#incoherent doodles that make no sense i just need to draw him over and over

[opikiquu]

yalldont understand how stressediam for thsu mans bannerhELP me

[shig4dabi]

WAIT DID ANYONE EVER ASK U ABOUT UR YURI ON ICE AU COS IF NOT PLS SPILL I LOVE SSKK AND YOI AND I SHOWED UR DRAWING TO MY BESTIE COS I WAS SO EXCITED I NEED TO KNOW MORE!!!!

AHHGHF SORRY THIS TOOK SO LONG, THE YOI AU IS A BIG INCOHERENT MESS SO I STRUGGLED TO PUT IT INTO WORDS <//3

THIS IS ALSO SUCH A LONG REPLY BC I JUST. RAMBLE. I AM SO SORRY IF THIS MAKES NO SENSE, IT IS ABSOLUTELY ALL OVER THE PLACE-

Okay! So I really really love the AU, but sadly there's no cohesive plot to follow if we're gonna be honest- I have a few points, like the banquet I changed up, and Akutagawa's appearance as Atsushi's coach is also changed, but other than that I really just have this to draw connections and put sskk in silly little YoI scenarios </3

I tried real hard to match BSD characters to YoI but it was just not working for me [I've been messing with this AU for like, a year after all] Even deciding between Akutagawa and Atsushi as who would be Viktor and Yuuri was a bit complicated, bc I personally think it has potential either way. The obvious, and generally more fitting choice is the one I went with ofc, but I think a version where Atsushi is Akutagawa's coach would be just as interesting!

Anyway, despite being mostly just for kicks, I still tried to put thought into it!

With how Yuuri was constantly surprising and surpassing Viktor's expectations, I figured Akutagawa's ability to surprise Atsushi with his actions would work well. [Also because I think the scene in the parking lot where Viktor tells Yuuri he'll resign as his coach if he doesn't make it to the podium is very reminiscent of the scene in s3 with the imagery of Akutagawa shattering from Atsushi's reckless words-] But again, Akutagawa as Viktor works just as well since Yuuri says in the very first episode that Viktor never ceased to surprise him, if we're going that route. As well as the fact that both sskk and Viktuuri learn from each other throughout their respective journeys together.

Like Atsushi's 2 costumes being based around his ADA design/The Tiger, and Beast, or Akutagawa having a lighter coat/his overall main design being a lot brighter to symbolize the change from yk, the Mafia in canon. I also threw in the Ch88 themed look for Akutagawa's younger version because I wanted to draw Akutagawa with longer hair, but the design itself is supposed to symbolize a sort of 'end' to his skating. Since Viktor begins to lose inspiration further down the line until meeting Yuuri, that's what I'm trying to implement with the design. If that makes any sense-

Since Akutagawa in canon had been searching for worthy opponents as a way to gain Dazai's approval, when he finally met his match against Atsushi he was practically thrilled [for lack of better words/to put it simply--] So I'm taking that idea and throwing it into this AU as Akutagawa gaining back his passion for skating when he sees the potential in Atsushi even despite his loss at the GPF. Speaking of, the banquet also goes a bit differently-

I figured stripping and pole dancing wasn't really Atsushi's style, I don't know how to explain it so I might doodle it sometime, but I have this old ass screenshot of me talking about this AU to mildly sum it up

And going back to Atsushi's 1st costume being ADA themed, I wanted that to tie into Yuuri's first program being about his career and life, and the love he has for the people who stuck by him through everything. The ADA is kind of a perfect example for that, I mean, Atsushi's entire uniform was given to him by each member so I figured it was a perfect parallel. Although there really isn't a tie between the Beast costume and Yuuri's Eros program though- That was just for fun, in a way.

I also definitely want the ADA itself to act as the hot springs that Yuuri's family runs, but I can't figure out which characters would be which person- I'm ALL ears for any suggestions for that btw, I literally only have sskk decided, everyone else is a toss up-

Ahg, there's so much more I'm forgetting, I'm sure, but I wanted to answer this somehow bc I've been dying to get out my thoughts for this AU

Anyway, thank you for the ask! And I'm sorry my response was super late and a full length essay- If there's any specific questions or curiosity, I'll do my best to answer </3

[lostinfic]

Self Indulgent prompts, huh? I love anything with artist Rose so something with that theme. I'm not picky about the Doctor- like my current obsession is Eight/Rose, but I'm perpetually in love with Nine/Rose and Ten/Rose too so whichever Doctor you're most comfortable with.

The Museum of Serendipity

Doctor x Rose, Wilf, male OC (Original Cat)

Rated E  | 2300 words

Sorry this took longer than anticipated, I got sidetracked by research and 8th Doctor audio adventures ;)

I’m fulfilling your self-indulgent prompts

Of all the wonderful, celebrated museums in London, Rose’s favourite was an anarchic collection housed in a crooked Georgian house in Marylebone. 

From ground floor to attic, over four storeys, shelves and frames lined the walls of every room, following a seemingly incoherent design. Part cabinet of curiosity and part celebration of beauty in all its forms, the collection was curated by an anonymous— and eccentric, Rose liked to imagine— philanthropist.

