#is this bc of my metas this morning?

[hergan416]

You realize you're intelligent as fuck?

Fdhdsjjshdd I've been sitting here all day trying to figure out what to say to this lolol

I've landed on: "That doesn't make me happy at all, you idiot!" a la Tony Tony Chopper.

(Translation for people not into One Piece: I am very happy, and extremely awkward about accepting complements)

[bloominglegumes]

i love normal guys doomed by the narrative

[caeslxys]

I’ve mentioned this elsewhere but it feels relevant again in light of the most recent episode. Something that’s really fascinating to me about Orym’s grief in comparison to the rest of the hells’ grief is that his is the youngest/most fresh and because of that tends to be the most volatile when it is triggered (aside from FCG, who was two and obviously The Most volatile when triggered.)

As in: prior to the attack on Zephrah, Orym was leading a normal, happy, casual life! with family who loved him and still do! Grief was something that was inflicted upon him via Ludinus’ machinations, whereas with characters like Imogen or Ashton, grief has been the background tapestry of their entire lives. And I think that shows in how the rest of them are largely able to, if not see past completely (Imogen/Laudna/Chetney) then at least temper/direct their vitriol or grief (Ashton/Fearne/Chetney again) to where it is most effective. (There is a glaring reason, for example, that Imogen scolded Orym for the way he reacted to Liliana and not Ashton. Because Ashton’s anger was directed in a way that was ultimately protective of Imogen—most effective—and Orym’s was founded solely in his personal grief.)

He wants Imogen to have her mom and he wants Lilliana to be salvageable for Imogen because he loves Imogen. But his love for the people in his present actively and consistently tend to conflict with the love he has for the people in his past. They are in a constant battle and Orym—he cannot fathom losing either of them.

(Or, to that point, recognize that allowing empathy to take root in him for the enemy isn't losing one of them.)

It is deeply poignant, then, that Orym’s grief is symbolized by both a sword and shield. It is something he wields as a blade when he feels his philosophy being threatened by certain conversational threads (as he believes it is one of the only things he has left of Will and Derrig, and is therefore desperately clinging onto with both bloody hands even if it makes him, occasionally, a hypocrite), but also something he can use in defense of the people he presently loves—if that provocative, blade-grief side of him does not push them—or himself—away first.

(it won’t—he is as loved by the hells as he loves them. he just needs to—as laudna so beautifully said—say and hear it more often.)

[airenyah]

A LOOK AT STYLE'S JOURNEY | Ep 6

(Overview | Ep1+2 | Ep3 | Ep4 | Ep5 | Ep7 | Ep8 | Ep9 | Ep10)

I meant to post this on January 1st since we didn't get a new episode that day, but then I got distracted making gifsets and writing other meta. Oh, and I was also busy finally watching the show with my mother. Whoops. But my thoughts on episode 6 are finally here! ENJOY <3

Pronoun situation: As usual, just assume Fadel and Style use the rude guu/mueng with each other unless I point out a significant pronoun switch.

To recap: Style has spent all of last episode coming to terms with the fact that he was falling in love with someone who regularly kills people. By the end of the episode he has come to a conscious decision that he wants to be with Fadel no matter what. Fadel ends up spending the night in Style's bed where they have a significant conversation about trust before they make love. "Making love", because love is finally most definitely involved in the act.

No. 1: Morning Cardio

It's the morning after and probably the very first morning in their relationship that they wake up together. They bicker and Style finally gets his morning cardio in. All is good, all is well, everyone is happy, no one is sad. I desperately try to repress any memories of how this episode ends in order to get through this scene without sobbing. I end up crying anyway as I think about how the first time they hooked up Fadel abandoned Style on the floor of a cold, dark room after punching him in the gut and now Fadel is lying on top of Style, cuddling and kissing him in a warm room filled with the brightest sunshine.

Anyway, so Fadel wakes up Style who really doesn't want to get up yet. Fadel chides Style for not setting an alarm. But Style won't lie there and get scolded again and so he immediately scolds Fadel back: "I told you to hold back and you didn’t listen to me, either." And since everyone loves the language tidbits so much, here is the literal translation of the "I told you to hold back" part:

Last night I told you to stop เมื่อคืนอ่ะ กูบอกให้มึงหยุด [mêuua keun - àh • guu - bòk - hâi mueng - yùt] last night - [particle] • I - tell - for you to - stop

As grumpy as Style is about being woken up and having to get out of bed, there's a lot of amusement in his voice when he says this and his facial expression is also warm as he looks at Fadel. But then he closes his eyes again and immediately goes back to being a little morning grump as he dramatically laments that his body is sore and that he oh so sadly can't go to work. Fadel is now so relaxed around Style that he finally starts cracking jokes and playing along with Style's antics, offering to take Style to the hospital while trying to scoop Style up bridal style (haha. style. 🤭) in order to take him just there. But it's too early in the day for these games and Style really does not wanna leave the bed just yet. And so he impatiently complains about Fadel trying to carry him, and then explains: "I was just being overdramatic." In Thai, the word that was translated as "overdramatic" is สำออย [săm-oi] which my native speaker friend defined as "pretending to be weak about something" and explained that it's a negative word that is mostly used to make sarcastic remarks. That would certainly fit with Style's slight morning grumpiness. I also looked up the word on thai2english which defines the word as following:

[to] look for sympathy (by acting excessively sad or crying)

Style wasn't exactly crying when he complained about his body being sore, but he sure was looking for sympathy. So he clarifies that he was only pretending and that Fadel didn't need to maneuver him out of bed and then goes on to say: "I know you’re like a block of walking ice, but you should learn to read between the lines." In Thai Style uses the word อารมณ์ [ah-rom] here which translates to "mood" or "feeling" or "emotion":

An ice wall like you should learn to read other people's mood/emotions. กำแพงน้ำแข็งแบบมึงอ่ะหัดอ่านอารมณ์คนอื่นบ้าง [gam-paeng náam kăeng - bàep - mueng - àh - hàt - àan - aa-rom - kon èun - bâang] ice wall - like - you - [particle] - practice - read - mood, emotion - others - some

And Style's current mood is "staying in bed" and "wanting to be babied". The message finally reaches Fadel and he pushes Style back onto the pillow. He props himself up above Style and comes back to what Style was saying about his muscles being sore. "They say we should hit it right where it hurts. It’s like exercising. That’s how your body builds stronger muscles." Style responds with a challenge: "Thanks for the trivia, but I don’t see why you’re telling me this." In Thai he actually phrases it like a question:

[...] but what are you telling me this for? แต่บอกกูเพื่ออะไรเนี่ย [dtàe - bòk - guu - pêuua à-rai - nîia] but - tell - I/me - what for, why - [particle]

(Alt. translation: But why are you telling me this?)

I personally prefer it phrased as a question because it makes the challenge a little more direct. With the exception of rhetorical questions, a question encourages a response. With Style phrasing it like a question, Fadel is pretty much obliged to respond because a question is expected to be followed by an answer. And the answer is? "You need to exercise daily."

Fadel leans down and starts pampering Style with kisses. By now Style's morning grumpiness has faded away completely and is replaced by contentment instead as the lyrics "And now I'm yours / All yours, baby / Now I'm yours" play. Now they are officially each other's. They are officially in love.

No. 2: Awkward Encounters

Unexpectedly, Style's dad returns from his fishing trip just in time to catch Fadel leaving the garage. Style walks in on his dad having a very awkward interview with Fadel and comes to Fadel's rescue. By now Style is much more awake and in a considerably brighter mood than he was right after waking up. His dad immediately starts teasing him about Fadel, but Style isn't having it. He shoots his dad down by calling Fadel his "friend" (part of me wonders if he does that because maybe Fadel and Style haven't really discussed how open/official they wanna be with their relationship outside their inner circle of KB/FS and he doesn't just wanna drop the news to his dad without checking in with Fadel first), he lets his dad know he is being embarrassing and then gently sends Fadel away, releasing him from this very uncomfortable situation that he was suddenly trapped in. And I just adore the way Style stares after Fadel, watching him leave without tearing away his gaze:

Even when his dad starts making a teasing sound, Style takes a moment to fully process that his dad is talking to him while he himself is too busy looking at Fadel and having his attention and thoughts fully on his boyfriend. It's only when his dad starts speaking properly that Style finally turns his head towards him. His dad continues to tease him but even with Fadel gone, Style still isn't in the mood for it and quickly changes the topic to his dad's fishing tip. And their ensuing banter is very endearing because you can just clearly tell how important Style's dad is to him and how much they genuinely like each other. And a little detail I also love is how Style's dad wears a vest similar to the one Style wears later in this episode.

