kissing his cheeks. “Bienvenue, mon Américain! You have been missed.”

His mother. The woman who’d driven him home from the train station, who’d stroked her fingers through his curls as he’d turned his tear-stained face to the window. The woman who’d knocked on his bedroom door twenty-four hours later and begged him to eat - who’d held him as he wept into the folds of her skirt, unable to articulate his hurt. 

Sa mère, le traître.

Mafalda was up next, scolding him good-naturedly for wasting away over the winter. A slight exaggeration, but his waist was indeed slimmer, and a dull pain gathered in Elio’s gut as his father shot him a look of empathy before greeting Oliver like family. 

Almost like a son-in-law echoed down a distant phone line, and Elio felt the same pang as they bowed their heads together, their words too low to carry. 

Feigning nonchalance, he drew on his cigarette as Anchise retrieved Oliver’s luggage from the trunk, then exhaled slowly, heart thundering beneath his ribs when Oliver glanced up, hooking his sunglasses over his collar as he closed the distance between them. The car drove off in a cloud of dust, and clenching his jaw, Elio tossed the butt to the ground, grinding it beneath his sneaker. It was too much, too quickly, and not sure what else to do he thrust a hand out, knowing instinctively that a hug was out of the question. 

Oliver hesitated, frowning slightly when he finally shook it. “Elio.”

“Oliver,” he forced out.

“It’s good to see you,” he said, brushing a thumb over his knuckles, and Elio stepped back to safety as his father slung an arm around Oliver’s shoulder, ushering them both inside the house.

Seeing him there, alive and well, in the space he’d so recently haunted, was its own exquisite torture, and Elio searched Oliver’s face for a sign he was more than some sentimental afterthought as his father retrieved the leather duffel bag from the hallway, then proceeded to lead him towards the staircase. There had been no suggestion of offering up his bedroom - his parents stopping short of kicking that particular hornet's nest - and Elio wondered if Oliver would mourn the difference as he settled into the smaller room his grandfather used instead. 

Or if he even cared at all.

 Elio did his best to avoid Oliver from that point onwards, and despite the grey clouds building overhead, cycled into town at the first opportunity. The afternoon riposo was just coming to an end, and he spent a pleasant couple of hours browsing the bookstore before heading home, steadfastly ignoring the tug at his heartstrings as he passed the disused lane to the berm. 

His private sanctuary had been his alone until Oliver crashed into his life, and Elio hadn’t been able to return since, the peace he’d once found now tainted by a kiss and all that came after.

Oliver and his father were still talking by the pool when he returned to the villa, so Elio leaned his bike against the wall then headed upstairs, the door to the adjoining bathroom locked securely as he sat on the edge of the bed, holding his head in his hands. 

Eventually, the clock struck eight, and even the dinner bell felt foreboding as the meal itself became an exercise in faked indifference. A tension headache had built behind his eyes, and Elio wavered between silence and short, succinct answers as he dodged Oliver’s gaze, spoke only when spoken to, and listened with half an ear as his parents overcompensated by discussing everything about his book, his life, and his career at the university. It helped create a necessary distance, and piece by piece Elio shored his defences until he could nod in all the right places, hum when appropriate, and force down a meal that tasted like sawdust on his tongue. 

“Parmenides. How wonderful!” his father declared, and Elio’s fork scraped against his plate as something nudged his ankle beneath the table.

He sat up, and Oliver’s smile was too broad, too fake - too muvi star - as he outlined his plans for his second manuscript, and refusing to take part in whatever game he was playing, Elio hooked his foot behind his chair leg in retaliation. 

“Piccino? Tu ne manges pas.”

“Je vais bien, maman,” Elio said, reaching for his apricot juice as she continued to watch him carefully. 

His mother was no fool, so Elio picked at his food for the next few minutes, rolling his eyes when the conversation turned to university politics, and the merits of a more liberal work environment. It was interminable, and the moment Mafalda began clearing the table Elio took his leave. He considered sitting down at the piano, but didn’t think he could stomach the sight of his parents playing happy families for another second, feeling betrayed on all counts for the sheer audacity.

It was infuriating, and feeling trapped within his own home, Elio grabbed his Walkman from the hallway table as he headed out the front door, needing to burn off his restlessness away from prying eyes. He had no conscious destination at first, but Elio soon found himself wishing he’d brought a jumper for his self-imposed exile when the ocean breeze cut through the thin cotton of his Oxford. The well-worn path was calling to him, and Elio stared straight ahead as he marched past the rocks Oliver used to frequent, withdrawing the fresh pack of cigarettes he’d picked up at the tabaccheria.

It felt like he was vibrating apart at the seams, and draping his headphones around his neck, Elio kicked off his shoes then dropped to the sand. The ebb and flow of the waves was a welcome distraction to his thoughts, and fishing out a lighter from his pocket, Elio yearned for something a bit stronger as a light mist rolled over the shore, the miserable atmosphere reflecting his mood perfectly. 

Alone. Confused. Cut adrift. 

Sitting Shiva for a life that was never real to begin with.

The sky turned orange then red, before finally converging on an inky black, and Elio took a deep pull to calm his nerves when footsteps approached from behind, knowing it could only be one person. Bringing his knees up, he hugged them to his chest, and when a warm weight enveloped his shoulders he did his best not to react, recognising the familiar softness as the afghan that usually belonged in his father’s study.

“I wouldn’t want to be in your shoes if you catch a cold. Annella’s already worried you barely touched your dinner,” Oliver said, and an anxious rush skittered under Elio’s skin.

“Grazie,” he replied. Polite. Indifferent. “I thought you’d be asleep.”

“So did I. Fifteen hour flights are brutal.” 

Elio hummed, feeling Oliver’s eyes upon him as he flicked the ash from his cigarette. Small talk was never his forte, but the more they perpetuated the lie of normality, the more he began to question if the previous summer was only ever a figment of his hyperactive imagination.

“Elio -” 

“How long are you staying?” he asked, cutting him off, and Oliver hovered uncertainly before sitting down beside him.

“Two weeks.” His words were stilted. “My plane leaves the Wednesday after Easter.”

“Long time.”

“Not long enough,” Oliver said, almost wistful. “I swear this place is a world of its own.” Selecting a flat-edged pebble, he skimmed it towards the sea. “I wish I’d had more time here,” he continued, and Elio balled his fist at his side.

“You could have,” he muttered. “You just didn’t want it.”

Oliver hung his head. “You’re not going to make this easy for me, are you?”

“Like you made it easy for me?”

“Elio -”

“Why are you doing this, Oliver?”

“Doing what?”

“Piantala! You know what.” Elio stabbed his cigarette into the sand. “Why are you here? Why now?”

Oliver sighed in resignation. “It’s complicated.”

“Then uncomplicate it,” Elio said, surprised by his own boldness as Oliver turned away, resting his chin atop his bicep. 

“Have you ever felt like you were playing a role?” he asked after several minutes. “Like your life is all a stage? You know the lines, and you’re nailing the performance, but that’s all it is? An act?”

Elio’s withering glare went unnoticed. “All the world’s a stage, or so they say.” 

“Perhaps I’m sick of being a player.”

“What do you want from me, then?” Elio’s mouth went dry as he stretched his legs out before him. “Permission? Forgiveness?”

“Don’t be so dramatic. I know better than to ask for that,” Oliver said, and Elio scoffed, a hollow, twisted thing.

“Come ti pare! In that case, spare me the benefit of your speech. It’s insulting to us both.” By some small miracle his tone remained aloof, yet Oliver reeled around as if he’d slapped him. “I know better,” Elio repeated, a near-perfect imitation. “Of course you do. You’re a thinker. You plan ahead. You didn’t just wake up one morning and accidentally propose to someone, so the least you can do is be honest with me, even if you can't be honest with yourself.”

Oliver’s throat clicked. “You’re right,” he agreed. “But I need you to understand something first. My parents... they’re not like yours, Elio. They have certain expectations. Always have. It was my father who supported the marriage. Pushed for it, even.”

“Well.” Elio dug his nails into his palms. “You’ve always wanted to be good.” 

“No. I’ve always wanted to be accepted.” There was a weight to the silence between them that hadn’t been there before. “All things considered, I thought it was for the best.”

“Bullshit!” The truth was a bitter pill to swallow. “You thought it would be easier,” Elio said, adjusting the blanket around him. “You told me it would be alright, Oliver. And then you told me you were getting married.”