Its name, the Museum of Serendipity, summed up how the collection was put together. Or perhaps it indicated how this museum could be found: by sheer good luck, as it was not advertised anywhere. Rose herself had stumbled upon it by accident last September, when looking for a shelter from the rain. Quite a happy accident, since her art teacher had asked them to visit a gallery for their first assignment of the semester (she’d earned extra points for originality).

Despite few visitors, it remained open from morning to evening. More often than not, the elderly greeter slept in his rocking chair by the door, leaving Basil the cat in charge.

Its location near Regent’s Park, made it a perfect destination for a drawing session. On a beautiful spring day like today, Rose would walk along the paths of the park and draw the flora and fauna in her sketchbook. Then make her way towards the museum. Other days, after a long time indoors, she would enjoy the park’s fresh air and time to reflect on the latest collection piece she’d discovered.

Since her childhood, art had been a way for Rose to travel, around the globe and across time, a way to see the world through other people’s eyes and to share her own vision. A way to exist beyond the Powell Estate. The Museum of Serendipity transported her like nothing else.

Although she enjoyed the morning sun, she didn’t linger in Regent’s Park, too eager to get there. 

The elderly greeter was listening to the radio in his small front office. 

“Hello, Wilf!”

He jumped to his feet with an energy that belied his years.

“Ah, Rose, luv. Alright? How’s school?”

“Got another assignment to complete for art history class. By the way, mid-term break is coming up, if you fancy a holiday, I could cover your shifts here for a few days.”

He would be doing her a favour more than the other way around.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” he said. “We got a new piece came in.”

New pieces were simply added to the exhibition wherever a space was available. As they walked to the drawing room, Rose tried to know more about the museum.

“Who brought this new piece?”

“John did, just this morning.”

“John?”

“Yeah, John McConnell , the mailman,” Wilf said. “Here it is.”

On the mantel lay an artifact shaped like a metal glove without fingertips. Or a pan flute.

“Looks like something from the future,” she joked.

“Modern art, then,” Wilf said. 

He left her to look at it a while longer. The pattern that covered it, both engraved and raised all at once, looked like scales. Rose pulled her sketchbook out of her messenger bag and drew it. Texture study. 

Basil, the museum’s Abyssinian cat, greeted her, rubbing himself against her legs. She petted his long ears and ruddy coat. She followed Basil out of the room, and wandered the now familiar corridors and staircases. Her hand trailed along the faded floral wallpaper and oak paneling. The smell of candle wax and pine wood polish always hung in the air.

There was one painting in particular Rose always came back to, in the third floor library, just above a loveseat that once belonged to Marie Antoinette. Ahead of her, Basil jumped on the loveseat and looked at her expectantly.   

Rose pulled up a chair to sit down, the museum was almost a second home now, she had no qualms moving furniture around.

With a dreamy sigh, she let her eyes roam the large canvas. It depicted a dozen people in elegant Edwardian clothing, visiting an art exhibition. She was transported back in times, it seemed. Back to la Belle Époque. Late 19th- early 20th century, in France. Among women in high-necked waist shirts, carrying white lace parasols and men wearing mustaches and straw boating hats. The era of Moulin Rouge and absinthe, of the first movie, of bicycles and Marie Curie, just to name a few.  The era of Gustav Klimt, Toulouse-Lautrec, Van Gogh and Renoir, the artists whose work Rose had first fallen in love with. The painting itself blended elements of Art Nouveau and Impressionism (as she’d described in her second assignment).  

But there was one character in particular that commanded her attention again and again. There, in the upper left corner. The painter had done this trick which makes it look like the subject’s eyes are on you wherever you stand in the room. Though unnerved at first, Rose now tried to master this technique. Countless time she’d drawn his thick, curly brown hair, the soft contours of his jaw, his blue eyes, the creases that bracketed his mouth. And that smile, a Mona Lisa smile, the hardest trait to capture. 

His clothes also offered many details to work on: the sheen of his satin cravat, the velvet of his jacket, the pattern of his waistcoat. 

At first, she only tried to capture his likeness in various mediums, but over time she tried to sketch his profile, his back. She depicted that gentleman in various poses and actions. He had taken a life of his own. What was he doing there that day? What was his relationship with the painter? Why was he looking at her like that?

Basil meowed. 

“Alright, don’t be jealous. I’ll draw you first, you beautiful boy.”

“Thanks, it’s a new jumper. Do you like the colour?” said a man with a northern accent.

Rose started. He was leaning against the door, looking at her, with the smallest hint of a smile. 

He picked up Basil and sat down on the loveseat, laying the cat on his legs crossed at the knees. Rose held back a quip about the similar size of their ears.

“Well, go on, then,” he said, indicating her sketchbook with his chin.  

“Hold on, are you the director of the museum? Or the curator?”

“No,” he said. “I don’t think so.”

At a loss for a reply, Rose simply got to work. 