(Btw, y'all, Style stares after Fadel for so long that I had to go with using only every 3rd frame to make the gif fit in the 8mb size limit. That's how long Style stares for jgkdkjfdg)

Side quest: To Play or Not to Play

Now, if you read my previous metas and especially my ep3 meta you'll know that I've been arguing for Style not actually being into sleeping around all that much. Now, you could take Style's dad asking Fadel "Are you his one-time thing or are you taking him seriously?" as confirmation that Style is a player after all. However, I still don't think so. First of all, I'm not gonna believe it until Style has said it himself and even more importantly his actions and behavior also convince me otherwise (considering how many lies all the characters in this series constantly tell) and second of all, I'm not sure Style's dad himself actually knows whether his son sleeps around or not. After all, this is the same man who only the other week said "I forgot you like men". And also the way he was so surprised about seeing an unfamiliar face coming out of his house lets me think that Style usually doesn't have any random over-night visitors. Not to mention his dad being surprised about Style's type ("Oh, well, who’d have guessed that’s your type?").

And all that isn't to say Style never has a one-night stand. I'm just saying, I don't think it happens on a regular basis. As I said in my ep3 meta, I think Style makes very deliberate choices of who he sleeps with and that is also confirmed in episode 5 when Style mentions how his dad tried to set him up with some mechanics but Style wanted to be able to choose for himself. If Style does have one-night stands, it seems like he either never brings them home or he simply just doesn't sleep around often enough for his dad to be in any way used to it. Personally, I think it's the latter. I think Style gets picky about who he sleeps with, because to him sex matters (as discussed in my ep4 meta as well).

Oh, and also in Thai the dad uses the expression หลอกฟัน [lòk fan] which is a colloquial phrase which my native speaker friend explained as "to trick someone into sex". And by the way, Style himself uses that exact expression in episode 4 at the Rise Up meeting when he bitches about getting nailed and bailed. And now I'm a bit angry at myself that I felt too awkward to ask about this phrase back when I was writing my ep4 meta, because the "tricking" connotation of this phrase definitely adds some nuance to Style's anger in episode 4. But coming back to episode 6, I think Style's dad isn't necessarily saying this because of his son's potential love life habits and it's more him being a bit of a protective dad who wants to make sure the people his son keeps company with aren't gonna cause heartbreak to his son.

No. 3: Make the Most of It

Style and Kant meet for a drink and Kant gets right to the point: "If they really decided to carry out their operation tomorrow, and got arrested by Captain, what should we do?" Style doesn't like the thought of Fadel (and Bison) being arrested and suggests a solution: "Let's stop them." Kant reminds him that he can't just walk up to Bison and outright tell him to abandon the mission and Style agrees that Kant would not make it out of that situation alive. "Unless you leave him right now", Style says. Or more literally:

Unless you get out of his life from now on. นอกจากมึงจะออกจากชีวิตไบซันตั้งแต่ตอนนี้ [nôk jàak - mueng - já - òhk jàak - chii-wít - Bison - dtâng-dtàe - dton-níi] apart from, except - you - will - depart, leave - life - Bison - since, from - (right) now

It's not like the literal translation is a big difference from the official translation, but I just thought "leave his life" sounds more dramatic and I'm sure some of you will appreciate this little tidbit of info as well.

Style doesn't know if Kant can simply just just get out of Bison's life or not but what Style does know is that he himself certainly can't just drop out of Fadel's life to never see him again: "But as for me, I’m getting kinda attached to Fadel". Or what he actually says:

But to be honest, I've already begun to worry about Fadel. แต่เอาจริงๆ กูเริ่มเป็นห่วงฟาเดลแล้วนะ [dtàe - ao jing jing • guu - rêum - bpen hùuang - Fadel - láew - ná] but - honestly, seriously - I - begin - be worried - Fadel - already - [particle]

Thai doesn't have verb tenses, so I think a possible translation would also be "I'm beginning to worry about Fadel". Personally, I think present perfect tense is more fitting, since last episode Style already told Kant "I’m beginning to worry about him now", which – something I missed it in my ep5 meta in my hurry to finish before episode 6 dropped and have since added to the post – but what Style says in reality in episode 5 is:

I'm worrying about him now. ตอนนี้กูเป็นห่วงฟาเดลแล้วว่ะ [dton-níi - guu - bpen hùuang - Fadel - láew - wâ] now - I - be worried - Fadel - already - [particle]

(Alt. translation: I'm worried about him now.)

In episode 5 Style says nothing about "beginning to" worry, no, in episode 5 he clearly states that he is already worrying about Fadel and so I think it makes sense to interpret his statement in episode 6 as "I've started to worry about Fadel", since it's something that began in the past (episode 5) and is still ongoing as of this point.

Anyway, so Style questions if Kant would be able to get out of Bison's life and lets him know I myself can't get out of Fadel's life now that I've started to worry about him. We immediately see proof of his worry as he practically begs Kant to hurry up with getting the boss behind everything arrested so that this mess can finally come to an end. And once again we see that Style is quite the optimist: "Those two will be free, and we can go on with our lives."

I think it's not just optimism that led Style to say this words, but also bit of wishful thinking and most importantly, a lot of hope. He is well aware that the situation is messy and difficult, but he still hopes, hopes for the best, hopes for a happy ending for them all. There's gotta be a way, right? If Captain Christ only wants their boss, then everything will be fine, right? But Kant reminds him of the bitter reality: "You think Captain would let them walk? They kill people for a living. If they ain’t shot dead on the spot, they’d at least get a life sentence."

I think deep down Style already knew this, but actually hearing it out loud hits different. I think it's only now that it truly sinks in for him that it will likely be the very last time he'll get to spend time with Fadel. Style sinks back into the bench, looking miserable. Kant moves over to Style's bench to comfort him: "We can only make the most of what we have now." For once, Style isn't in the mood to talk. He grabs his drink, clinks cans with Kant, and they both try to wash away their worries with beer. It's not helping. Style stares dejectedly into the air.

No. 4: Please Don't Be Mad

(Side note: in my ep3 meta I couldn't quite tell if Style went to the bar to purposely seek out Fadel or not, and well, I have my answer now hahaha)

Just like Style already mentioned to Kant and to us, him and Fadel are spending their evening at the heavy metal bar. Fadel tells him that this is the first time that he didn't come to the bar alone and Style tells him "Happiness shared is happiness doubled". Style is serious, he really means it. He is here because he wants Fadel to be happy, wants them to be happy together. Fadel makes heart eyes at him. Style gives a little smile back. Fadel gets the tickets. The ticket seller informs them that the band will be playing for the last time. Style looks serious again. The band isn't the only one having a last time. The ticket seller continues: "It’s gonna be a memorable night." Style looks towards the ground. This hits different for him. "You’re right," he finally says, "for me, tonight is certainly going to be a memorable night." And again, his tone is serious. His words hold a certain weight to them, he really means what he says with all his heart. Then he looks at Fadel. Style was speaking to the ticket seller as he was saying this, but really, it's a message to Fadel. I'm going to remember this night, he says, I'm going to remember you. Style may not be able to tell Fadel about how this will potentially be their last night together, but at least he can be honest about his feelings. This night matters to Style, and it matters a lot. The knowledge of this possibly being a goodbye weighs on him and we can tell by the way just how serious Style has been throughout this short sequence. Not the loud, bubbly boy that we've all grown to love. I think Fadel can also tell that something is off about Style, because he raises his eyebrows at him and stares at him quizzically for a moment before he turns to enter the bar. Style follows him.

Once inside, Style is looking rather tense. There is something on his mind that he needs to confess but that he struggle to say. In the end it does burst out of him. "I don’t really like heavy metal," he shouts in the middle of a heavy metal bar. It makes for a funny moment, but Style is clearly distraught. Fadel says he already knew that and Style is relieved that Fadel isn't angry. Now, I've had some thoughts about this.

I'm not sure this confession was really about Style's music preferences at all. It kinda reminds me of how, remember episode 5 of Bad Buddy when Pat "confessed" to Ink, but it wasn't really about his feelings for her at all but rather Ink and that confession served as a stand-in so that he could get the weight off his chest without having to open the real can of worms? Yeah, I think we have something somewhat similar happening here. Now I do very much think Style was absolutely telling the truth when he said he doesn't like heavy metal music. After all, we did see him jamming out to a song that was very much not heavy metal music, so the content of his confession definitely wasn't a lie. But I do think it served as a bit of a stand in for all the things Style CAN'T confess to right now. And there is a lot that Style could and should and probably also kind of wants to be confessing to: the fact that he knows of what Fadel does, the fact that Kant has informed the police of Fadel and Bison's next mission, the fact that said police will be awaiting the brothers there, the fact that this will likely be Style and Fadel's very last night together. Not to mention the fact that Style hit on him for a car before he fell in love for real. But as Kant pointed out earlier that day when they were having a drink together... It's not like they can just walk up to the brothers and just say it. The brothers are killers after all. And in a way, I think Style's confession serves not just as an attempt to be more honest with Fadel but also as a way to assess how Fadel will react if he learns that Style actively lied to him.

Style looks almost a bit too upset and guilty for it to be just about his music preferences after the truth is out of his mouth.