“Elio -”

“You asked me if I minded! As if I had any say on how you live your life.” Elio closed his eyes, quickly losing his patience. “As if I was ever anything more than a way to pass the time until you went back to your real one.”

“Don’t say that.”

“Why not?”

“Because it isn’t true,” Oliver said, shaking his head. “And I wasn’t cheating on her with you. I meant it when I said we’d been off and on for years.” 

Elio’s fingers itched for another cigarette. “Tell me,” he asked instead. “How long was it before you were back on again? A month? A week? You couldn’t have mentioned it in your letters? Picked up the phone? Oh, by the way, Elio, I have a girlfriend now. Maybe we can book you for our wedding!” Heat flooded his cheeks. “Or did you enjoy keeping me hanging on like an idiot?” 

“Of course not!” The pain in Oliver’s voice was a hollow victory. “I never wanted to hurt you,” he said, but Elio knew better than to believe him. “When I got back to New York, it felt like I was sleepwalking. I kept telling myself that things would go back to normal, but it didn’t work. Nothing changed.” Oliver inched closer. “I was a mess,” he told him. “I had no idea how to fix it, and Micol was there when I needed a friend. She showed up one weekend and dragged me out of the bottom of a bottle - threatened to call my mother if I didn’t start eating properly. She’d just gotten out of a relationship, and neither of us were looking for anything, but it... it just happened.” His breaths were ragged. “I’m sorry.”

“Salvarla.” Elio had always suspected he was easily replaceable, but the knowledge that Oliver had built a life with this woman through nothing short of mundanity was especially galling. “Man is born free, but he is everywhere in chains.” Elio tipped his chin up. “Though one might argue you forged these particular restraints yourself.”

Oliver winced. “God, how you must hate me,” he said, scrubbing a hand over his face, and Elio could only wish it was that simple.

“Whatever makes you feel better,” he muttered, stung by the familiar ache of rejection. “Mazel tov. I hope you’ll both be very happy together.”

Oliver seemed to deflate, and Elio stayed silent as he watched the waves break on the shore. “Is this how it’s going to be, then?”

“I didn’t ask you to come here.” 

“I know.” Oliver sighed. “I don’t want things to be awkward between us,” he said, absent-mindedly toying with a loose thread on his sweatshirt. “I should have run it by you when Pro invited me, but I needed to see for myself that you were okay.” 

Elio’s lungs felt congested. “Well,” he said, seeking strength in the stars above. “Here I am. You’ve seen me. I’m fine.” Even in his head it sounded unconvincing, and Elio flashed a caustic smile. “Better now?” he asked, moments away from asking if he was offended, too, when Oliver’s frustration finally boiled over. 

“What is this?” he challenged, the angriest Elio had ever seen him. “Are you punishing me?” 

Yes. Yes, he was. But as much as Elio wanted to scream it to the heavens, he couldn’t deny that he was punishing himself, too. Serving penance for the tears he’d spilt when Oliver’s scent was first washed from his pillows. For the times his heart skipped a beat when he heard a familiar song. For the nights he woke up dazed and disorientated, clutching his sheets in a white-knuckled grip as his dreams left him hard and wanting. 

For the voice that whispered, can I kiss you? 

And the one that invariably answered, you’ll kill me if you stop.

“Punishment would imply a hope for redemption,” Elio pointed out. “You don’t want me. I’ve already accepted that. So why make this harder than it needs to be?” 

Oliver’s eyes turned pleading. “Don’t,” he said, stricken. “That’s not fair and you know it.” 

“Fair?” Elio barked a laugh. “Did you even tell her about us?” he asked, and Oliver dropped his forehead to his knees, as if he no longer had the strength to hold it up

“Not exactly.”

“I see. Un petit secret vulgaire for the liberal arts professor.” 

Another line crossed. Another splinter in his heart. 

“Elio, please...”

“I think we’re done here,” he said, reaching for his sneakers. “You told me you remember everything, so why string this out when you’re clearly intending to forget?” The confirmation of Oliver’s shame was more than he could handle, and securing the blanket around him, Elio rose to his feet in a last ditch act of bravado. “Goodnight, Oliver.”

It felt more like goodbye.

“Elio, wait!” He barely made it five yards before hurried footsteps chased after him. “How can you say that? How can you even - hey! Will you at least look at me!” Oliver said, grabbing his arm to spin him around. “You know me!” 

“I know nothing!” Elio spat, moving to shrug him off. “Assolutamente niente! You gave me your name, Oliver. That mattered. We mattered! And then you went and took it all away again because I was only ever convenient!” 

Oliver froze, his hand falling limp to his side. “That’s not true,” he whispered. “God, Elio... surely you must realise you’re anything but convenient? I just didn’t want you to think -”

“What? That you cared? That I actually meant something to you?”

“Of course you meant something!”

“Then why won’t you act like it!” Elio yelled, and the devastated look on Oliver’s face was enough to make him beat a hasty retreat.

“Elio!” 

Defiant, he kept his head down, annoyed at himself for feeling guilty.

Furious with himself for feeling anything at all. 

“Oliver!”

Elio paused mid-step. “No,” he said, voice flat as he straightened his spine. “You don’t get to do that.” Enclosing his Star of David in his fist, he gathered the courage to turn and face him. “You don’t get to show up after eight months with a list of excuses and Oliver me. You’re the reason we’re in this situation! You did this to us. Not me!”

“Don’t you think I know that?” Oliver’s eyes were wild. “All I’ve ever wanted was for you to be happy.”

“Do I look happy?”

“Elio -”

“This is the opposite of happy, Oliver!” 

“And why is that?” he demanded. “Because you refuse to hear the truth?”

“No,” Elio seethed, reclaiming the distance between them. “Because you’re breaking my fucking heart!”

Time stopped as they stared at each other, chests heaving, and Elio watched, dumbstruck, as Oliver fractured from within. His mouth pressed into the tight line he remembered from when he’d first caught him staring in the garden - back when he had yet to decipher his various codes - and the anguish that crossed his features served as a brutal precursor to the tremors that worked their way slowly through his limbs.

“We called it off,” he murmured, the barely-formed words almost lost to the wind. “The wedding... we... I’m not...”

Elio felt the colour drain from his cheeks. “You called it off.” 

It came out pained, the hurt too obvious, and Oliver’s shoulder’s hitched as he lowered himself to the ground.

“Is this a joke?” Elio asked through the buzzing in his ears. 

But no answer was forthcoming, and like a moth to a flame he stepped forward, fingers outstretched to the sun-kissed skin at Oliver’s collar. Despite everything, a part of him still wanted to reach out and touch - everything forgiven, everything forgotten - but it wasn’t, and he couldn’t, so Elio pulled back as if burned, fleeing before he could do something he’d later regret.

He’d always hoped to find a vindictive pleasure in being the one to walk away, but all he felt was flayed alive as he retraced the cliff path to the villa, and despite his father’s advice to the contrary, Elio was now certain that bankruptcy was the better option.

[booksncoffee]

how you get the boy - twenty two

“Harry,” I began, shifting from one foot to another, “There’s something I wanted to tell you.”

Harry looked slightly surprised. He kinked an eyebrow, but before he could get a word out of his mouth, his expression changed and a small smile touched his lips as he looked past my shoulder. I followed his gaze.

read below // story page 

There were days when I wondered why was I friend with Niall who, despite my constant effort to ignore him for the past twenty-five minutes, couldn't leave me alone when I wanted him to.

Today was one of those days.

“Tenley,” Niall whispered, his knees bouncing up and down. His restlessness was making me feel restless. “Tee, what’re you doing?”

“Studying,” I told him, keeping my eyes fixated on the book in front of me. I wasn't going to let him distract me even though his mere presence did. I’d been reading the same line over and over again since he found me in the library and decided to pull the chair out and sit in front of me.

“Hey Tee,” Niall nudged me with his foot for the fourth time and I diverted my gaze from the book to him – finally. I kinked an eyebrow at him, urging him to continue speaking. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” I nodded, brows furrowing in confusion. It was perplexing enough that he knew where to find me without having to contact me first – not that this was the first time, but still – and now he was beginning to weird me out by sounding and looking so worried as though I wasn't supposed to be okay. So I asked him, “Why wouldn't I be?”

Lips pressed into a thin line and eyes squinted, he scanned my face whilst I fought the urge to look away. I couldn't risk doing that because that would lead to him suspecting that I was hiding something from him – which I actually was, but he didn't need to know that. He also didn't need to know that in the past few nights, I had a hard time falling asleep because I couldn't find a way to stop myself from tossing and turning in my bed. By the time it was time for me to get up, I made peace with the fact that today wasn't going to be a good day.