If Basil wasn’t running away, then surely this man posed no threat. Just a lost, slightly odd item, like everything else in the Museum of Serendipity. Including herself.

His face offered such striking features to draw, that bold nose, those sharp cheekbones. The cropped hair revealed the shape of his skull and the collar of his sweater, a beautiful neck. A face for charcoal, she thought, to capture the lights and darks of him, in loose, almost intangible strokes. Charcoal and dry pastels, she amended, she had to recreate the infinite blue of his eyes.

They chatted about everything big and small: cats, galaxies, her doubts about art school and his hopes for the future of humanity.

Time flowed differently when she was creating. In that moment more than ever. A sort of appeasing, melodic hum filled her mind, and everything, but her subject, faded away.

When she traced his eyes, she was surprised to find in them a spark, as if he knew her. 

She looked up at him, and he smiled. “Hello,” he said.

Before she could think of a good way to phrase her question, he stood up and looked at the sketch over her shoulder. He gave an appreciative nod.

“We need someone to do a painting of the museum,” he announced. “Are you free to do it?”

“A painting? Are you taking the piss?”

“I’m serious. Great big canvas. Like this one.” He pointed to her favourite painting of la Belle Époque.

“I’ll need money to buy supplies,” she said, to test his good faith.

“Of course.”

He grabbed a tin box in a nearby bookcase; it was full of cash. He handed her the stack of pound notes without counting. Almost as if he was ignorant of their value. “Will this do?”

Rose nodded dumbly. She resolved right away to only spend a reasonable sum. 

“I’ll come by next Wednesday afternoon,” she said.

“Perfect. See you, then, Rose Tyler.”

She spent the next few days in a state of disbelief. Her mind constantly replayed her encounter with the blue-eyed man. Several times, she opened her sketchbook to look at his portrait. The fondness it aroused in her took her breath away. She found herself doodling both him and the gentleman in the painting, over and over.

She bought a load of art supplies, but kept the receipt in a secure place in case she needed a refund.

On Wednesday, she arrived at the museum with a knot in her stomach. Wilf greeted her, as usual, but he was wearing a smart new uniform.

A moment later, the blue-eyed man skipped down the stairs, two at a time, and welcomed her with a bright smile. He introduced himself as the Doctor, just the Doctor, and Rose went along with it— after all, it wasn’t the weirdest thing about him.

He’d set up an easel and a canvas in the third floor library. She barely paid attention to his directives, she was distracted by the number of visitors in the museum, more than she had ever seen.

“Is this a prank show thing or what?” she asked.

“Why would it be a prank show?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well, you said it. Why a prank show?” he repeated.

“‘Cause to get that many actors and props, it’s got to be on telly.”

“That makes sense. Well done.”

“Thanks?”

“It’s not a tv show,” he said. 

“But— why?”

“It’s the museum’s anniversary. We are interested in collecting unique pieces, and what’s more unique than Rose Tyler’s first commissioned artwork?” 

“Maybe the last,” she mumbled.

“It won’t be,” he said, stating a fact rather than paying a compliment. “Coffee?”

The Doctor knew something she didn’t, and as irritating as it was, it incited her to stay and fulfill his request.

She laid a tarp on the floor below the easel, spread out her brushes and palette knives, picked the colours. 

Basil, of course, wanted to be part of the painting. He lay down in the sunniest spot, on the window sill, looking ever so regal.

As she prepped the canvas, her brain ran ahead of her with ideas to best infuse her art with feelings this room evoked. Warm earth tones, old leather bound books, a thick Persian rug, but also glass cases to keep people away, artworks by undisclosed artists, mysteries all around. Inviting and distant all at once. Much like the Doctor.

She scanned the room for him. He stood in a corner of the library, surveying. As she traced his silhouette, she noticed the similarity, in his posture and smile, with the fascinating gentleman in the Belle Époque painting. She made a mental note to ask about that too.

Hours passed by, Wilf kept her comfortable with cups of tea, snacks, a stool, opening the window, closing the window.

Everyone had left. The sun had set. Only the Doctor and Basil remained in the room with her. 

The artwork wasn’t finished, but it had everything she needed to continue another day. Yet, she didn’t leave. She didn’t want to. She stood there, wringing her paint-splattered hands waiting for something, anything, from the Doctor. 

“I want to show you something,” he said. He took her hand and they both stood up on Marie Antoinette’s loveseat. “Look closely.”

Now inches from the Belle Époque painting, she saw it like she never had before. It shimmered and shifted. Like those 3D images you have to cross your eyes to see. She blinked. Looked closer. And drifted through the canvas.

Rose gripped the Doctor’s hand tighter. Behind them, there was no library, only a blue door. And in front of her, the painting had come to life. No— they weren’t in the painting, they were in Paris of the 1900s. Around her, people chatted in French, cigar smoke wafted to her nose, and through a window that wasn’t on the painting, she could see the brand new Eiffel tower.

The gentleman that had so fascinated her was there too. Thick hair, bright smile.

“Rose, we meet at last,” he said.