The situation is a bit awkward, because he ends up yelling it loudly in a room full of heavy metal fans, but I don't think he really cares about that more than a whoops in this moment, because what really matters is: "You’re not mad at me, are you?" There is so much urgency to it, his expression kind of pleading:

I'm sorry that I wasn't being honest with you. You're not mad at me, right? You're not mad that I lied to you, right? Please don't be angry with me. Style is so very stressed about this. Fadel's reaction is important.

And Fadel? Is not angry that Style lied. In fact, to Style's surprise, Fadel actually already knew the truth about him (foreshadowing, anyone? 👀). Style is veeery relieved about this:

มึงไม่โกรธอ่ะ กูก็สบายใจแล้ว [mueng - mâi - gròht - àh • guu - gôr - sà-baai jai - láew] you - not - angry - [particle] • I - [sentence link] - happy, pleased - already

In the subtitles Style says "All I want to know is that you’re not mad at me" here. I checked the original line with a native speaker friend who translated it as "You're not mad, then I'm relieved" (and if you put the Thai line into Google Translate it also spits out "If you're not angry, I'll be relieved") which I think matches what Dunk is portraying here through his body and his facial expression a lot better. However, the official English translation summarizes the whole point of the confession very nicely: all Style wants to know is how Fadel will react to the fact that Style actively lied to him and he's desperately hoping that Fadel won't be angry to find out the truth.

And then Fadel isn't angry. And tells him that he wants to see the real Style. Style tilts his head at him, not looking entirely convinced despite the huge relief just now. There is still a lot Style is currently keeping from Fadel, things that are a much bigger deal than his music preferences. Style is still keeping truths from Fadel, still lying to him. And then Fadel drops: "But still, liars should be punished." This has Style genuinely stressed again. There is almost a bit of fear in his voice when he inquires what the punishment will be as he reluctantly lets Fadel drag him away. Style now knows that Fadel won't be angry at him for lying, but there will be consequences (a punishment) (again: will this be foreshadowing? 👀).

No. 5: Fake Fan

Turns out Fadel's punishment isn't all that scary after all, even if Style isn't too hyped about it. Nevertheless, he patiently sits there and lets Fadel paint his face without stopping him. But no matter his patience, Style still can't let Fadel do this without at least a verbal protest. He points out that that Fadel isn't wearing face paint either and is almost kind of offended. YOU aren't wearing any so why are you making ME do it? Style then questions if Fadel even has the skills for what he's doing. Unlike before, Fadel now easily gives up information about himself to Style without hesitation: "I used to wear the same makeup as my favorite band."

A major running theme that we've had going on over several episodes now is how Style keeps trying to get Fadel to loosen up and to have fun. We saw this happening in episode 1 already when Style tried to get Fadel to play along when he made him get the pin off his shirt himself (which actually happened even before Kant made Style hit on Fadel). We saw it in episode 2 when Style pretended they were on a cooking show and provided commentary while Fadel was preparing a customer's food. We saw it in episode 3, when Style follows Fadel to the heavy metal bar for the first time and tried to get Fadel to party and to scream a little. We saw it in episode 5 when Style convinced Fadel to wear the matching couple shirts, pulled him into a dance, and even got him to sing karaoke. And what's more, we've also seen Style trying to get Fadel to socialize. And yeah, of course a lot of what Style was saying and implying about Fadel doing things with Style specifically he said because he was actively hitting on Fadel, but I do think he genuinely meant it when he said things like "But some things are better done together" (episode 2, sports field) or "How’d [having a good time all by yourself] even work? You need someone to 'scream' with" (episode 3, heavy metal bar).

So Style has been trying to coax Fadel out of his shell pretty much since the beginning, has been trying to get him to just enjoy life, has been trying to pull him out of his loneliness. And he's doing it again here: the moment Style learns of Fadel's old hobby, Style immediately suggests Fadel paints his face too. Matching make-up for the two of them. It's something that Fadel clearly enjoys and also they'll do it together. Obviously. Because some things are better done together. And happiness shared is happiness doubled. But Fadel refuses, because he never lets anyone see him with band make-up on.

Edit: There is so much going on here in this scene that I totally forgot to mention a very important language note (and I'm really mad at myself that I didn't catch my mistake before publishing this meta): the word for make-up/putting make -up on is แต่ง [dtàeng] which also means "to marry". So when Style says "Then you should put some makeup on, too" it actually also sounds like he is saying "Will you marry me, then?", which is why Fadel suddenly stops and looks up at him. Make of that double meaning what you will 🤭

After that we get even more running themes: only moments ago Fadel said "I want to see the real you", but this is something that goes vice versa for Style as well. In episode 5 he told Fadel "I promise that no matter who you are, I’ll still like you" and while this was mostly in reference to Fadel's secret hitman identity, this sentiment counts for everything else about Fadel too. And if Fadel enjoys wearing his favorite band's make-up, then Style will also like him for that. Style wants see Fadel's real him and he wants Fadel to be the real him, to live the real him. "How long are you going to live someone else’s life?"

And it's not just that. After episode 5 I was discussing the double date scene with @secriden in our DMs and she talked about how Style was giving Fadel a safe space to participate in all that socializing by being even sillier than Fadel so that Fadel didn't have to be embarrassed about dancing silly dances or wearing silly couple shirts. And I think the very same thing is going on here. Fadel never lets the public see his painted face, whether it's out of fear or embarrassment or something else. And Style offers for them to wear matching make-up. "Try just being someone you want to be," he says, "We’ll do it together." Fadel isn't alone in this, Style is right here, by his side, with him. A safe space. "There’s nothing to be afraid of." Not if Fadel is with Style. Style will support whoever Fadel is underneath his thick, icy walls no matter what. Style is set on it. And tonight, potentially their very last night together, Style will gladly wear make-up for Fadel and Fadel will wear make-up too for his own happiness. They'll do it together and there is nothing to fear when Style is with him. Well? How about it?

Fadel is quiet. He lets Style grab his face and paint on him. Style gives Fadel an encouraging nod, like See? It's not that bad. It's not that scary. I'm right here with you. Be happy. Be you. I love you.

Now, the tear tracks that Style draws on Fadel's face are obviously foreshadowing to how this episode is going to end with Fadel crying because of Style's "betrayal". But honestly, the very first time I watched it? This foreshadowing went right over my head. Admittedly, I was also running on just 3h of sleep that day because I'd been up all night finishing my ep5 meta so I could post it before the new episode dropped and took a 3h nap around noon, so that might have also been a factor in that, but yeah, it totally didn't occur to me that the episode could end in Fadel's real tears (not sure if that made the last scene better or worse tbh). No, the thought that I had instead while watching the episode for the first time was: "Are those the tears that Fadel never got/gets to cry?" And to be honest, I do hope later down the line we'll get a scene where Fadel finally lets it all out, let's out all the pain from all the trauma(s) he's been through while Style is right by his side, supporting him through it, is there for him. Because they'll do this together and Style will always be ready to happily offer and create a safe space for Fadel, just like he did in episode 5 when he was asking Fadel about his parents or when he was trying to get Fadel to let lose and dance a little in the bowling alley or now when he's offering to wear matching make-up with Fadel. And when Fadel cries (and I hope he will cry, and not just from Style's "betrayal"), then Style will offer a safe space for Fadel to cry in, too.

No. 6: (Bitter)Sweet Happiness

Both in make-up, they now proceed to have the time of their lives at the concert, smiling the brightest smiles. They even get to take selfies with the band. Fadel is happy, and so is Style. I think this may actually be the most carefree we've seen Fadel in the entire series so far and it's all thanks to Style.

After the concert they end up standing by a glass window. "Thanks for coming with me," Fadel says and Style looks at him with the warmest, most loving, most adoring expression.

Of course Style accompanied him here. He had promised Fadel in episode 3 already that he would make Fadel 'scream' at some point (that is to have fun, basically) and now they're both here, Fadel is having a good time, and Style is happier and more in love than he could ever have imagined. Fadel continues his little thank you speech: "If it weren’t for you, I’d probably have sat alone over there." Style knows this very well. He saw him sit all by himself last time, refusing to have fun with Style. He saw Fadel stand by himself in the crowd. And even then he was of the opinion that "You’re supposed to have fun with your friends at a place like this". And now Fadel is here. Having fun with him. And there is absolutely no need for Fadel to thank Style, because just getting to see Fadel smile makes Style happy already.

However, as the night is coming to an end the happiness Style has been feeling is overshadowed by the knowledge of what is about to happen next. It's overshadowed by the knowledge that this is almost certainly the last time they'll get to spend time with each other like this. "You wanna come over tonight?" Style asks, "I want to cuddle you to sleep." He doesn't want this night to end. He wants to hold on to Fadel just a little longer, wants to hold him for as long as possible before all of this is over. And best case-scenario, he also manages to stop Fadel from going on the mission like he suggested when he was getting drinks with Kant.