The cycle had been repeating itself for three days and counting.

“Tee, I don’t think you’re okay,” Niall pointed out and I was worried that he might have just read my mind. “I mean, clearly you aren’t. You look like you didn't sleep at all.”

I shook my head, “I’m okay, Ni, stop it. I did sleep.”

“For how long?” He asked and then dumbly, he added, “And stop what?”

“Stop staring at my face,” I scolded him, kicking his foot under the table. He winced; I smiled. “It’s bothering me, alright, so just stop.”

I should’ve known better than to think that Niall would listen to me because the moment those words left my mouth, he leaned closer, his front meeting the table, and his blue eyes scrutinised my face as he tried to figure me out. I didn't want him to but I knew he would – in a matter of seconds.

“I think you’re not okay because,” he paused, pulling his lower lip between his teeth and chewing on it. As I looked at him, I realised that he was mulling over something because the hesitation plastered across his face told me that he wasn't sure if he should say it. So I kicked his foot – again – a cue for him to just spill it because he had successfully distracted me from studying and I wasn't going to let him leave me hanging.

“Well?” I asked, “Why did you think I’m not okay, Niall? Enlighten me.”

“Fine,” he said with a roll of his eyes like he was annoyed with me. I was the one who should be annoyed. Then, he closed his eyes briefly, taking a deep breath before he said the next few words that managed to steal the air from my lungs. Words that came out as a question rather than a statement and words that were spoken so fast that it took me a few seconds longer to process them. “Because Harry’s been seeing someone?”

A part of me suspected that he was going out with someone because he wasn't around often – I didn't stalk him, I swear – whereas another part of me had made me believe that he was just out with his friends.

“Is it, Tee? Is that why you’re not okay?” Niall questioned, his accented voice snapping me out of my trance. “You know you could talk to me, right?”

Despite the fact that I had stopped breathing for approximately ten seconds, I tried to play it cool, pretending as if the thought of Harry going out with another girl didn't bother me at all.

I wanted to question Niall as to how he knew that Harry had been going out with someone, I wanted Niall to tell me about the ‘someone’ he’d been seeing and where he took her when they went out. Most of all, I wanted – needed – to know if he took her to the same place he took me.

I stopped myself before any of those questions could slip past my lips. I couldn't risk the chance of Niall thinking that: one, Harry seeing another girl upset me and two, I was jealous.

Neither of that was true, but then again I knew that that was a lie I told myself to bury the emotions that were building up inside of me and begging for my attention.

“No,” I told him with a shake of my head. He quirked an eyebrow. I didn't blame him for not believing me, so I added, “S’just.. I’m just stressed out about my classes, okay? That’s it.”

He tilted his head. “So, it has nothing to do with Harry?”

“Nope,” I answered, offering him a smile that hopefully could convince him. “It has absolutely nothing to do with him.”

In reality, it had everything to do with him. From the fact that I couldn't sleep for what felt like months to the fact that I couldn't stop thinking about him and to the fact that no matter how many times I told myself that he deserved someone better, I couldn't help but feel a sense of loss for something that I never really had.  

“Well, alright then,” Niall said as he pushed the chair away from the table, “If you’ll excuse me I’ll have to run to my next class – literally – cos I’m already late.”

At that, I let out a small laugh, one that caused a few people around me to snarl because I’d broken the library’s ‘shh, quiet’ rule. “Then, go!”

“I’m going,” he said as he put on his jacket. Then, before he made his way out of the library, he told me, “Text me if you need anything, okay? Or if you need someone to talk to – just ring me.”

The last sentence was not something Niall usually said when he bid his goodbye, but because I didn't want to make him more late than he already was, I told him that I would. And as soon as I was left alone, I took a deep breath and continued reading the book in front of me whilst pushing every thought that tried to invade my mind. Distraction was what I needed at the moment and although it came in the form of a History textbook, I welcomed it with open arms.  

&&

Things had returned to normal a few days later and for me, normal looked like this: Louis throwing unnecessary loud party without my knowledge and our living room filled to the brim with people that I hardly knew – as usual – when I returned home.

Even though my first instinct was to turn around and left as soon as I noticed the crowd, I realised that distraction was what I’d been searching for and what could be a better distraction than a party with strangers?

Putting on a smile, I made a beeline to the kitchen where I knew I would find Louis, which by the stroke of luck, I happened to be right.

He was mixing drinks – God knew what he was mixing – and when he spotted me, the skin around his eyes crinkled. He looked like a little boy who had no care in the world, but the eye bags and dark circles under his eyes told another story – one that I hadn’t yet discovered.

Much like me, Louis hadn’t been getting enough sleep either, for there were times when I would hear the telly being switched on at half past two in the morning and he would be sitting in front of it, watching some random shows with a cup of tea in hand. There were times I would join him, but there were times I would return to my bed and continue tossing and turning until the sun came up.

I didn't know what had been causing him to lose sleep, but I knew that now wouldn't be the right time to question him about it. Maybe I could ask him later when the crowd had died down and if he were still awake by then. Or if I still remembered about it.

“Tee, hey!” He waved at me, gesturing for me to come over to him. He was already drunk, that much was obvious. “C’mon, drink with me! S’been a while since we did that, hasn't it?”

He was right; it had been a while since we had drinks together. So, without wasting any more time, I made my way to him and accepted the drink he offered as soon as I reached him. I cracked a smile, “Thanks.”

He reciprocated my smile. Then, he clinked his glass against mine and finished the alcohol in one swig. I followed suit.

“Honestly, Tee?” he said suddenly, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and slinging an arm over my shoulder. His warm breath was fanning my cheek and though normally him being in such close proximity made my heart beat faster, this time it didn't. The only thing that I noticed was how his eyes had darkened slightly and there were beads of sweat by his forehead – I fought the urge to wipe them off. “I’m so glad you moved in with me,” he mentioned. I wasn't at all surprised to hear that, as he’d said that before, but what he said next did. “And I’m so fucking glad you chose Harry.”

I could feel heat rushing from my neck up to my cheeks, blood rushing up to my head and I could definitely feel the thump of my heart against my chest. Adding Louis’ words to the equation, an immense feeling of bewilderment washed over me.

“What?” I croaked, swallowing thickly. Why’d you say that, I wanted to ask, but I kept that to myself.

“I wouldn't say this when I’m sober but,” he paused, holding one finger up as an indication for me to wait whilst he downed another shot of vodka. “But Harry’s a nice lad and ’m positive he’d treat you better. I mean he punched you- I mean me for you, after all, so what wouldn't he do for you?”

I didn't know the answer to that so I remained silent.

What triggered him to talk about this was beyond me because as far as I was concerned, the topic of Harry and I wasn't exactly the kind of topic he was fond of. In fact, we hardly talked about this – the thing going on between Harry and I – because talking about it made venom drip in his voice and neither of us liked the sound of it. I supposed that had been put in the past now and this wasn't a sore subject anymore.

“Wanna know what I think?” Louis added, licking his lips, to which I kinked an eyebrow at him. “I think when he comes over – I invited him by the way – you should talk to him. Tell him what you really feel. I think.. I think you should go get him.”

Baffled, I gaped at him. Sometimes, Louis scared me because he seemed to know what’s going on in my mind just by taking one look at me. But then again, he must have not known everything because if he did, he wouldn't have said that confidently. He would’ve known that Harry had been seeing someone else and the chances of me getting close to him again was close to non-existent.

I wanted to tell Louis that things weren’t that simple, but I stopped myself before I got the chance to do so. The way he saw it, things were simple as it should be: a boy liked a girl, a girl liked a boy and they got together. That’s how it was supposed to go. Simple and easy and no one got hurt, unless a few weeks, months or years later, the boy and the girl decided to break each other’s hearts.  

But now, when a boy liked a girl and a girl liked a boy, suddenly there’s everything in between. And because fate decided to play its cards in a twisted way, you’d wake up one day, only to realise that it turned out that you didn't even know how to reach the boy anymore and you’re left to bury every emotion you’d ever felt in a shell of your heart.

I didn't want that to happen, but it was a wishful thinking because that’s what was happening right now: I liked the boy, the boy apparently liked me too, but the only flaw was that I was too little too late, for I thought my heart belonged to another boy.  

“He’s here,” Louis mentioned and I instantly felt as though blood had just drained out of me.