His voice sounded exactly like she’d imagined. She didn’t know until now that she’d imagined his voice.

“She’s all yours,” the Doctor said.

Rose didn’t let go of his hand.

“Don’t worry, I’ll be here to bring you back to your own timeline.”

He disappeared through the blue door.

The other man linked their arms together. A feeling of safety washed over her. He was a stranger and yet not at all. As if to reassure her further, an Abyssinian cat sauntered by.

“Is that Basil?” Rose asked.

“In a fashion. Cats have nine lives, as you know.”

“And you, Doctor, how many have you got?”

The Doctor smiled. “Ah, you figured it out, clever girl.”

That didn’t mean she didn’t have a ton of questions, but for now, she only wanted to soak up the magic of it all. 

The Doctor showed her around the room. They mingled with the other visitors, admiring the artwork on the walls. Rose couldn’t stop grinning.

They stopped in front of a painting depicting another gallery, in another museum, in another era.

“Can we go through there too?” Rose ventured.

“Yes, but wouldn’t you like to see Paris first?”

“We can go out?”

“Of course. You know, my friend Claude has been pestering me about visiting his garden. Nice fellow, this Claude. Mind you, he’s a tad obsessed with water lilies.”

[monchikyun]

27. boys will be boys

Connor doesn’t want to go home today, not when he’s sporting yet another black eye on his pallid face. His dad is going to play cops with him by interrogating him until he has no choice but to spill the truth and admit that he’s nothing but a weak coward who can’t fight for himself. Perhaps it’s because the old man has a lot of experience in that field, being an actual lieutenant and all that. Connor tries to sometimes use that fact as a trump card when he wants to look cool and feel like he’s accepted among his peers, not that it’s ever worked. You see, being a twelve-year-old boy is not an easy job. It’s quite demanding to make sure he doesn’t get fired. He gave up on wearing all the right clothes or pretending that he likes sports when in reality all he ever wants to do is to draw. He’d like to repaint the world around him to his liking so that he could feel like it’s a place he belongs to. Like it’s been made just for him and the people he likes.

The sad truth is he doesn’t really have any friends, only people who don’t hurt him, who don’t participate in the frequent bullying he’s been enduring ever since starting the sixth grade. The rascals that take it out on him is a twisted bunch, nothing that significant about them, but there’ this one boy who despite being mean to him, despite inflicting as much pain as the others, gives him a look that could maybe convey a hidden understanding or sympathy, if he stretches his wishful thinking. Because it’s nothing else but that, in the end. The need to have someone on his side, a person who would acknowledge that he’s not being treated fairly. Just one friend to confide in, other than his father who is too busy as is to concern himself with Connor’s childish problems.

Today he was surrounded by three kids who really hated the fact that his drawings look way better than any of theirs. So they made their best effort to seize them and torn them apart like they deserved nothing but condemnation. He couldn’t bear to watch the only thing that meant something to him getting destroyed right before his eyes and so he stupidly tried to defend them, scraping at the little courage at the bottom of his gut. In the end, only one drawing was sparred the ruthless treatment, which couldn’t be said about Connor. He tried to be brave for once, which had to be dutifully punished. Maybe trying isn’t enough, for cowards have a way of staying safely within the boundaries of their fears. Maybe he should change who he is if he wants to survive in this world.

He’s about to turn the last corner before reaching the street on which he lives, but someone shouts his name and he doesn’t feel threatened by it. It’s like someone is glad to catch him here, like the caller’s intentions aren’t the ones that will hurt him.

 It’s Gavin, the small feral child with stormy eyes that display that kind of pain Connor recognizes. He watches the boy wave him over, and he thinks he imagines it but there is a grin on Gavin’s face, and that’s the main thing that makes him decide not to run home and hide under a blanket.

His steps are slow, careful, because a part of him warns that this is a ruse, that he’s stupid for falling for it so willingly.

But when he’s so close that he can mark the scar on Gavin’s nose, even the most skeptical part of himself is convinced that he’s not being a victim of a vicious prank, not this time.

“Hey. You lost this.” There is a piece of paper in the boy’s extended hand, one that is full of small scribbles of dogs and the characters he’s invented when the people belonging to the real world let him down.

He really wants to thank him for being so considerate, for not treating him like a punching bag for once, but the words get stuck in his throat, the lump that has formed there preventing them to escape the confines of his mind. There are tears in his eyes ready to embarrass him, and so he pushes them down, needing to keep some of his dignity intact. And the picture is still in Gavin’s hand.

“It’s cool… but a bit weird.” The boy brings the doodle filled paper in front of his face, squinting his eyes to study it with a great concentration.

“Why did you draw me like that when I’ve been treating you like shit?”

Before he gets the chance to argue, Gavin points out one figure that he remembers absent-mindedly scribbling during maths when he couldn’t be bothered to pay attention. Looking at it now, the angry boy in the picture really does resembles his favourite bully. It’s a mystery of how he hasn’t noticed that earlier. But then again, he quite enjoys observing Gavin when no one else can note is actions, so it’s not all that shocking that his image would be imprinted onto Connor’s subconsciousness.