He looks at Fadel with hopeful eyes. But Fadel declines. Style's dad is home and besides, Fadel's got work tomorrow. Work? This has Style listening up. He seizes the opportunity, just like he did back in episode 5 on the floor of the garage. He starts subtly grilling Fadel: "Grocery shopping? I’ll help." Which, by the way, is actually: "The market? I can go with you."

ตลาดหรอ เดี๋ยวกูไปด้วยได้นะ [dtà-làat - rŏr • dĭieow - guu - bpai - dûuay - dâai - ná] market - ? • moment - I - go - too, with - can - [particle]

And that makes me cry a little, because the market one of their spots by now. Like, of course Style would gladly go to the market with Fadel. But Fadel isn't going to the market. He tells Style he's doing something else. But Style already knows exactly what Fadel is doing and where he's going. Once again Style tries to get Fadel to spill the truth: "You’re doing a lot of second jobs, aren’t you? What else do you do besides working as a host? You can tell me. I won’t judge." I promise you I won't judge you for being a hitman. I already know this and I'm cool with it. And if you would just SAY it out loud already then I could tell you not to go through with the mission tomorrow. Then I could keep you by my side just a little longer. Please tell me. Style looks at Fadel with big eyes, full of hope and encouragement.

But Fadel does not say what Style wants him to say. Style is disappointed.

He leans back against the glass wall, upset. In the gif on the right it actually almost looks like he could start crying any moment now:

Fadel is confused, but amused, assuming Style is probably just being his usual overdramatic self. He laughs and asks Style what's wrong. Style side-eyes him, still upset and pouting.

This is potentially the last time they'll be together. Tomorrow Fadel will probably get arrested. Tomorrow Fadel will probably be taken away from him. And he can't even talk about it. Can't even stop him from going.

Fadel continues on:

You act like we're not going to see each other again just because we won't be spending the night together. แค่ไม่ได้นอนด้วยกันเองทำอย่างจะไม่ได้เจอกันอีก [kâe - mâi dâai - nawn - dûuay gan - eng - tam - yàang - jà - mâi dâai - jer gan - ìig] only - not - sleep - together - just - do - like - will - not - meet/see each other - again

Style might not be able to outright tell Fadel that he's acting like that because they actually, for real may very well never see each other again when the night is over, but at least he can try to be as honest about his feelings as possible: "It’s been a good night. I don’t want it to end." I don't want to say goodbye. Fadel tries to console him. "When I’m back, there’ll be more nights like this." Style so badly wants to believe him.

He looks at Fadel with big, hopeful eyes. You promise? Fadel nods. And I think, despite Style knowing that the police will interrupt Fadel's mission and that it won't go smoothly and will likely end in his arrest, I think despite all that deep down Style holds Fadel to that promise. And we can once again see how optimistic and especially how hopeful of a person he is. Now matter how bleak the situation seems right now, Fadel has promised to come back and Fadel has promised that they'll have more nights full of happiness together. And a promise is a promise, right? You can't simply just break it. And so Style hopes for the best. He might not be able to get him to stay but at least Fadel will be back. Because he promised.

They seal that promise with a kiss. And it's interesting, because Style doesn't immediately close his eyes when Fadel goes to kiss him but instead looks at him for a moment longer. And then his eyes keep fluttering open for a moment. It's almost as if he can't tear his eyes away from Fadel, as if he can't help but use every opportunity to look at Fadel, to catch every last glimpse of Fadel while he still has the opportunity to do so. They break apart and Fadel tells Style that he's (also) very happy tonight and Style (re)confirms his own happiness. They lean their foreheads against each other. And again, Style can't really close his eyes and fully sink into the moment the way Fadel can. It's like he tries to close his eyes but they keep fluttering open a second later because he just can't keep his eyes away from Fadel, is compelled to keep looking at him while he still can, while Fadel is still right there with him. And even when they break away from each other and turn to look out of the window towards the stage, it takes Style a couple of seconds to tear his eyes away from Fadel, who is already looking elsewhere:

After they've turned around, their hands find each other. And I think in that moment Style really needs that support through his distress and I think Fadel can feel it, even if he can't figure out what exactly is up with Style and why he is acting the way he's acting.

No. 7: Moving On

Fadel and Bison's mission has passed. Kant's brother nearly got caught in the crossfire. Kant wonders if Bison saved Babe. Kant guesses that Bison saved him. With that he also implies that if Bison was the one saving Babe (since Bison is the one who actually knows and recognizes Kant's brother), the one taking the shot must've been Fadel, implying that Fadel would have injured or killed Babe. But Style, who has been spending a lot of time with Fadel and has slowly been getting to know the real Fadel underneath all those walls, just can't imagine Fadel would shoot a random kid. When he asks Kant "You think Fadel would shoot Babe?" it's definitely in defense of Fadel. And that's interesting, because so far he's always been supportive of his bestie and his investigations. He hasn't always been happy about it, but he still never fought Kant about it. This is the first time we see Style actively go against Kant to stand on Fadel's side instead.

Style continues: "You think he knows you’re a snitch?" I think this is partly still a bit of an attack on Kant in his defense of Fadel in the sense of What, does Fadel to have a reason to kill your brother because you did a shitty job staying undiscovered? and partly a genuine question to find out if Fadel would actually have a motive to shoot Babe on the off chance that he did mean to do that. Not that Style actually believes that, though.

Kant says no and says that his work is over and that he's done being a snitch. This should be good news to Style, but Style doesn't look very comforted. In fact, Style barely acknowledges Kant's words. His mind is somewhere else, is with someone else. "I want to see Fadel." Once again we aren't simply just told through text that Style worries about Fadel but we are also shown. And on top of worrying, Style also misses him.

As so often when Style expresses genuine care and attachment to Fadel, Kant immediately disapproves: "Style! You have to get over it. You can’t ever get together with him. Move on." In Thai, Kant uses the word ตัดใจ [dtàt-jai] when he says "get over it". Thai2english defines this as:

to part with something, to give up something (somewhat unwillingly)

Style is unwilling to give Fadel up. He can't part with Fadel, no matter how much he knows he should if he wants to get out of that mess of a situation. "It’ll become a funny story," Kant says, but Style isn't laughing. He is miserable.

No. 8: Will They or Won't They (Come Back)

Fadel and Bison's mission hasn't gone to plan (neither for them, nor for the police), they've gone completely MIA and our two remaining love struck boys that were left behind now stop by the restaurant in the hopes of meeting them there in person if they're already not picking up their phones. However, Style and Kant find the restaurant abandoned as well. Style looks a little disappointed when he states that the diner is closed, but he's not necessarily all that surprised and he is definitely very concerned. Kant walks away from him to check the inside through the windows just in case and Style follows him. They run into the black cat and end up having a little chat.

And what's interesting about it is that during that little chat Style isn't even all that depressed, despite still not having any clue whatsoever about Fadel's whereabouts. In fact, he actually sounds kind of cheerful when he asks and talks about the cat, unlike in the scene before where he was simply just miserable. Style's tone as well as his expression do both get more serious when he says "I guess [the cat] misses Bison, then. He’s a food source, after all", but no matter how troubled he is about the whole situation, no matter how worried he is about Fadel's well-being and no matter how much he misses him, he won't let himself wallow in misery.

Kant says "Why do I have a feeling that this isn’t over? They can’t run forever, that’s for sure. If they haven’t completed their mission, they will definitely come back" and once again we see Style's optimism and bright outlook on life when he replies "I guess you’re right. Before things went down, you saw how attached they were to us". But similarly to the scene in the beginning when they were having drinks, Kant comes back with some realism: "No matter how much you love someone, you gotta prioritize saving your own butts, right?" Style thinks about it for a moment and raises his eyebrows like Yeah, I guess that's true...

Once again, his expression gets more serious and his smile fades but we know he's not giving up any hope of meeting Fadel again whatsoever, because he'll be back in a week to check on the restaurant again. And let's be real, the series might not have shown this to us but we all know Style went to the diner every single day of that week. Possibly even multiple times a day.

No. 9: Something Special to Eat

A week later and we see Style checking on the restaurant again, this time without Kant. And to his surprise and utter joy, the lights are on! Fadel is back and he looks well! Style stares at him through the window, breathes a small huff of relief, then shakes his head a little like he can't believe his eyes, like he can't believe that what he is seeing is real. As I mentioned before, I'm absolutely convinced Style went to the restaurant every single day for the past week and now it turns out that he was right not to give up, not to lose hope, to stay optimistic like he always is. Style's joy about Fadel's return manifests in his whole entire body as he hops and skips through the restaurant doors.

Once inside, Fadel doesn't seem surprised to see him. He doesn't even say hello, but immediately opens up with the words: "I was thinking of going to your place. But you were more impatient than me, huh?"