My heart dropped to the pit of my stomach and as if he knew exactly what was going on, Louis gave my shoulders a squeeze, coupled with a few words of encouragement. It was pointless because no amount of reassuring words could help me compose myself as I diverted my gaze from Louis and to the living room.  

I realised a second later that even though in a room full of people, it was so easy to spot Harry. It was an instinctive reaction, for there was just something about him that could gravitate people – me – towards him. He was magnetic and for a moment, I wondered if I wasn't the only girl who saw him this way. Surely there were tens, hundreds of girls out there who felt a pull towards him; his dimples, his smile, his eyes, everything about him made it easier for someone to fall heads over heels for him.

“Tee!” I heard Niall’s accented voice calling out for me. He was standing next to Harry, waving at me and beckoning me over.

I took a deep breath. Maybe Louis was right; maybe I should tell Harry what I really felt although I’d tried that before and it didn't work out the way I wanted it to. But then again, universe had always had a strange obsession for me, always making sure that things didn't go my way.

“Tee, hi!” Niall said, obviously already pleasantly drunk as he grinned at me. Then, wrapping his arms around my shoulder, he pulled me into a hug and whispered something that I didn't get to catch before he said, “I need a drink!”

As soon as those words slipped past his lips, he walked away, leaving Harry and I alone in the middle of the living room, surrounded by people who didn't pay any attention to us.

Harry cleared his throat and ran his fingers through his hair. His eyes wandered all over the room before they finally settled on me, “Hi.”

“Hi,” I replied with a smile. “You want a drink?”

He shook his head, “S’fine. Not really in the mood to drink.”

“Okay,” I nodded, cracking my knuckles as I looked around, searching for Niall.

Not once had Harry and I ever had a conversation as awkward as this one and I would be happy to place the blame on a person called Niall bloody Horan. His ability to lure the two of us to the same place and leave less than a minute later both impressed and displeased me. A heads up was all I wanted and yet even that I couldn't get – not from Niall, at least. Therefore, I made a mental note to search for him later so I could tell him that his meddling was beginning to not work out.

But for now, I had Harry in front of me and I had words that I wanted to say lodged in the base of my throat.

“Harry,” I began, shifting from one foot to another, “There’s something I wanted to tell you.”

Harry looked slightly surprised. He kinked an eyebrow, but before he could get a word out of his mouth, his expression changed and a small smile touched his lips as he looked past my shoulder. I followed his gaze.

“There’s someone I want you to meet,” he mentioned, a trace of nervousness evident in his voice. Then, when I returned my gaze back to Harry, he was no longer standing alone in front of me, as there’s a girl standing next to him. The girl. “Tenley, this is-uh, this is Sarah. Sarah, this is Tenley.”

A huge smile immediately adorned her face like smiling was the easiest thing she’d ever done. Offering me her hand, she said, “S’nice to finally see you! Heard a lot about you from Niall.”

Of course it had to be from Niall, I thought. That one didn't seem to know when to shut his mouth. “Only good things, I hope,” I replied, reciprocating her smile.

“Yeah,” she nodded once, twice, before casting her eyes back to Harry. Not for one second did her smile leave her face as she looked at him like he was the only person that mattered. Maybe to her, he was.

What happened next was something that I wasn't exactly proud of: I began to compare myself to her. It had never really been my fashion to let insecurity crawl under my skin, as I was a strong believer that insecurities had the ability to shape and mould our minds to live with everything that’s bad and I didn't like that.

However, I supposed the feeling had always resided somewhere inside of me and was only waiting for something like this to happen so it could make an appearance. And once that happened, there was no turning back.

She was nothing like me, was the first thing I noticed, for if anything, she looked like a painting that had just been brought to life. Her golden blonde hair flowed in waves to adorn her glowing, porcelain-like skin and her eyes were blue. So blue that it made me wonder if Harry had ever gotten lost in them; I pushed that thought away immediately.

“What’s it that you wanted to tell me?” Harry questioned, seeming to finally remember where our conversation stopped before Sarah came.

Having two pairs of eyes looking at me expectantly was nerve-wracking, to say the least. My mouth and throat suddenly turned dry as though I had just swallowed a pack of chalks. My heartbeats had increased slightly, too, and it didn't help that Sarah – someone who I hardly knew – was eyeing at me, gauging my expression the entire time I opened my mouth and closed it a second later.

“Am I interrupting something?” Sarah questioned as her eyes darted from my face to Harry’s.

“It’s-It’s nothing,” I said, finally, after swallowing the lump in my throat. There’s no way I would talk to Harry with Sarah by his side. I couldn't risk ruining what they had. Looking at Harry, next, I offered him a smile, one that I hoped didn't look forced, “Forget ‘bout it, yeah?”

“I’m gonna get us some drinks,” Sarah interrupted before Harry could open his mouth to speak as she gave his forearm a squeeze. Then, throwing a sweet smile at me, she excused herself from us to get to the kitchen.

Harry and I watched as she walked away, avoiding everyone rather gracefully and as soon as she was completely out of our sights and hearings, words that I didn't mean to say out loud escaped my mouth, “She seems nice.”

“She is,” Harry agreed. I casted my gaze back at him and watched as the corners of his lips turned slightly upwards. Those two words were simple and yet, they managed to slice through my heart. And Harry knew that. He knew full well that his words had an impact on me, but it didn't seem to matter to him.

“I’m happy for you,” I heard myself saying.

Harry didn't say anything afterward. He simply looked at me, clenching and unclenching his jaw. And I accepted it, accepted the silence that fell upon us even though I learned recently that indifference was much worse than outright dislike and I would rather have Harry yell at me than giving the coldest look that gave me chills.

Then, after what felt like an eternity of silence, Harry cleared his throat, “I should go find her.”

And I let him walk away again, ignoring the words that had risen up to my throat and made a residence on my tongue: please don’t be with someone else.

&&

Keeping myself sober whilst everyone around me drank and drank and drank proved to be rather challenging and boring. Instead of taking a swig of alcohol like everyone else, I took a sip of water, making sure that I was alert and my mind was clear because I’d learnt my lesson.

I was hopeless if my judgment was clouded by emotions and besides, I couldn't risk forgetting something important. Like the fact that Harry had moved on and the fact that the sound of my heart breaking echoed within me each time I thought of that.

“Knew I’d find you here,” Niall said as he flopped down into the couch next to me. His glossy eyes darted from my face to the water in my hand, a smirk pulling at his lips. “Staying sober, huh?”

I nodded, wondering how on earth he always seemed to know where to find me. I knew if I were to question him about it, he would say ‘I’m a good friend, that’s how I know’ and that would lead to a never-ending argument about how he was, in fact, not that much of a good friend.

Therefore, I kept my mouth shut and I let him take the water from me, finishing it in two swigs. Then, straightening his back, he turned to face me, “What d’you think of Sarah?”

His question shouldn't have caught me off guard because I knew it was coming. I’d spent the majority of the night tucked away from everyone, pondering over the same thing and yet when it was time for me to articulate my thoughts, I found that I had nothing of those.

It was the same feeling I got when I studied for hours upon hours, sacrificing my sleep, but when I had the question paper staring back at me, I realised that I didn't know anything.

“She seems nice,” I replied, repeating my statement earlier tonight, to which Niall quirked an eyebrow at me like he couldn't believe what he just heard. I meant it; she did seem nice.

As much as I hated to admit it, I wished she wasn't. It’d make it easier for me to decide what I thought of her. But she was kind and she was beautiful and most of all, she was nothing like me. As I looked at Niall, I told myself to make peace with the fact that Harry would be so much happier with her and that although it might take me a while to get over this, I eventually would.

“And I think it’s great that Harry’s happy with her,” I added. I hoped Niall didn’t notice the struggle in saying those words out loud.

His reaction was, to put it nicely, unexpected. He snorted and rolled his eyes. “You really are blind, aren’t you, Tee?”

I didn't know what he was getting at so I shook my head, “I’m not?”

“Wanna know how Harry met Sarah?” He asked rhetorically, licking his lips before continuing, not taking into consideration whether or not I wanted to know the story. “Through me. I introduced him to her and her to him, thinking that maybe making you jealous would make you realise that you’re – I don’t know – in love with him or summat.”

The only thing I could do after hearing what Niall had just confessed was to gape at him. He was a meddler, that much I knew, but I didn't think he would bend over backwards just to make me realise something I should’ve been aware of since day one. I didn't think he would go to this extent and whether I was grateful for that or not, the line was still fuzzy and I was still trying to figure it all out.

“You don’t have to do that,” I told him, placing a hand on his bouncing knee, “Thank you, but this is something we – I – should figure out myself.”