He shrugs instead of replying properly, for he’s still a bit afraid to let anyone hear he uncertainty his voice would betray. The slightly crumpled paper is still being observed by Gavin, like he’s trying to find some secret code in the incoherent doodles. It makes him feel a little proud of himself, for the first time in a long while.

“You can keep it if you want.”

It’s said before he can activate his filter, and he finds that he doesn’t regret that sentence. Connor really wants for Gavin to have it, for a reason he can’t nail down.

“Thanks, I guess.”

All at once, he forgets about the scars on his face, about the tension in his stomach. Because Gavin looks like he’s genuinely happy about receiving this not all that outstanding collection of small drawings, despite his efforts to conceal it behind his faked indifference.

“What- what about the others, do they know you’re here?”

Connor doesn’t fear for Gavin’s safety, no, he’s just curious.

“Don’t care. I’m not friends with them anymore.” He watches the paper being tucked in Gavin’s jeans pocket.

“Why?”

“They suck. It was fun hanging out with them, but… they crossed the line. They… they plan on doing some really messed up shit to you, Connor.”

Somehow he isn’t all that disconcerted by that information. It’s just a natural development of events, or that’s what he figures.

“Oh… that’s..”

“We won’t let them, though.”

The fierce green eyes pierce him through, making his heart beat a little faster.

“We?” It’s very strange that Gavin acts like the two of them doing anything together is all but ordinary.

“I have some neat ideas we can use. You afraid of spiders?”

Agreeing to Gavin’s nefarious schemes is one of the easiest decision he’s ever made. Connor never thought he would possess such creativity, but somehow he senses that there is so much more for him to discover about the boy who might just care enough to make a difference in his bleak life.

Maybe it’s just his desperate need for attention or the loneliness that keeps him spacing out during lunch breaks, but he thinks, he wishes that the two of them could become real friends sometimes in the future yet unwritten.

@convinseptember children can be especially mean if you think about it xD but not all of them!

[stop-breaking-my-heart-telltale]

confessions and constellations [1/3]

Summary: AJ finds a crumpled up piece of paper with a poem on it. Not understanding what it means, he shows it to Clem. It seems that the two of them have a mystery on their hands. They know who wrote it, but... who is the poem about?

Preview: He’s going to confess. It’s all planned out.

Step one: Write down ALL his feelings in the form of a beautiful and breathtaking poem [because poetry is easy and romantic, right?].

Step Two: Send a letter asking to meet him on the roof late one night [preferably when the moon is bright and the air isn’t too cold].

Step Three: Read his poem out loud in the moonlight [without puking, please] thereby confessing his love. 

Step Four: ??? Rejection?? Possible death?? Probably?

Not a plan without flaw, of course, but what else is he supposed to do? 

Warnings: Aasim’s an awkward boy in love who can only express himself in bad poetry. Clem doesn’t realize what she’s gotten herself into. Mitch eats moldy beef jerky. 

Author’s Note: My life’s been a hot mess for the past few weeks, but I got some free time and this idea in my head while working on chapter five of [when he smiled] so here it is. Also, I’m not awesome at poetry, so neither is Aasim. That one’s on me. I did a little outlining [gasp, right?] and have concluded that instead of making this one enormous fic, I’ll split it into three parts. So, here’s this little thing because I love my awkward boy Aasim and he needs for fics centered around him.

Part I | Part II  | Part III

---

I couldn’t sleep last night every time I closed my eyes your smile  it  

Aasim chews on the worn eraser of his pencil.

it

He rereads it, again and again, wracking his brains for the proper words.

Beside him, Mitch munches noisily on a piece of old jerky he found in the basement while Omar watches in disgust.

“Dude, c’mon.” 

“What?” Mitch gulps before knawing on the jerky again. 

Aasim rubs at his tired eyes and rests his chin in his palm. He watches, absolutely disgusted, as Mitch tries to chew through the toughness of the dried out meat. 

Mitch eyes him, offering him the jerky with a quirked brow. Aasim shakes his head and taps his pencil against the notebook. 

“What rhymes with eyes?” he asks. 

From across the table, Omar quirks a brow. “Eyes?”

“Dies,” says Mitch. “Cries. Fries.”

“Skies?” Omar offers. 

“Pies. Dries. Lies.” Mitch continues. “Guys. Spies. Ties. Tries. Flies. Ssss...smies?”

“Not a word,” frowns Omar. 

“Yies. Quies. Zies.”

“None of those are words.”

Aasim sighs. 

I couldn’t sleep last night every time I closed my eyes your laugh it

“Nevermind,” Aasim mumbles. He tries again.

Mitch takes another bite of jerky.

Omar says, “That thing’s probably gonna kill you.” 

“Probably,” Mitch replies. “Want some?”

thunder, that’s what you are you 

“Seriously?” Omar scoffs.

“Tastes better than rabbit stew.”

“Oh, you can just fuck right off with that.”