Language side note, for all you language nerds out there... In Thai the "you were more impatient" is actually only implied, not explicitly stated:

I haven't gotten round to go see you yet. กูยังไม่ทันไปหามึงเลย [guu - yang - mâi tan - bpai hăa - mueng - loiie] I - yet - not be able to (do sth in/on time) - go visit - you - [particle] You came running to see me. มึงมาหากูซะละ [mueng - maa hăa - guu - sá - lá] you - come visit - I/me - [particle] - [particle]

(For the second sentence I decided to translate it as "you came running" because the particle ซะ [sá] can imply that the action should be done quickly. And Style did come running very quickly the moment Fadel was back.)

And when Style replies "Where have you been?" his words are also a little more dramatic in the original, as is fit for his personality:

Where did you disappear to for so long? มึงหายไปไหนตั้งนานอ่ะ [mueng - hăai bpai - năi - dtâng naan - àh] you - disappear - where - for a long time - [particle]

(It's basically "Where have you been for so long?")

A whole week is a long time to not see your boyfriend, especially when you know something bad has happened and you have no idea if he's alright or not. And so Style rightly complains. Fadel says that his phone broke and that he had to change both his phone and his number. Style throws him an almost disappointed look. He knows that this is a lie (or at least the "my phone broke" part probably is. Fadel might have had to change his number for real when he went into hiding). And more importantly, it only explains why Fadel wasn't replying to his texts. It does not answer Style's question of "where have you been?" and so Style is left none the wiser. Fadel says that he was busy and Style continues to complain: "And you didn’t think to contact me a little? I was worried sick about you, you know?" And we saw that. We got to see how Style was worrying when he was longing to see Fadel after hearing how Babe nearly got injured and we saw it when Style checked the restaurant at the very least two times, once with Kant and once by himself (and let's be real, he definitely went more than twice, we just didn't get to witness it). We see it even now in the way he complains to Fadel about him ignoring Style for a full week. Style thought he was saying goodbye to Fadel at the concert because the police would be ripping Fadel away from him but then that didn't actually happen because Fadel managed to escape and Style spent a full week worrying about him, missing him, longing to see him. And then Fadel is back and he's doing well and he didn't even think to tell Style about it. Style has every right to complain and Fadel should know it, too.

Fadel complains about Style's complaining and then offers to make him food like a peace offering and/or an apology. And fun fact, when he says "Anything you'd like to eat?" in Thai it's:

Anything special you wanna eat? อยากกินอะไรเป็นพิเศษป่ะล่ะ [yàak - gin - àrai - bpen pí-sèt - bpà - lâ] want - eat - anything - that is special - ? - [particle]

I'm telling you, when I heard Fadel say the words "eat" and "special" in the same sentence I immediately expected Style to say "you". I think I even said the word "you" at my screen when I watched the episode for the first time. And then Style DIDN'T. He just... didn't say it. When it was literally right there. I'm truly disappointed in him ngl.

Style does not say "you", instead he sits down and let's Fadel decide on the menu and compliments his cooking. Fadel is immediately sus about the sweet talking and asks: "Did you do something wrong?" Style doesn't know that this is a very pointed question, has absolutely no idea that Fadel is currently suspecting him of snitching to the police. "No," Style replies, but his voice doesn't sound entirely genuine. It's not a full lie but it's also not entirely sincere. Did he do anything wrong? It's hard to say. Technically he isn't the one to tip off the police so technically this isn't something he's done wrong. Style also knows a lot more than he should and that's also not something that he's necessarily doing wrong per se, but it's still something he's keeping from Fadel which could be considered wrong. And one could also say that not explicitly warning Fadel about how the police would be at their mission wasn't right. So technically there is something he did do wrong and that he could be feeling guilty about. No matter whether he really did do something wrong or not, Style chooses to deflect and distract anyway. And he changes the topic to something that really is completely true this time: "I just really missed you." Although, when he says "Is it so weird to get a little affectionate?" it's almost a bit of a challenge. Tell me again how I'm doing something wrong. Style continues: "You know, all this time apart really frustrated me." And there we finally have it. The "I want to eat you" bit.

I think at this point it's pretty obvious that Style is being genuine about his flirting, but I just wanna point out that what I noticed before about how Style acts when he truly wants Fadel continues to hold up: instead of being loud and performative, Style gets quiet, goes almost into a whisper by the end of the sentence. And he also gets handsy with Fadel. He reaches for Fadel's nipple specifically and it works. Fadel is very much distracted. But he stops Style because this is not something Fadel wants to do in the middle of his restaurant in front of a wall of glass windows (probably? Who knows with them 🤷🏼‍♀️). Fadel decides on making spaghetti for Style who approves and fondly smiles at Fadel. They keep holding on to each other's hands for as long as possible as Fadel turns around to walk off and I cry and then I cry some more about the way Style once again can't tear his eyes away from Fadel.

No. 10: Oh, I Wish That You Hadn't Pulled the Trigger

It's later in the evening, Style has presumably finished eating (and maybe Fadel, too?) and now they're both wiping down the restaurant. And once again we see something that I've been talking about for the last few episodes now: Style likes helping. Fadel explicitly tells him that he doesn't have to help and that Fadel will do it himself, so likely Style just grabbed the cloth and started wiping without a second thought while Fadel had his back turned. Because helping people is something that comes to Style naturally. He wants to help. And so he insists on continuing to help with the cleaning and, if it makes Fadel feel better about it, offers Fadel to think of it as payment for the free food.

And I know this meta is actually about Style, but I see Fadel watch Style for a moment after Style said that and I can't help but remember how Style was there in episode 3, helping Fadel out at the restaurant when Bison was nowhere to be found and now Style is here again, helping Fadel out at the restaurant without hesitation and of his own free will and I can't help but think that this is probably one of the things that Fadel has come to love about Style. Style is here and he helps and supports Fadel no questions asked. Which make the news he is about to hear even more painful. And right on cue, Fadel's phone rings.

Fadel steps outside to talk to Bison. In the meantime inside, Style moves on to wipe the next table. He lifts his head just in time to catch Fadel looking at him through the window. Style smiles at him fondly.

Style is so happy that Fadel is back, is so content to be around him. The night of the concert wasn't a goodbye after all. He had bid farewell to Fadel internally already but now he gets to have a new beginning after all. Style is overjoyed.

Then Fadel comes back inside, proceeds to turn on some music and Style is confused as to why he would do that. Fadel asks if he can't get romantic and Style calls him out for scolding him earlier about Style being too sweet and cheesy only to turn around all of a sudden and wanting to be romantic after all. Style has absolutely no idea that Fadel sees him in a completely different light now, but I think he can tell that something is kinda off and that the phone call might have had something to with Fadel's sudden change of mood. So Style asks what Bison said. And Style being Style who cares about his loved ones also wants to know if Bison is with Kant. Fadel confirms. Style comments that Bison probably missed Kant. And right after the sentence is out of his mouth, for just a split second before it cuts back to Fadel we can see a very pleased smile form on Style's face.

Bison wasn't the only one missing someone. Style was too. He was missing Fadel so very much and he was worried sick about him and now Fadel is back, Fadel is standing right in front of him in the flesh and everything is all good in this world. Of course, Style is pleased.

And then Fadel says "I also missed you". Style's eyes widen in surprise, his expression serious now. Ever since they officially started dating Fadel has been saying things like "we're on trial" and "I won't ever trust you 100%" and while he did admit to being very happy earlier in the episode at the concert, I think Style wasn't really expecting Fadel to suddenly be so open about his feelings, almost out of nowhere without any obvious triggers. But then Fadel continues his confession by telling Style that there is no one messing with him when Style isn't there. Ah, there he is, that old nagger that Style has come to love. A compliment that comes in the form of an insult. That's more like him. Style is amused and in a lovingly teasing, but also slightly serious tone asks if he's just an annoyance to Fadel and whether that's a good thing or a bad thing. Fadel is quick to assure him that it's a good thing: "Having someone to miss is good. It makes me want to go to the market and go jogging with the hopes of running into you."

Did you notice that I changed something in Fadel's wording just now? Because the official subs wrote "grocery shopping" instead of "the market" and once again I just don't understand the decision to translate it like that because the market is literally one of their spots!! It's not the action of grocery shopping that's important here, it's the place!!! Because Fadel is likely doing some of his grocery shopping at a supermarket too, but it's when he shops at the market place specifically where he has memories with Style!!!

In fact, let me just share Fadel's exact wording of the whole bit:

Having you to miss is a good thing. การมีมึงไว้ให้คิดถึงเนี่ยมันดีนะเว้ย [gaan mii - mueng - wái - hâi - kít-tĕung - nîia - man - dii - na wóiie] having - you - to - miss - [particle] - it - good - [particle] It makes me want to go to the market, มันทำให้กูอยากไปตลาด [man - tam hâi - guu - yàak - bpai - dtà-làat] it - make that - I - want - go - market go jogging in the morning, ไปวิ่งตอนเช้า [bpai - wîng - dton cháao] go - run, jog - in the morning because I'm hoping I'll get to meet you. เพราะหวังว่าจะได้เจอมึง [próh - wăng wâa - jà - dâai - jer - mueng] because - hope that - will - get to - meet - you

And also a little bit earlier when he tells Style "I’ve got no one messing with me when you’re not there":

Without you, there is no one messing up my life. ไม่มีมึงอ่ะ ไม่มีใครมาป่วนชีวิตกู [mâi mii - mueng - àh • mâi mii krai - maa - bpùuan - chii-wít - guu] without - you - [particle] • no one - come - be chaotic - life - I/my

This confession is a parallel to his "I hate that I don't hate you" confession: In episode 4 Fadel said "I don't like you messing up my life" and now in episode 6 he says "Without you, there is no one messing up my life". In episode 4 Fadel said "I don’t like myself when I look for you on the morning jog or at the market" and now in episode 6 Fadel says "It makes me want to go to the market and go jogging in the morning with the hopes of running into you". In episode 4 Fadel said "I don’t like that I miss you." and now in episode 6 he says "I've missed you. Having someone to miss is good."