“I know,” he replied, bottom lip jutting out slightly as he looked down at my hand that was on his knee. Then, he looked back up and his blue eyes displayed nothing but sincerity. “But s’just hard, y’know, sitting back and waiting for you two to happen.”

He chuckled and I felt a smile tugging at my lips. Perhaps he was a good friend, after all. A great friend. “Why?” The one syllable question escaped my mouth. “Why do you want us to happen?”

Niall looked as if he was just caught doing something he shouldn't. His eyes widened and his mouth opened and closed every two seconds. “I don’t know,” he shrugged, “maybe cos you two are insufferable when you’re apart?” I scoffed. We’re not insufferable. “So really, you two would do all of us a favour if you just date.”

The mere thought of Harry and I dating used to bring bile up to my throat, but now saying his name stabbed my heart. Putting his and my name in the same sentence? It feels like someone was ripping through my carefully stitched up world and replacing my pulsing red tissues with regret.

I suppose that explained why regret was the only emotion I was capable of truly experiencing in the past few minutes, hours, days and weeks.  However, not less than ten minutes ago, I’d made peace with all of that. So, with a smile pulling at my lips, I said, “Guess we’re just not meant to be.”

Instantly, I heard the word ‘bullshit’ leaving Niall’s lips in a hushed whisper as he shook his head. I chose to ignore it even though every atom in my body was buzzing and for once, I wished that he was right and that I was wrong. It was as though I was wishing for something completely unrealistic, unfortunately, because we – I, especially – knew that whatever it was that Harry and I had before this, we couldn't have it anymore.

He came with Sarah, stayed with her and left with her, after all. And if those weren’t enough of indications that he had moved on, him having a good time with her, not once sparing me a glance – I saw them out of the corner of my eyes – should suffice to prove that I was right.  

Usually the knowledge of being right made me feel like I was on top of the world, but not this time because this time, I felt like I was at the bottom of a pool with no chance of swimming up and pushing air into my lungs so I could breathe again.

Perhaps one day, but not anytime soon.

“I’m gonna crash at Harry’s,” Niall said before heaving himself off of the couch and making his way out of my flat.

I hated how more often that not, he would leave me alone with my frazzled mind. And because that was the last thing I wanted to deal with, I decided to go to my room, avoiding any sort of eye contact with those who looked like they weren’t aware of the fact that it’s time for them to go home.

Once I was inside the safety of my room, I looked at the bed and wondered if tonight was going to be another one of those nights where I would be tossing and turning until the sunlight seeped through my curtain.

I wondered and wondered and wondered until my eyes got heavy and for a moment, I thought I would get lucky with sleep tonight. I spoke too soon because the second those thoughts flooded my mind, I heard a knock on my door.  

Pulling my blanket over my head, I prayed that whoever it was standing on the other side of the door would take the hint that I wasn't in the mood to entertain anyone.

I counted to ten. One, two, three, four, five seconds passed before the knocking returned and setting aside my exhaustion, I pulled myself out of bed and towards the door.  

I pressed my ear against the door with hopes that I could hear voices or anything to assure me that I wasn't hearing things I shouldn't. It was late, anyway, and just the mere thought of it caused goose bumps to sketch across my skin. But  I was then proved wrong when I heard Louis’ voice saying something I couldn't quite decipher and certain that it was him standing outside, I grabbed the knob and twisted it open.

Almost instantly, I felt tension drained out of my body at the sight of a familiar face. At the same time, my heart pounded against my chest and my palms began to form sweat because standing in front of me wasn't the familiar face I initially thought I’d look at.

It was Harry.

To say that I was taken aback would be the understatement of the year. I felt like someone had just placed a foot in front of me and I was falling. Falling through time and space and just everything in between. But when he opened his mouth to say something I never thought I’d been longing to hear, I realised that I’d forgotten that I was falling.

“I came back.”

[just-jordie-things]

Oceans - Stuart Twombly

inspired by the song Oceans by Seafret word count: 4614

The scene was picture perfect.  Bright smiles, twinkling eyes, the fairy lights hung around the outside of the cafe illuminating the dark night.  Every time I looked at the picture, I could feel my heart beating in my chest.  My friends, all sitting around this horrible metal table.  Arms loosely wrapped around each other, cheeks pressed together, peace signs, a typical picture of a bunch of goony young adults.

The rose gold frame sat on my desk, catching my eye every time I typed away on my laptop, or watched Netflix, or worked on a new project Google handed to me.  I’d look at it for a few moments, it was never just a glance.  It probably took a good chunk of my day actually.  I’d stare at it, eyes flickering to every little detail.  The whiteness of Neha’s teeth, Lyle’s glasses slipping slightly down the bridge of his nose, one of Billy’s eyes was half closed, my hair was messy, spilling over my shoulders from under Stuart’s beanie.  My gaze would linger there, and if I was feeling peculiarly nostalgic or depressed, I’d gently caress the glass protecting the photo with my fingers, then go back to my work like nothing had happened.  Oh the vicious cycle of depression.

Today was the day where I got up early, ready for whatever my job would bring me.  Some days were harder than others, but never usually too difficult.  Though every night I walked back into my apartment with heavy feet.  But that had nothing to do with the difficulty of work.  No that was just plain anxiety and stress.

See, it used to be incredible.  Working on the greatest team of delinquents, that had quickly become my closest friends.  Winning the intern competition last year was probably one of the greatest moments in my life, that I’d remember forever.  Us dorks felt like we were on top of the world.  We’d even gone out for celebratory pizza afterwards.  That’s when things started happening.  That’s when I grew closer to Stuart Twombly.

~ 

The irritating and sarcastic boy that couldn’t handle being away from his phone, had seemed to transform into a completely new person in a matter of forty five minutes.  I hadn’t spoken much with him, in fact we’d never even been alone together or held a solid conversation without the rest of the team being there.  So when he’d sat in the same booth with me, I was slightly confused.  Neha had quickly slid in across from me, which I silently thanked her for, seeing she was the closest person I had on the team.  Lyle was on the other side of Stuart, fitting three of us into one booth (which left absolutely no space between our legs) and Billy and Nick and Yo-Yo were squashed in with Neha.

The night was fun though, we’d ordered many pizzas, and stayed until closing.  We joked around, made fun of Gharam, and his relentless act towards asking me out. 

“I mean, how many times did he try?” Nick snickered.  I blushed and looked down at my lap. 

“Seriously, the creep should’ve left you alone after the sixtieth decline” Lyle said, an awkward laugh following.  “How about a date with a real man?” My eyes widened slightly as I tried to see of he was being serious or not.  I couldn’t really tell.

“Come on man, Gharam just started leaving her alone give her the space to breathe” Stuart spoke before I could say anything at all.  I looked up at him for a moment, just as everyone began laughing again.  But he somewhat ignored my glance, pretending to be interested in whatever Billy was saying.  When I realized he wasn’t going to look back at me, I turned away and picked at my meal.

We’d stayed for another few hours that night, until a waitress came over and told us that she couldn’t let us stay any longer.

Her eyes were bored, dull as she looked over our table.  I’d figured we’d annoyed her.  We weren’t exactly a quiet group.  But they landed on Stuart, to which she’d grinned mischievously, and her blue eyes lit up with what I could only describe as desire.  Though the look didn’t bother me, it did confuse me greatly.

“Alright, we’ll be on our way” Nick had said, and everyone began sliding out of the booths.  Stuart stood, and our waitress opened her mouth to speak, but he turned away from her, smiling softly towards me as I scooted out of the seat.  Stuart held his hand down to me, and it landed on the small of my back as I stood.  It stayed there as I walked with him to the front door of the restaurant.

Again, confusing me greatly.

But as soon as we were out of the view I looked wildly up to him, my eyes wide and brows furrowed with confusion and question.  But he shook his head, just barely, but enough for me to close my mouth before any questions could be asked.  The others had caught up to where we were waiting and we all left.

We walked up to the Golden Gate Bridge, as we’d done a few times before to go relax.  I’d been there countless times, (I lived in San Francisco) but every time I went it was still just as breathtaking.  The group of us laid down in the grass, enjoying the view of the night sky.

“Does anyone know any constellations?” Yo-Yo asked, a few feet away from me. 

“Yeah I do” I said, already searching the sky for familiar ones.  “There’s Orion” I said, pointing up to where I recognized his belt.  “That’s Delphinus, Taurus, Pavo” I looked for more, licking my lips as I tried to remember them all.  “I think.. Yeah thats Scorpius, and that’s-”

“How do you remember these all?” Stuart asked from right next to me.  I turned my head, meeting his whiskey brown eyes.  I blinked for a moment, then chewed on my lip.