Willy laughs.

you send vibrations  through the earth with your laugh alone

Mitch shrugs. He pulls his knife out and cuts a chunk off for Willy, who happily shoves the whole thing in his mouth. 

“Don’t give him that!” Omar scolds. 

Willy’s face twists into something uncomfortable. “It’s hard,” he complains.

“Chew it.”

“It hurts to chew.”

“Then, suck on it.”

“Ew- oh god!” Omar reaches over and snatches the remaining jerky away. Mitch nearly flings himself across the table to take it back. This causes Aasim’s pencil to dig across the paper, tearing it. 

“What the fuck!? Give it back!”

Omar points at something gray and fuzzy on the side. “That’s mold! You’re gonna get sick!”

Willy spits the jerky out onto the table. 

“Jerky doesn’t get moldy, dumbass!”

“Then what’s this!?”

thunder, that’s what you are you send vibrations  through the earth with your laugh alone 

Aasim glares at the two of them.  “Hey, can you two, like, stop?” He tears the page from his book and crumples it up. 

Mitch steals his jerky back, pointedly taking another bite with obnoxious chewing noises. He then starts pulling the gray stuff off the remaining jerky. 

Omar, exasperated, gives up. “Sorry, just trying to keep Mitch alive, but you know, what can you do?”

“Fuck off,” Mitch grumbles, “s’not even mold. Just a dust bunny.”

“Oh, right, ‘cause that’s healthy.”

Willy picks up the soggy piece he spat out and sticks it back in his mouth. 

“Willy!”

“What?”

They continue to bicker back and forth about the questionable meat. With a heavy sigh, Aasim does his best to tune them out. He turns away from them and lays his head against his arm. 

The blank page was refreshing, he thought. The previously ruined page had become nothing but scribbled out words and poorly doodled hearts anyway. 

What a loser. 

There’s laughter from the other table. Aasim peeks over. 

Marlon, Brody, Violet, Ruby, Louis, and Clementine sat together, grinning and giggling about something. 

He quickly turns back to his paper. He bit at his lip and picks his pencil back up. 

Right.

The whole reason he was writing this. 

It’s not that he forgot or anything, it’s just been... difficult. 

Lately, he’d been having some interesting thoughts. 

Interesting feelings.

He couldn’t talk about it. He didn’t have anyone to talk to about it in the first place, and anything he did say in the privacy of his room was incoherent and jumbled. Only on paper could he even begin to process these feelings. 

The more and more he wrote, the more poems he ripped apart, the more he came to understand these feelings. And he knew one thing: He needs to do something about them. As nice as it is to do nothing and let those feelings eat away at his insides, he knows he can’t live like that anymore. He doesn’t want to pretend everything’s okay, that he isn’t...

...that he isn’t in love. 

Fuck. 

In love.

He didn’t know how else to put it. 

He’s in like-like?

He’s got a bad case of ‘super-intense-crushitis’. 

God, that’s stupid. 

Aasim is in love and it’s slowly killing him. 

So, he’s devised a plan. Nothing too brilliant. 

He’s going to confess. It’s all planned out.

Step one: Write down ALL his feelings in the form of a beautiful and breathtaking poem [because poetry is easy and romantic, right?].

Step Two: Send a letter asking to meet him on the roof late one night [preferably when the moon is bright and the air isn’t too cold].

Step Three: Read his poem out loud in the moonlight [without puking, please] thereby confessing his love. 

Step Four: ??? Rejection?? Possible death?? Probably?

Not a plan without flaw, of course, but what else is he supposed to do? 

It shouldn’t be this hard. Writing a poem that’s both interesting and gets his point across shouldn’t be this hard. Fuck, confessing shouldn’t be this hard. He wishes he could just blurt it out without a thought, without a worry but...

There’s more laughter from the table. He watches as they all stand, still talking and joking with each other before parting ways.

He gathers his notebook and gets up from the table. He doesn’t bother excusing himself. He moves over to the desk he usually writes at and gets comfortable. 

He takes a deep breath to calm his heavily beating heart and closes his eyes.

It’s not that hard. I can’t be. All he’s done since the world went to shit is write. He digs deep into himself, thinking back to every look, every smile, every rapid heartbeat.

Back to every dream he’s had of them sitting together, watching the stars and sharing a first kiss- God, a first kiss- and holding hands and pretending, even for a moment, that nothing else exists except for the two of them. 

He exhales shakily. 

Within seconds, he’s writing again. 

---

“What do you think?” Tenn holds up his freshly colored picture. 

AJ studies it carefully, taking in all the little details. The smile that spreads across his face is wide and full of teeth. “That looks awesome!”

Tenn grins appreciatively.

AJ works quickly on his drawing, shading in the trees with three different types of greens to make it look more read; a trick Tenn had taught him. He doesn’t know how long they sat together, coloring and lightly chatting. Eventually, Tenn starts picking up all his colors and tucking them back in the purple case neatly.

“You’re not done, are you?” AJ asks.. 

Tenn nods. “Yeah, I-I’m kind of tired.”