It's his confession from episode 4 but this time it's romantic and Style even points it out very amusedly, but is also very happy about it: "Are we officially entering romantic territory?" Fadel says that he wants to do what lovers do and Style tells him "I don’t want you to do what you don’t want to do". Or in his exact wording:

I don't want you to do anything that isn't you. กูไม่อยากให้มึงทำอะไรที่ไม่ใช่ตัวเองนะเว้ย [guu - mâi - yâak - hâi - mueng - tam - arai - tîi - mâi châi - dtue eng - ná wóiie] I - not - want - that - you - do - anything - that - not - yourself

Fadel told him at the concert that he wanted to see the real Style, but the same goes the other way around. Style wants Fadel to be the real him, too. And he doesn't want him to do anything that isn't the real him. But Fadel replies:

But I can be like you want me to be. แต่กูสามารถเป็นอย่างที่มึงอยากให้กูเป็นได้ [dtàe - guu - săa-mâat - bpen - yàang - tîi - mueng - yàak - hâi - guu - bpen - dâai] but - I - be able to - be - like - that, which - you - want - for, to - I/me - be - be able to (cont.)

It's a loaded statement. And it has Style confused.

It's the exact opposite of what Style wants. Style wants Fadel to be himself, Style doesn't want him to live a life that Style tells him to live. Style doesn't understand and while there are questions written all over his face, he doesn't ask any of them out loud. He stays quiet and smiles a little in uncertainty (He's currently living through a happy little romantic moment with his boyfriend, right? Right?? That's definitely what's happening here, isn't it???) as he waits for Fadel to continue and to maybe elaborate. Fadel takes a step towards him and says:

I think... I already love you. กูว่า...กูรักมึงแล้วว่ะ [guu - wâa... guu - rák - mueng - láew - wâ] i - think... i - love - you - already - [particle]

(Alt. translations: "I think... I love you" or "I think... I love you now")

Style is delighted to hear these words. Distracted from his bemusement from only seconds ago he smiles a satisfied smile. He's been so open and honest about his own feelings and finally Fadel is opening up too and giving back. Style happily kisses Fadel in response.

He, too, loves Fadel. He loves him and he's missed him and he's been worried sick about him when he didn't hear from him for a full week and didn't know how he was doing and now Fadel is back, Fadel is well, they get to have more nights like the night of the concert together, they get to be together for longer than Style thought they would. Life is great.

After they part, they lean their foreheads against each other. When they did it at the concert, Style's eyes kept flickering to Fadel's face. Here at the diner Style can sink into the moment and into the touch a lot more now that he knows this isn't gonna be the last night he'll be together with Fadel. (I've hit image limit, but here's a parallel gifset.) He does look up at Fadel at one point, almost as if to check if Fadel is still there, that he is real, that this is not a dream. And maybe it's also to check on him, since he's been acting a bit weird since the phone call. But then Style closes his eyes again and sinks into the moment one more time, just like when Fadel leaned into him. The two move into a hug as they sway from side to side. Style can neither see nor feel Fadel's tears dropping onto his back.

Of course I'm gonna have to wait to see what future episodes bring before I can say for sure, but honestly speaking, I do think Style can kind of tell that something is off about Fadel after his phone call with Bison. Style immediately clocks that Fadel is behaving strange the moment Fadel turns on the music, Style calls Fadel out for suddenly being romantic when only shortly before that he was telling Style off for being sweet, he gets confused when Fadel goes "I can be like you want me to be" when that's the exact opposite of what Style has been asking for and there is also something in the way Style really sinks into the forehead touch but then his eyes open and flicker to Fadel as if he's checking on him (almost as if he was also checking that Fadel was still there and hasn't gone away again, as if Style can feel that Fadel is in the process of saying goodbye to him). Fadel is in a weird mood and that mood probably does reach Style. But the thing is, Style is missing a key piece of the puzzle and even if he can tell that something is off, to Style it still looks like a happy picture. To Style it still is a happy picture. And what Style doesn't know, but what we, the viewers, can very much see coming is that this happy illusion will burst soon enough.

(Overview | Ep1+2 | Ep3 | Ep4 | Ep5 | Ep7 | Ep8 | Ep9 | Ep10)

[aardvaark]

expanding on that post about sophie devereaux backstories, grift ones and real ones and the things in between:

a year or two after they meet, tara and sophie are somewhere near drunk in a hotel room after a con, high heels thrown against the wall, dresses unzipped and halfway off. tara asks for her Story. the Story. and maybe she wouldn’t have asked if she were sober or maybe tara is simply a little too bloody brave sometimes, a little too determined.

so sophie tells her about a father in the military, a mother who died young, a family that moved houses, towns, regions, countries, all the time growing up. about lying to impress kids at every new school. about desperately doing almost anything to fit in for the months or year she’d stay in that area. about sweet talking her way out of a few little crimes here and there, cash that she would certainly never steal from her rich friends’ parents’ wallets, some driving rules she broke when she was too young to even have a license, yet old enough for a cop to encourage her flirting. sophie tells tara that her father died when she was 19, and the grief had led to recklessness. she made a mistake on a too-ballsy grift. she would’ve gone to jail. instead, she faked her death (for the first of many times) and never looked back. it’s the only funeral of hers that she didn’t attend.

and then, tara told her an equally untrue Story in return.

when sophie is duchess charlotte prentiss, her husband william asks far too many questions about her past. of course, charlotte has a Story. all of her aliases have Stories, even the ones she only uses for a day - they all have birthdays, childhood pets, first kisses, people they love. so she tells him that her parents died in a car crash when she was 16 and instead of going into the foster system, the authorities figured she was old enough to become an emancipated minor. she tells him how it was difficult at times, incredible at others, and sad and exciting and embarrassing and bittersweet. she weaves a damn good tale about charlottes life, if she may say so herself - one that’s just painful enough for william to stop asking questions. it works perfectly. but when she tucks astrid into bed that night, and the little girl looks up at her with big round eyes and asks if ‘charlotte’ misses her mummy and daddy and says that she’s sad for ‘charlotte’ because she knows what it’s like to miss a mama… sophie freezes. there’s a lump in her throat and goosebumps on her skin. she blinks down the tears and recovers just enough to fake a smile and kiss astrid’s forehead as she leaves the room. lying has never hurt like this before. it takes all her strength to shut it down, shove the emotions in some tiny box in her head that she simply refuses to acknowledge. she decides, then, that she has to leave this house as soon as possible.

the charlotte Story is one of many that hardison finds. it’s inevitable, when he has to cover all their tracks so thoroughly, that hardison would stumble upon various old aliases. he only learns about the charlotte one from the job in england - there’s no links between her and sophie, but he destroys a decent amount of excess duchess charlotte prentiss information just in case, and then looks for any other mysterious women who happened to pop up or vanish around that time. he notices that there are some things that all of sophie’s aliases share: their parents are dead, they have no siblings, and their life changed dramatically somehow in their mid-to-late teens (usually with those parents’ deaths, or gaining an inheritance, or moving far away). he knows that these are all pretty standard, convenient details for a fake identity. but he wonders, sometimes. couldn’t she have made up dead siblings? estranged but alive parents? a dramatic event in her early childhood or in her twenties? he doesn’t know if the consistent parts mean anything. he doesn’t ask for her Story - not outright, at least. though for the first couple months of knowing her, he does sometimes enquire about little things here and there. did she grow up with sisters, what was her high school like - that sort of stuff. information is his thing, sue him! sometimes sophie just smiles. sometimes she answers, and he eventually learns that her truths, at least, are very much relative. when he decides that she is family - which is pretty early on, to be honest - he also decides not to ask anymore. he destroys old aliases when necessary, but he never reads more than he has to. he loves sophie and that is enough.

eliot never asks anything about her life. not even the innocent, casual, unthinking questions that sophie is used to from other people: where’d you grow up? did you ever have any pets? i always had to share a room with my sister, what about you? eliot clearly avoids asking her any of it. she’s somewhat surprised by that. sure, he’s polite, but he’s also suspicious both by nature and due to certain unfortunate experiences, so she sort of expected him to interrogate her when they first met.