“I uh… I minored in astrology for two years” I murmured.  I didn’t mean to be quiet, my voice just sorta failed me.  Stuart smiled at me, eyes flickering between mine and making my breathing shallow before he looked back up at the stars.  I continued to stare at him for a moment, how freckles scattered over his jaw, and long strands of chocolate brown hair poked out from under his beanie, slightly over his ear.  When I felt I’d stared for too long, I blushed and quickly looked away.

I think I was growing very fond of this Twombly boy.

When it became so late, the sun began to poke up, I was nudged.  Apparently that night I’d fallen asleep in the grass.  

My eyes fluttered open to see Stuart and Neha hovering over me.  I waved them off and closed my eyes again, turning on my side.

“Come on y/n” Stuart sighed, and a few seconds later I felt strong arms pull me up.  I yelped, jolting and opening my eyes quickly, only to hear his chuckle.  “You’re fine, just go to sleep” Again, I’d found myself confusedly staring at him.  But he didn’t see.  He was talking quietly with Billy and Nick.  This time I fell back asleep. 

When I woke up again, I was being shook gently.  I yawned, eyes landing on Stuart.

“Wha-where am I-”

“Calm own would you? Don’t you trust me?” I thought for a moment, opening and closing my lips.  That was when I registered I was sitting in a taxi cab, and my head had been laying on his shoulder, cushioned by his beanie.  Which still sat there.

“S-sorry did I fall asleep o-on you?” He chuckled and shrugged.

“Your fine.  This is your complex right?” He asked, pointing up at the building lot we just pulled into.  I nodded.  “Good, that’s what Neha told me” He said.  I straightened up, cracking my back as the driver parked.  Stuart opened the door, stepping out and holding his hand out to me.  My eyes locked on his for a long moment, before slipping my palm into his and letting him help me out of the car.

In fact, he’d walked me inside, and into the elevator to the third floor, down the hall to my room as I’d directed.  I stuffed my hand into my pocket, grabbing my key and unlocking the door.  When I stepped inside, I realized our hands were still conjoined.

“Would you like a drink?” I asked, not wanting to let go for an unknown reason.

“U-uhm sure” Stuart nodded, and I gestured my head for him to come inside.  I released his hand, kicking off my shoes and padding my bare feet into the kitchen, and searching in the fridge for a beer.  “I-I’ve never been here before” Stuart spoke, looking around.  It was a pretty open apartment, the kitchen and living room practically conjoined.  Only two doors, one leading to the bathroom, and one to my bedroom.

“No one has, really” I said, plopping two glasses onto the countertop, then searching for a bottle opener.

“Seriously?” Stuart walked over to me, standing on the other side of the counter.  I nodded, going through drawers until I finally found it.  I easily popped off the caps of the two glasses, and slid one over to him.  He took it happily and I picked up mine. 

“No, I don’t have company over for anything” I said with a shrug, heading to the living room.

“Not even Neha?” 

“Not a single person” I said, plopping onto the couch.  Stuart sat next to me, turning sideways to face me.  “To you Stuart Twombly” I said, raising my glass.  “For being my first guest” He rose his glass, to clink with mine.

We must’ve sat there for an hour, drinking until I was out of beer, and glasses of empty alcohol bottles were all over my coffee table.  Not necessarily to get drunk, but we were having too good of a time.  It was as though if we’d stopped, then the night would be over.  We were enjoying ourselves so much, talking and laughing about little things.  To think, the day before, that the only thing  could tell you about Stuart Twombly, was his name, and he had an obsession with beanies and his phone. 

“Okay okay okay…” I giggled and slurred drunkenly.  “I’ll pick��� truth” I said with a big smile.  He was pensive for a moment, then grinned when he came up with an idea.

“Why’d you move here when you were so young?” 

“I wasn’t that young.  I was nineteen” I started, taking a swig of my beer.  “My hometown sucked.  I was bad at making friends so I didn’t have any, my parents… I didn’t have daddy and mommy issues by any means… but I needed a change” He nodded, content with my answer and took a drink.  “Now, truth or dare?” 

“Dare” He replied and I clapped my hands. 

“I dare you to do a handstand!” I squealed, and he eagerly jumped off of the couch, then awkwardly laid his upper back and neck on the floor, propping his legs up, then laying his hands flat on the ground.  He was able to hold himself up for a few seconds, but toppled over in a fit of laughter right afterwards. 

“I almost did it” He slurred, still chuckling as he sat back up on the sofa across from me.  We clinked glasses. 

“Oh so close” I said with a giggle before drinking.

“Alright y/n, truth or dare?” Stuart asked, and I thought while he took a long drink. 

“Okay… I’ll do a dare” I gave in, to his surprise.  I had been dodging that choice the past fifteen minutes we’ve been playing.  “Give me a good one though, not some lame ass prank call, you can do better than-” 

“I dare you to kiss me” He said, in the softest voice I’d heard all night.  My rambling was cut short, and I felt for a moment like I’d completely sobered up.  I was staring straight into his honey eyes.  I licked my lips hesitantly, then slid forward on the couch.  I set my beer on the table, as did he.  The entire environment of the room changed, and I realized my eyes had lingered on his lips for too long.  I sure had a problem with staring at this boy.  I looked up into his eyes for a moment, before closing mine and leaning in.

Our lips touched in a gentle kiss, my hands sliding up to frame around his face, pulling him ever so slightly closer.  Stuart’s arms wrapped around my waist, tugging me further against him on the couch, until our chests were pressed together.  I sucked in deep through my nose before we parted.  His eyes stared into mine, and neither of us moved.  Just our chests as we breathed deeply. 

“Th-that was my first kiss” I told him softly between quiet pants.  His brows knit together, confused. 

“What? H-how?” I blinked a few times, unsure of how to answer.  Maybe because I’d never had a boyfriend? But I wasn’t about to admit that now.  Stuart released my waist, a hand raising to tangle his fingers slightly into a strand of my hair. “Can you promise me something, y/n?” He asked in a murmur.  I nodded as he intricately placed the hair behind my ear.  “Promise me you won’t forget how beautiful you are” He said quietly.  I nodded my head after a moment.

“I promise” I answered, cheeks pink in a blush.  Stuart smiled a small but genuine smile, and pulled away from me.

We sat back on our respective sides of the couch, and continued our game. 

I thought for a moment as I remembered that night.  We were so carefree, and maybe it was the alcohol, but maybe it was just how we were in general.  Maybe we were just two young adults, enjoying our Friday night, getting to know each other.  Or maybe it was what I had thought.  Maybe we were falling in love.

Two weeks later, and Stuart and I were still complaining about our killer hangovers from our long night of drinking and talking.  I’d woken up the next morning on the couch, my head in his lap, cradling an arm that didn’t belong to me.  He was sat upright, his head hanging off the top of the couch and groaning about a headache.  I’d remembered the events from the night before, and somehow managed to get up to retrieve aspirin. 

Stuart and I became close friends.  Very close in fact.  The kind people constantly think are dating, not that I minded.  I wasn’t sure if he did.  I wasn’t even sure if he remembered what had all taken place that night, but I didn’t push the subject.  We became the kind of friends who walk around holding hands, or hug, share food and drink, kiss on the cheek here and there- hell even I would think we were dating.  (i wish).

We were sitting in my apartment, the night after our photo was taken at the cafe, his infamous beanie resting on my head.  In fact, I was wearing it as of this moment.  The both of us were sat on the sofa, watching tv.  He was scrolling through his phone while I laid across his lap, my head on the armrest of the couch. 

“Hey Stew” I said softly, not sure if I really wanted to ask the question I’d been hung up on for the past days.

“Mhm?” He dropped a hand to my arm to show he was paying attention, seeing that his eyes were glued to his phone. 

“Do you remember the night you came over?” 

“Mhm, worst hangover of my life” He snorted, glancing to me for a short moment.  “Why? Wanna get drunk?”

“No, no Stew it’s important” I said as seriously as I could, but my voice was still quiet.  His brows furrowed as he turned off his phone and looked at me. 

“Alright” He said, meeting my eyes.  “What’s going on in that messy head of yours?”

“Do you remember anything besides the hangover?” I asked, finding it difficult to hold his gaze.  “At all?” I asked when he didn’t answer. 