“Oh,” AJ frowns, the disappointment clear on his face. 

“We can color again tomorrow,” Tenn offers, “o-or we can play something else?”

“Okay,” says AJ. He helps Tenn put away the rest of his colors and waves goodbye to his friend.  Alone on the bend, AJ takes in his surroundings. He finds Clem standing by the fire with Louis. The two are deep in conversation. 

Just as AJ’s about to go join them, he hears a sharp curse. 

Aasim’s sitting in his desk with a sullen face. AJ pauses, watching him carefully. He’s firmly holding a piece of paper and his lips are moving quickly. AJ doesn’t think anything of it until Aasim shakes his head and crumples up the paper.

“No, that’s-” AJ hears him murmur. He sighs. “-that’s... stupid.”

He sits back in his desk with his legs stretching out and his hands rubbing at his face. 

When AJ approaches him, he’s cautious. Aasim doesn’t notice him. 

“Um...?” AJ tries to think of something to say, but before he can get anything out, Aasim slams his book shut and jumps up from the desk, book in hand, and storms off. He doesn’t even bother to pick up the wad of paper as it falls to the dirt.

He’s mad, but why? AJ thinks to himself. 

He reaches down and unfolds the paper. 

“Woah...” 

There’s a lot of words. 

Like, a lot. 

Most of them are crossed out, but there’s one bundle of text that’s left untouched.

“A...th... thhh.... ah-uh-sand stor-stories....” he sounds out. He continues to try and read the words, but none of it makes any sense. Some words are easy, like ‘us’ and ‘safe,’ but most are tricky. 

AJ peers around before pocketing the note. 

He approaches Clem and Louis at the same time as Marlon. 

“Clem, you’re on watch now,” he says. 

“Ah, night watch,” Louis dramatically yawns, “lucky you. I’ll think of you out here in the cold while I’m tucked in my nice, warm bed.” 

Clem rolls her eyes, a smile betraying on her lips as she elbows him. “If I recall, you have the early morning watch, hm?”

“What?” Louis gasps. “Since when?”

“Since you missed watch yesterday,” frowns Marlon.

“Dude, not a morning person, remember?” Louis complains.

“Yeah, I remember,” Marlon shakes his head. “That’s why I’ll be there to personally drag your ass outta bed and up that ladder.”

“Duuuuuude,” Louis whines.

“Guess you shoulda taken your turn on watch yesterday, huh?”

“Uuuggggh.”

“Don’t worry,” Clem smirks, placing a hand on his arm. “You’ll be in our thoughts while we’re eating our delicious breakfast.” She lingers before walking off. 

Louis opens his mouth to say something but closes it when he sees the grin on Marlon’s face. AJ doesn’t stick around to hear the rest of the conversation. 

“Clem!” AJ runs after her. 

“Hey, goofball,” she smiles. AJ ignores the nickname. He tugs at her sleeve. “I’m on watch with you, right?”

“I guess so? Marlon didn’t say-”

“Awesome!” He grabs her arm. “Marlon! I’m going on watch with Clem!” he calls back. Marlon waves a hand in acknowledgment. AJ forcefully pulls her to their post. 

“Woah, AJ! Slow down!”

They climb the ladder and look over their surroundings. 

Clem brushes a leaf off her jacket, asking, “What’re you in such a hurry for?”

“I wanna ask you something.”

“Okay?” Clem crosses her arms. “What is it?”

Before he answers, AJ pulls out the binoculars they keep hanging there and does a quick survey of the area. He spots a few walkers wandering aimlessly through the trees. Nothing too threatening. 

“I found something,” he says. 

Clem tenses, moving closer and eyeing the area. “Where?”

AJ lowers the binoculars. “No, I mean, I found this.” He hands them up and digs around in his pocket. He pulls the crumpled up paper and hands it to her. 

“A paper?”

“Yeah, but I don’t really get it,” he admits. “I can’t understand some of the words.”

Her curiosity peaked, Clem straightens out the paper. She assumes he’s referring to the block of handwritten text that isn’t scribbled out. 

“Can you read it to me?” he asks. 

“I guess.”

Out loud, she reads.

a thousand stories  I could write  about us in the night sky starting with your fingers wrapped around mine  and your laugh tickling my ear and warming my skin

Clem’s voice moves to a murmur as she glances over the rest of the text with widening eyes. 

“I can’t hear you,” complains AJ.

She stops, clears her throat, and backtracks. 

in this universe where death lurks in the darkness like the moonlight you scare away shadows and for once I feel safe

I trace your freckles like constellations  in an inky sky connecting to your  beautiful smile and I want  nothing more than for our  lips to meet

even if the stars shower all around us it couldn’t compare  to your laugh to your smile to your touch or to the way you make me feel

all I think about is the sun rising and our story  continuing in the clouds so that one day you and I  together can live in the sky

When she finishes, the words hanging heavy in the air, they remain silent. Clem studies AJ’s face. It’s the same face me makes when he’s trying to sound out and understand a difficult word.

“I... don’t get it,” he sighs, “what does it mean?”