one night, they’re the last two left at nate’s apartment. even nate had gone to bed and left them there, long given up on shooing his team out at appropriate times. sophie’s been drinking tea and flipping through a latvian phrase book to refresh her memory for tomorrow’s grift, and apparently that 90-minute-a-day sleep schedule allows for eliot to be doing one-handed push ups in the living room at this ungodly hour. too tired to retain any more information, sophie studies eliot instead. he’s a straightforward guy. she decides to be straightforward too. she breaks the silence of the apartment and simply asks - is he ever curious about her Story? eliot pauses a moment. looks her in the eye, quiet. doesn’t brush her off gruffly like she thought he might. instead, he asks if she’s ever curious about What He’s Done. that is answer enough for the both of them. they don’t talk for the rest of the night, each going back to their own activities, but the silence isn’t uncomfortable. on the contrary - the mutual understanding ends up solidifying their relationship.

nate isn’t always so intensely careful about his questions like eliot. well, actually, there were many times back in his insurance days that he very much did ask her questions on purpose. and of course, for five years, he asks after her real name. sophie generally thinks of it as a fun game. she smiles at his useless determination and teases him when he comes back from jail. after a while, though, she realizes that the questions about her Story mostly stopped when leverage formed, and stop completely once he proposed. nate never hears any version of her Story. she’s here now, and that’s all he needs or wants to know - just like how sophie is her real name in any way that matters.

the moment that sophie realizes this is the moment she stops caring about the real Story, the burden of the secret and the guilt and shame of keeping it from her newfound family. in that moment, she understands that what happened back then is just a small drop in the ocean, irrelevant to the life she’s built and come to love. she never tells them the story, and she never needs to.

[your--isgayrights]

Seeing your answered ask about metas makes me want to share this list someone made about ORV’s literary references: https://twitter.com/Jomeimei421/status/1806147303004336632

I think this same person also said something about ORV being a blend of low-brow fiction and high-brow literature and I agree. I would like to see a legitimate academic paper referencing or breaking down ORV, and now that I think about it, maybe this has already happened and I just don’t know how to find something like that.

This list is honestly such a great resource, thanks for sharing :)))) <3333

I would add the samguk yusa and samguk sagi to this list tho, even though the references might count as 'myths' or an oral tradition that's the nature of the older historical texts. I think I have a couple breakdowns of the references to the Samguk yusa, a post about ljh's name and the historical ancestors referenced, and some stuff about JttW.

In the concept of high brow and low brow, I agree that ORV is very good at being like very respectful of anything that is a 'story' and I think good at portraying the sort of 'character' that some genres or reading types represent. I think one of my posts is definitely about how the KDJ relationship with his mom is very representative of the sort of evolution of webnovel culture out of classical literature and trauma literature scenes in the sort of 'professional,' established Korean publishing. Also as a Naruto guy I really respect the JttW arc for being like 'hey all middle grade action stories and shounen a little bit comes from JttW tbh.' I also think the premise of ORV is great as sort of the natural conclusion to like American gods or Rick Riordan type justifications for all religions being true bc people believe them: ok, then here's also one man's favorite anime boy being real because he believes in him and he's actually going to punch God now. Oh also a literary reference I guess is that metatron and etc are from the Talmud rabbinic scriptures. Though I think myths about him are mostly from kabbala / oral tradition (which stems from Judaism but even now there are Jewish people who think it's very wrong to call them Jewish beliefs. Part of that is probably that in more modern history kabbala has partially been developed and sort of appropriated by non-jewish people in a way that is kind of similar to orientalizing / mysticizing the more 'normal' Judaic beliefs practiced by wider Jewish communities ((think tiktokkers who are like I Am a Witch doinG Qabala but actually she's basically just writing creepypasta in her brain about things other people actually believe in that she knows nothing about)). At the same time, there is kabbala that naturally developed from people Jewish faith in the same way orphism or other 'occult' beliefs developed out of governmentally/societally enforced/accepted Greek and Roman religions throughout history. Fun fact: Sefer ha-bahir is apparently an influential text in the development of og kabbala and apparently literally describes the idea of transmigration so that is fun.)

Ok besides the historical stuff the media on the list I'm actually exposed to is just Han Kang and then Naruto (I watched some of one piece in middle school but retained very little of it tbh I just know who some of the guys are. Actually I just had a dream where I complimented a guy's one piece shirt and then he asked me if I liked the anime and I had to be like oh... No).

I did some research on YSA's reading 'taste' though and I think it's very fitting because they're realistic books with "literary value" that are like very relevant to society but obscure enough that you wouldn't make up reading them just to impress someone, unlike Han Myungoh claiming 'art of war' is his fave book (that's another lit reference in there somewhere I think? I just remember finding it fitting... It's the type of fit for business men who want to seem macho and smart but actually don't enjoy reading at all... I would say if they said three kingdoms was their favorite I would at least believe they read it or saw an adaptation but like art of war just isn't really a Story it's more like self help? Like there are stories but they're showing 'lessons' about war lol.)

[greghatecrimes]

midnight brainrot… i am thinking about wilson. about when he tells house during “the c-word” that he always thought he’d have a wife and kids around him when he was dying. about how he probably wanted that— or at least he thought he did— for a while. about how, if he had gotten that, he probably would have ended up feeling like he didn’t deserve to be a father. like he shouldn’t be a father. he pays three alimonies because no matter what, he ends up ‘ruining’ every relationship he puts time and feelings into. he carries guilt and blame for how danny ended up because he was ‘too selfish’ to answer the phone instead of studying for an exam. he probably spends the rest of his life haunted by the question, “am i my brother’s keeper?”. he IS truly haunted by that little eight year old cancer patient who was supposed to survive, but didn’t. he’s an oncologist. he is supposed to help people, to ‘save’ them. and yet he spends his time off the clock ruining his relationships with the people he loves most, and then spends his working hours trying to atone for it somehow with his patients. any child of his… i think that wilson would, selfishly, want to at least try forming a bond. maybe it could be his second chance. another way to atone for his mistakes with danny, with julie or sam or bonnie. but i think that he would also know deep down and without a doubt that eventually, he would just ruin them, too.

[a-very-fond-farewell]

>.>

[homeless202]

the first time EY "stole" those headphones, the shop owner didn't have any proof it was him. despite this, he insisted on calling his dad, proposed to call the cops, and showed very little sympathy for a child literally getting beaten up by their father right in front of him.

-> why?

he felt disrespected bc of how EY talked to him. it stopped being abt the headphones before his dad even arrived. he just wanted to see the kid who disrespected him shut up, apologize, and admit he was wrong. especially considering how many people were watching and talking abt their argument -> gotta save face and restore your credibility & pride.

this is why, in a way, his dad wasn't wrong to tell him to apologize bc he knew that's what the shop owner wanted to hear. sometimes, the quickest way to solve the issue is to give the person what they want (in this case, an apology) and walk away.

[sevnthhart-a]

knock knock, it's me, local menace, and i am here to pose a meta question : what does make tifa happy? what does genuinely spark joy to her? any comfort books, food dishes, drinks, snacks, series, books, music? or would you think that tifa is so absorbed with everything that she hardly makes time to find these things for herself?

blu ,  local menace ,  my beloved. thank you for indulging my brainrot xoxo

i. first off, some background as to how i see her mental state / default emotional response because it plays such a heavy part in understanding my thought process on this. to put it frankly, her feelings run deep. this isn't exclusive to the joyful ones, but the more intense outbursts of sadness, anger, etc. as well. while it may not be intentional, everyone close to her  ( or even just in general )  has the power to break her heart or heal it. that isn't to say she's fragile  ( quite the opposite ;  canon content has put her through so much ,  i'm genuinely in awe of how she's able to withstand it all )  or a crybaby about it  ( because i've seen it been said ). the more ill aligning feelings are just so heavily suppressed that it just ends up spiling out bit by bit before it happens to manifest itself into a full blown breakdown. as for the happier ones, she has no need to hold those in. it shows up in a variety of ways — it isn't difficult to make her happy, either. her heart bores so much resemblance to her mother's, so i don't find it hard to believe that she would be grateful for the little things people say or do for her out of kindness as opposed to actions done because of her looks.  ( side note :  the parallels between thea & tifa are so ashjdfsj i love the lockhart girlies with my entire being ) 

ii. music makes her happy. while i don't think she's a diehard fan of any particular artist, i can see her being a casual listener of instrumentals or just anything that can be softly played in the background while she's working solo. bonus points if it's piano heavy! i say that for obvious reasons, but i like to think it reminds her of home & simpler times. it's a bit odd but having the news on in the background  ( think that one ac scene )  is also something she enjoys. when zangan first dropped her off in an unknown city with little to nothing, having the news on low made it feel like she wasn't so alone. obviously, along came people she could call family, but people gloss over the fact that she felt so very isolated during this time. on quiet days, depending on her mood, she'll pick one over the other & just get to work. it's a good reminder of everything's she gained since then.