“Hold on I’m trying to think… I drank a lot that night” His eyes were squinted, and my heart managed to sink and beat faster at the same time.  “I… we played truth or dare…” He started slowly and I nodded eagerly. 

“Yeah yeah we did”

“And.. and I did a handstand?” I chuckled quietly and nodded again.  “And… and you told me ab-”

“You asked me to kiss you” Stuart’s brows raised.

“Well that would've been something to remember” Normally I would have laughed. 

“But-but you don’t?” Stuart shook his head.

“No… why was I bad?” He chuckled awkwardly to himself.  I pushed myself up, and crawled off of his lap.  “Why- are you alright?” I nodded, even though I wasn’t.  “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize I’d made things awkward for you that night” I just shook my head repeatedly, staring down at my lap, where my hands were wringing together.  “Hey is there.. Is there something else going on?” Stuart asked, turning to face me but I shook my head again.  “y/n/n don’t lie” He put one of his hands on mine.  “y/n” He said more sternly.  I hesitantly turned my head meeting his eyes and I felt my foot tap quickly on the ground.

“Sorry, sorry no I don’t know what- I don’t know what got into me” He frowned, but eventually got up and stretched a little.

“I’m gonna get a drink” He said, walking over to the kitchen.  I watched as he opened the fridge, and surprised me by pulling out a pop can. 

“No beer?” He shook his head.

That was the last time Stuart and I talked to each other.  Three months passed, and he hasn’t bothered to talk to me whatsoever.  I can’t really tell why, I don’t remember having done anything that would’ve driven him away.  The rest of that night I hadn’t mentioned the kiss, and it’s not like I admitted to him that I was in love with him.  At first, it just really pissed me off, but now I just keep more to myself than before, and tried to ignore him at all costs. 

No, that does not mean I’m happy.  In fact, I’m beyond miserable.  I don’t remember the last time I’d spoken to any of them, I’d hardly spoken at work at all.  Just on the phone when a customer or my boss called.  I’m not sure when Neha and I’s friendship ceased, somewhere along the line we just stopped talking.  Sometimes she sits at my small table in the cafe for lunch, but we still don’t converse.  Just sit there silently.

I walked in this morning, not anywhere near as dressed up as I used to get for work.  I was in jeans, old and worn biker boots, and a tee shirt.  My hair was in a ratty and messy bun, I don’t think I brushed my hair at all this morning.  In fact, I don’t even remember walking to the building (I lived just two blocks away) but I can’t tell you remembering the scenery or people I passed.  I groaned, rubbing my eyes as I sat down at my desk.  My elbows propped up onto the desk as I dragged the skin around the edges of my eyes, hoping to rub the sleep out of them.  It wasn’t working.  A small groan left my lips as I turned on my computer and began to sign in. 

“Good morning y/n” I jumped slightly, dropping my computer mouse onto the floor by my foot.  “Oh I’m sorr-” 

“It’s okay Lyle” I mumbled.  “What did you want?” He seemed to swallow thickly, and readjusted the glasses on his nose.  It made me think of the way Stuart used to always crinkle his nose before pushing his glasses up higher on the bridge of his nose.

“Well uh, I’ve actually noticed your lack of interaction with the rest of the team, are you alr-” 

“I’m fine, is here something important?” I snapped a little, but didn’t raise my voice.  I didn’t want the others to notice my ‘coming out of the shell I’d been hiding in’ moment. 

“Actually yes… someone from Communications is here to speak to you about your performance” I nodded my head.

“Well where are they?”

“At the door actually” I turned, and just as I did, Gharam walks over and stands himself next to Lyle, in front of me.  I stared with wide eyes up at him, having heard many stories from Neha and Stuart about Gharam and his… foolish charms.  “You look surprised darling” He spoke in an English accent, but something was off about it.

“I am, I wasn’t informed of any meeting, until here you are now” I straightened up, seeing that he was trying to intimidate me by leaning over, eyes downcast towards me.  I pulled a slight smirk on, just small enough to be noticeable but not questionable.  He only reciprocated it.

“Well love, I have an important question for you” You nodded, prompting him to continue.  “Attention! Low life Google team!” Gharam held his hands out, earning the attention of Neha, Billy, Nick, Yo Yo, and Stuart, who watched me intently.  But I looked back to Gharam.

“What’s this all abou-”

“Your very own lovely y/n here,has been given the opportunity of a promotion!” Besides Graham's clapping, the room was silent.  I continued to stare at the englishman.  “What? No applause for this stunning creature?” I wanted to be flattered by his strange way of flirting, but instead I felt like regurgitating.  Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Stuart walking out of the room, shaking his head.  It would’ve broken my heart, if it wasn’t already shattered

“Why do I get a promotion?” I asked quietly, and Gharam grinned widely down towards me.

“Because you, my dear, would be a lovely head of the Communications department” My eyes widened like a cartoon, and my voice caught in my throat.  How? My work has been average.

“I-I think you’re at the wrong-”

“Oh don’t be so modest, we can discuss the paperwork over dinner” Gharam smirked and winked, and I took a step away from him, huffing angrily.

“But I like working here!” I stated loudly, and angrily.  My hands were in fists by my sides.  “I like my group, I like my job I like my payroll, I don’t want a promotion” The man laughed loudly, holding his hands over his stomach like it was the most comical thing he’d ever heard anyone say.

“Oh don’t be ridiculous darling” He said, reaching a finger to swipe his thumb over my cheek.  I smacked his hand away with a slap that seemed to silence the room even more.  I didn’t notice that this was when Stuart came back into the room, I was too focused on the man in front of me.

“I’m not taking a job just so you can go out with me” I snapped at him, and moved to walk back towards my work space, but he followed me quickly.

“Problem? Gharam?” I spun back on my heel in shock of the voice I hadn’t heard in what felt like years.  Stuart Twombly was standing in front of me, his back towards me and Gharam trying to tower over him.  In seconds I watched as Gharam backed away, shaking his head and standing silently frozen.  “Come on y/n” Before I could say anything, Stuart took my hand pulled me with him out the door of our large office flat.  I walked quietly beside him, my hand still stuck in his as he led me through the hallways.  I looked over at him, but he kept his focus on his walking.  Dead ahead.  He was on a mission it seemed.

“Stuart?” I spoke, my voice practically a mumble as we neared the exit of the building. 

“Where have you been?” He asked as he pushed open the doors, with me still following right next to him.  It was the first time his hand released mine.

“I haven’t been anywhere” I muttered, my eyes narrowing slightly at his apparent anger.  “What, you’re mad at me because I haven’t been around?” He ducked his head down, instantly realizing his mistake.  “Wow.  Wow Stuart” I laughed bitterly, a passive aggressive grin on my face as I looked up.  My palm pressed to my forehead as I calmed down my laughter.  “If you don’t mind, I have work to get to” I said, turning to go back inside. 

“N-no don’t leave” He quickly ran in front of me, hands out and a pleading expression on his face.  “Please don’t just go” 

“And why the hell not?”

“Because I miss you y/n!” He yelled exasperatedly, and my mouth hung open in shock.  “I really fucking miss you” His voice softened, and I blinked, licking my lips before closing my mouth. 

“I missed you too” I said weakly. 

“And I do remember that night, I remember it vividly, every goddamn second of it” I couldn’t bring myself to tear my eyes off of him. 

“Y-you did? Then why did you-”

“Cause I didn’t want to say the wrong thing… guess I did anyways” I frowned slightly, stepping a little closer to him. 

“What did you think that you were going to say that would make me upset?”

“Upset’s not really the word… more like.. More like distant.  I thought you’d be distant and I didn’t want to lose you or anyth-”

“What were you going to say?” I cut off his ramblings, stepping closer again, if I took one more step, then our noses would ‘bump together. 

“I was going to tell you that..” He trailed off for a moment, looking down at his feet.  “That um.. That I…” My eyebrows raised in anticipation.  “y/n I really like you, I don’t know how you did it but you got me to fall for you in a matter of one night and I swear it wasn’t cause we were both drunk off our ass it was because you’re the first person I’ve ever met that’s… that’s real you felt real to me and I- I wanted to tell you that and I almost did but I didn’t want to mess things up-”

“You would’ve messed everything up” I told him. 

“I know” He said quietly.

“Absolutely everything, you would’ve ruined everything” I heard him sniffle, and he still stared down at his feet.  I chuckled quietly, and curled my fingers under his jaw, bringing his face up to look at me, even though he was practically above me.  “But it would’ve been in the best way possible” I told him solemnly.  I watched his eyes light up, and I smiled softly.  Next thing I knew he leaned down, and gently pressed his lips against mine.