“Well,” she rereads some of the verses, “it sounds like it’s a love poem.” 

“What’s a poem?”

“It’s like a song, I guess? Just without music.”

“Oh,” AJ takes the paper back and looks it over. So, Aasim was writing a love poem-song thing? And he’s mad about it... why? He didn’t feel mad while Clem was reading it to him. In fact, he actually kind of liked it. 

“I like it,” he says.

“Me, too, actually...” Clem smiles. Then, she turns to him and asks, “Where’d you get this?”

“Oh, um...” AJ pulls the binoculars out again. “I found it by the stairs,” he replies. “Aasim dropped it.”

“Aasim dropped-” Clem’s eyes shot open wide. “This is Aasim’s?”

“I saw him writing it,” AJ admits. 

“You took this from Aasim?”

“No, I didn’t take it- I mean, he threw it away and I just grabbed it,” AJ explains. “He looked really mad while he was writing it and I just wanted to know why, but I couldn’t read it.” 

“AJ, this-” Clem suddenly felt guilt pooling in her stomach. Clearly, this wasn’t meant for her to read, much less AJ, and who knows what Aasim would say if he found out they read it. “You really need to give this back.”

“Why? He threw it away.”

“Doesn’t matter. This is really personal.”

“What do you mean?”

“By reading this we invaded his privacy. I don’t think he wants anyone to read this,” she sighs. “Remember when we first met him? And he was writing in his book?”

“Yeah?”

“And you took his book, without asking, and read it out loud?”

“Yeah...”

“He wasn’t happy about that, was he?”

“No...”

“And he was grateful that you have it back, right?”

AJ thought about this while chewing on his lip. “But... you said this is a love song, right?”

“Poem,” she corrects. “That-”

“So, he really likes someone,” a smile spreads across AJ’s face, “maybe we could help him?”

Clem frowns. “No-”

“Who do you think it is?”

Clem sighs, growing more frustrated. “I don’t know, it doesn’t say.”

“Maybe it’s you,” AJ points out with a giggle.

Clem feels heat rise to her cheeks. She crosses her arms. “It’s not me,” she says firmly. 

“How do you know?”

“I don’t have freckles.”

“Huh?”

Clem holds the paper up. “’I trace your freckles like constellations in an inky sky,’” she reads, pointing at her face, “it can’t be me because I don’t have freckles.”

“Oh,” AJ says. “But, what are freckles?”

An image of Louis’ grinning face flashes in her mind. “They’re little birthmarks,” she replies. “Like, little dots.”

AJ comes closer to her, standing on his tiptoes and studying her face. He then puffs out his cheeks. “Damn,” he curses. “No freckles.”

“No freckles.”

“Shit,” AJ pouts. “Maybe I could ask him-”

“No,” Clem snaps, “absolutely not.” 

“Why?” AJ whines. “I wanna know who Aasim likes.”

“I’m sure you do, but-”

“Aren’t you curious?” he interrupts.

“Sure, but that doesn’t mean I can just waltz up to him and ask,” she explains. “We're not even supposed to have this.”

“Maybe we could figure it out who it is?” 

“AJ-”

“Then, we can show them the poem-”

“No-!”

“-and then they’ll get a crush on Aasim and they’ll be together!” AJ grins from ear to ear. 

“Okay, that’s not how that works, kiddo.” Clem shakes her head. Sometimes, she wishes her thinking could be as simple and optimistic as AJ’s. 

AJ grabs her hand, staring up at her. “C’mon, Clem,” he begs, “when I tried to talk to him, he... he didn’t just look mad. I think he was sad, too. He’s our friend, so we should help him. I know that maybe I shouldn’t have taken it, but I did, and now I wanna help.”

Clem sighs. “And if this person doesn’t like Aasim back?”

“Why wouldn’t they?” AJ asks. “I like Aasim.”

“I mean in a ‘kissing’ way,” Clem clarifies. “Just because Aasim likes someone doesn’t mean they’ll like him back. “

“We won’t know unless we figure it out.”

“You’re really set on this, aren’t you?”

AJ grins. “Yep!”

It’s a bad idea. Terrible, even. If Aasim found out about this, he’d probably never speak to them again. 

Or worse.

But... she’d be lying if she said she wasn’t curious. 

Against her every better judgment, she says, “Okay, but we do this my way.”

AJ hops up and down, excited. “Yes! Yes!”

“First off, we can never tell Aasim. Ever.”

“Okay! Promise!”

“Second, I keep the poem. We can’t show it to anyone.”

"Not even if we figure out who it is?”

“Especially if we figure it out.”

AJ looked at the ground, crossing his arms and thinking out loud, “So... how are we gonna figure it out?”

“Well, we have one clue, remember?”

“The freckles?”

Clem nods.

“So, we just need to find the people with freckles?”

“And we’ll go from there,” she agrees. 

They would start tomorrow when everyone’s eating breakfast. Clem stuffs the paper in her pocket, wondering quietly to herself if this was a good thing they were doing, or a disaster waiting to happen.

---