“I’m sorry” He mumbled between sweet kisses.  “I shouldn’t have lied around it I should’ve just told you” I opened my eyes as his arms wrapped around my back, tugging me against him in a tight hug.  I smiled, arms winding around his neck and holding myself there against him.

“Try not to ‘forget’ that kiss, okay?” Stuart chuckled against me.

“I’m not sure how I could”

guys i can’t tell you how happy i am to post again :) xoxo ~ joride

[the-awkward-writer]

A Father’s Fear

Pairings: Sam x Reader

Word Count: 1.7k

Warnings: Pregnancy (no labor), some angst, some fluff, swearing

A/N: This is my entry for @girl-next-door-writes 500 Follower Challenge! The song I chose was “Ho Hey” by The Lumineers. I’ve been on a daddy!Sam streak for the past few weeks, so that’ll explain this. This was the gif I received:

Ever since you broke the news to Sam, he’d been petrified.

Sam was going to be a father.

Sam was terrified that his kid would end up just like him. His kid would be in the hunting life with no foreseeable future or way out.

Sam wanted to give his child the life that they deserved. The life that Sam never got the chance to get, but he didn’t know how to give it to them.

Sam wanted to give his kid their own room. He wanted his kid to grow up in a two story farm house with a dog, and go to school and have friends. But he just didn’t know how.

He didn’t want his kid to grow up in the hunting life. Alone. Skipping towns every three days, constantly on the road and never really having a place to call home.

Sam also didn’t know how to take care of a baby. He didn’t have any nieces or nephews. He never really encountered any children during hunts. It was usually all adults and monsters.

Every single time that Sam would look at you and your growing stomach, those thoughts would bombard him and crush him under their weight. You would be sleeping, and Sam would be wide awake, tossing and turning, trying to get the soul consuming thoughts out of his head.

What if a demon finds out. Then the baby is dead meat, and so is Y/N.

What happens if Y/N dies just like Mom and Jess did, and I end up like dad?

What if Y/N isn’t dead, and I end up being a dead-beat dad anyways?

What if this, what if that.

Eventually, out of fear of waking you from your peaceful slumber from all his tossing and turning, Sam would venture out of the warm confines of the bed, to the cold and lumpy couch.

There, Sam could freely ponder his thoughts and move all he wanted until exhaustion eventually took a hold of him, forcing him to give in to sleep.

The nights that this happened, you would be up early the next morning, much to your displeasure, because Sam wasn’t in bed with you, and find your boyfriend crammed on the tiny couch. His legs would be tucked up, his head resting on a tiny throw pillow, and his skin would be nearly ice cold. The bunker didn’t have a great source of heating, and Sam refused to steal a blanket away from you.

So, you would shuffle back to the bedroom, grab the thickest blanket you could find, and gently drape it over your sleeping boyfriend, trying not to wake him.

Sam would wake not even an hour later, the pain in his body becoming too much to sleep with, and see the blanket over him. He knew it was you who put the blanket over him. The blanket was yours after all. Sam would instantly feel guilty, and promise himself that this would never happen again.

But, a few days later, he would find himself on the couch yet again, with the same blanket draped over him, and he would make that same promise to himself, and the cycle continued.

The mornings that you found Sam on the couch started as sporadic, a once every few weeks type of thing. It started right after you told him about the baby, but, as you became farther and farther along in your pregnancy, and you got bigger and bigger, you would find Sam on the couch more often than not.

Seeing him cramped and cold made your stomach churn and your heart race. And not in a good way. Yet, you would walk back toy our room all the same, and get the blanket to cover up your boyfriend.

And boy, did that break your heart when you would find him asleep on the couch, again.

There were many times that Sam fell into a deep hole.

A hole that would completely swallow him up, leaving him mute and distant for days at a time. He wouldn’t talk, or eat, or drink, or even sleep. He’d just stare at the wall, contemplating the little life that was about to make its way into the world.

Sam didn’t want to screw this up. He couldn’t.

But he knew he would find a way.

Sam went back and forth. His contradicting thoughts pulling him in so many directions that he didn’t even pay attention to the amazing thing that was growing inside your body.

You were patient. You tried to give him time, see if he would come around.

He didn’t.

It got to the point that you were three weeks away from your due date and you snapped. Sam hadn’t touched you in weeks. He didn’t even come close enough to hold your hand. Sam hadn’t slept next to you in months, and you hadn’t had a real conversation with him in what seemed like years, but was probably only days.

He was sitting in the library. There was an opened bottle of whiskey sitting to his right, and a lore book propped on the edge of the table. “Hey, Sammy?” You tried to approach the situation lightly.

He looked up at you, and you could see the nearly purple bags under his eyes from sleep deprivation.

Your heart broke as you walked over to him and tucked a piece of hair behind his ear. He flinched slightly at your touch, but you didn’t move. “When was the last time you slept?” Your voice was soft. He looked older than he was. He looked like he had the entire world on his shoulders.

Sam hesitated for a moment, his eyes looking away from yours, “Last night.”

You sighed, “You’re lying to me.”

Sam shook his head, “I’m not, baby, I swear.”

You ran your thumb gently over the bag under his left eye, “Sam, I would hardly call ‘tossing and turning on a couch all night’ sleeping.”

Sam only gave you a strained smile, “Don’t worry ‘bout me,” he said, “The stress isn’t good for the baby.”

The way that he almost spit out the word ‘baby’, as if it burned him, didn’t go unnoticed by you. You tried not to react, but the wince on Sam’s face told you that you did react, and Sam took notice.

You took on a more stern tone, “When was the last time you slept for more than five hours?”

Sam’s eyes flitted away from yours, something he only did when he felt guilty or was lying, “The night before you told me.”

You knew he wasn’t lying, and you reeled back from him. You took your hands off his face, and took a few steps back, “Why, Sam? Why would you do this to yourself?”

“I just don’t want to hurt you or the baby,” Sam said, his eyebrows furrowed. “I couldn’t, and wouldn’t forgive myself if-if-” he took a deep breath, composing himself.

“Sam,” you tried to get his attention, but he cut you off quickly.

“I lay awake every night, and I wonder what is going to happen. I’m afraid that this kid is going to end up just like me, and I’m going to end up like my father,” tears were glistening in Sam’s eyes.

“Sammy,” you tried again.

“And I’m afraid that you’re going to end up just like my mom. Dead on a ceiling. Or worse, you end up being the best mother in the world, like I know you will,  and I’ll be a deadbeat, and no matter how hard you try-”

“Samuel fucking Winchester!” you interrupted his rant of self pity.

His eyebrows shot up as a look of surprise took over his face.

You took a step closer to him, “Look at me,” you said softly, your tone rivaling the one you previously used. You grabbed his hand as his gaze met yours, and you set his hand on your expanded abdomen, “This is your baby, Sam. Our baby. Our baby needs you in their life. I need you in my life. You could never hurt me or our baby. I promise.”

Sam didn’t seem to believe you, so you continued. “I’ve seen the way that you look at the kids we encounter on hunts. I’ve seen the way you interact with them. You are going to be the best dad in the world.”

Sometime during your little speech, Sam’s tears started flowing.

“I love you, you know that?”

You smile, happy that he was finally starting to believe you, “I love you too.”

You wiped away the tears on Sam’s face, “Come on, love,” you helped him out of the hard wooden chair, “I haven’t slept well in ages, and neither have you, so we’re going to take a nice, long, uninterrupted nap.”

Sam chuckled, but followed you as you led him to the bedroom you shared. You approached the bed, crawling in and settling on your side.

Sam laid behind you, his arm slung over you hips, pulling you against his chest.

“Everything is going to be okay,” you said, looking at him over your shoulder and rubbing your thumb over his knuckles.

I belong with you, you belong with me, you’re my sweetheart

Sam looked at you wearily, slowly coming to terms with what you had said. The soft expression on your face and the compassionate look in your eyes made Sam wrap his arms around your body tightly. “I’m sorry, sweetheart,” he whispered into your hair.

When the two of you woke up, you would ask Sam about his damaging thoughts, and he’d tell you. Both of you would hold each other as you cried, and talked it out. But, for right now, all you wanted to do was sleep, and you were sure Sam felt the same way.

You rolled over, struggling slightly with the giant baby bump, and wrapped your arms around his torso, “It’s okay. You’re here now,” you said. “And that’s all that matters.”

tags: want to be added or removed? shoot me an ask!

@evyiione