iii. i don't see her as a big drinker but, she will indulge herself when the occasion calls for it. she reserves it for special times  ( excluding when she's taste testing new menu options ;  that's work & she'll often pull for a second opinion )  with friends. i read somewhere that her, barret, & cloud will get together every so often to reminisce about old times & drink to the happy ones  ( have no idea if this has been confirmed canon or if anyone else was involved ,  but i just adore the idea & fully implement it into my interp because i'm a whore for found family ). in moments like that, where she isn't questioning her strength or pondering what ifs, that she's on cloud nine — because this is her home & it's every bit as dear to her as nibelheim was. i'm not talking about edge or any other location, but the people in her life. they are so very precious to her & she will drink to that.

iv. i do wanna mention that it isn't rare she'll seek these interactions out whenever things start to take a toll on her. this goes back to my first point, but i see it as her method of coping. cloud has his ways, tifa has hers. she wants to continue being seen as a figurehead of stability by the people closest to her heart ;  all so they feel comfortable relying on her when they're the ones in need  ( her redemption from situations that weren't her fault ). by suppressing those unwanted feelings quietly, she's able to move forward  ( albeit ,  with a heavy heart ,  but a heart nonetheless )  & resolve whatever issue is at hand. so i don't necessarily believe she gets so absorbed with everything that she doesn't have time. if it's urgent & she can feel things slipping, she'll do her best to make time for it. 

v. all in all, there are many ways to make tifa loml lockhart happy ;  but quality time & music are the top two i wanted to elaborate on.

[mimiiiiiiiiisstuff]

Girl I have so many questions about your story it’s actually ridiculous!

(I don’t want to overwhelm you though so imma hold back)

is reader becoming a snake person a reference to snakes preying on bats and birds?( and will the snake being joker’s be important?)

Is Tiffany going to have to put effort into pretending she’s the ✨perfect sister✨ now that reader obviously isn’t going to do jack for them anymore? (Because ungrateful families don’t deserve muffins 😒)

Is reader going to be a hero or villain, or maybe something in between?

will we be able to get an idea of why the batfam treats reader like they’re some sort of pest?( you’d think they’d be more careful since reader could easily expose their identities if they thought about it 😒😒)

and finally.

Tim had a very…different…reaction to reader ‘framing’ Tiffany- is that important?

-🚚

yay ok this is my first like real ask! Yall have been making me so so happy with all the love! It really encourages me! And don't worry about overwhelming me! I can take it :) i'm answering this and then signing off to go to bed because I have the worst flu ever.

Ok so yes! Reader becoming a snake-meta-person does have to do with snakes preying on birds, honestly that was a little easter egg for funsies. Im glad you caught it! reader's gonna eat those hoes up !!!!!!! ( and they'll lock her up right after)

Tiffany will for sure try to imitate reader at first but that will eventually lead to her downfall! she can only keep it up for 6 months and then she'll be discovered. she can't imitate the genuine love and care reader puts into these things so they'll always be off no matter how much she tries. the batfam will end up realizing what they lost and do whatever it takes to get it back.

And yes, the snake being the Joker's will be important bc he's the joker and is so fucking insane that even his snake has to be special! all powers have consequences and these will be heavy. it will put reader through it, but will really shape them as a person.

Im leaning more toward reader being a hero??? but with the snake being literally radioactive it might be a kinda venom dynamic. im still not too sure tbh. with all the angst and neglect and the troubles of being a teen, she might be a bit of an anti-hero! she might pull a jason (ironic, i know) and go around killing all the villians!

the thing about the batfam, is that they don't even realize what they're doing to the reader. they literally see her as irrelevant so they don't notice their neglect or how much it affects reader. she's not even on their minds enough to be perceived as a threat. the only ones purposefully being mean are Damian and Jason, Damian because he sees reader as less than/ a threat and Jason because he is trying to push the reader out his life and not 'taint' her innocence.

Tim's reaction is different because he's suspicious. he thinks he would've noticed if reader was capable of doing something so sneaky and underhanded. he's the only one who is suspicious because he simply doesn't think she's smart enough to do this. he's gonna be the first to see Tiff's true colors.

Goodnight yall!!! i'll be back tmrw morning! keep sending more asks! I take requests so if you have any ideas you want me to write just send them in! I'll yandere platonic or romanitc. SEND THEM IN!!!!!!!!

[frownyalfred]

hi!

thinking of superbat hours in my brain today and i'm on the topic of secret relationship superbat, because this is the most comedic-potential and angst-potential iteration for them. but i'm thinking of comedic potential version rn

(also side note - when you made a post on the kissing for immunity thing you said that you were ignoring the angsty implications (or smth like that about angst) and i genuinely cannot comprehend anything being angsty in that scenario??? what were you thinking of for that)

anyway, back to my thing. i'm thinking maybe clark speeds over to gotham at night sometimes to sleep with (both euphisimistically & not, bcs bruce needs all the sleep he can get and clark being the only one to be able to keep him safe while he sleeps is my jam), and leaves in the morning before anyone knows (ofc, alfred knows and idk if superbat would know alfred knows, but he would approve).

one morning, after clark's left, bruce wakes up sick - feverish, sore, headachy, nauseous, tired, the whole gamut - and being the idiot he is he simply. goes about his day. maybe he takes some tylenol or something but he definitely isn't a good example of what to do when unwell. and he almost goes out for patrol, with damian, but his heart rate spikes dangerously while he's suiting up and clark hears this (he is very attuned to bruce's heart even from cities away) and his Bruce Is Being Stupid Again senses go up (it's the spidey sense but bruce) and he speeds there immediately.

he finds bruce about to put on his gloves and cowl and is like "no, absolutely not" and stops bruce, who ofc gets annoyed and says smth like "no metas in gotham" and clark, trying to get him to stop, v tenderly brushes his hair out of his face and gently holds him and coaxes him into sitting down and resting, "babe, no, please"-ing him out of costume into regular human clothes, and giving him kisses (for immunity of course!) and calming bruce down.

he's going to drop bruce back to his/their bedroom when he realises that damian's seen them kiss so he thinks "oh, shit" but damian's more concerned for his seemingly-infallible dad being so sick. the next morning alfred wakes clark up for breakfast and thanks him for keeping bruce safe in a way alfred has never been able to. dadfred supremacy (dilf).

have a great friday today! idk if you work weekends but if you don't - have a good time off! if you do, have an easy day at work :)

oh I loved this!! thank you for sending it. as for the angsty microbiome post. I was thinking more about ways that having an alien microbe inside of you could make Bruce sick, or cause irreparable damage from an immune response. Or maybe change Bruce into some sort of Kryptonian/Human hybrid, but not a stable one. Or simply give him abilities or longevity that would change him beyond his comfort level.

[lewis-winters]

I am so ready I look like a dog waiting for its owner to get the leash off so they can Jesus-walk on a pond to catch that motherfucking squirrel. Hit me with it

This whole shebang is in reference to this quote from Biggest Brother!!

Anyway, I personally think!!!! that maybe Dick was a little miffed that Lewis came back all riddled with trauma and actively suffering the effects of PTSD when Dick was excited to tell him that he got demoted to a position he'd be happier in!! One that'll give him a reason to be with Dick all the time!! And if we're operating on the logic that they're together in the romantic sense... then Lew being Battalion S3 and hanging around Nix would be less suspicious than if he were still Regiment S2, ya know? To Dick, Nix's demotion is cause for celebration! So why does he wield it like a weapon later on in the scene?

Let's back track a little bit. Dick is a little possessive, is the thing. We keep saying that Nix wants to be around Dick all the time, when the opposite is also very true! Dick wants Nix with him all the time!! He says it in Bastogne, when Nix got the ticket back home; "How will your leaving help me?" He never complains that Nix is always around on the front lines, ergo neglecting duties up at Regiment or Battalion. He WANTS Nix around. He wants this so much, in fact, that some times he can't quite see past it. Which is kind of the case with that scene in the beginning of episode 9.

I mean look at the way he comes into the room-- he's no where in the house when Nix enters. Must mean he comes running the second he finds out Nix is back. He sees Nix, fails to read the room, and immediately launches into a joke ("You dog! making combat jumps with the 17th while I'm in supply briefings all morning!"). He's eating a fucking pastry while Nix is having his 10th existential crisis in a week. He's so relaxed and so playful in that moment. He's not Major Winters, there's nobody here he needs to perform for-- HE'S TALKING WITH HIS MOUTH FULL AND HIS JACKET IS UNBUTTONED LIKE--

the man was HAPPY to see Nix back and came bounding over like a puppy to see him, and he just... didn't read the fucking room like. RICHARD.

RICHARD PLEASE I know you're fucking blind when it comes to Lewis Nixon but c'mon, now. C'mon. That man is fighting for his LIFE and you're just happy to see him, like. I--

And then he reacts badly when Nix doesn't meet his energy. I've written about it before... it's somewhere in my #bob meta tag, you'll just have to dig bc I'm too lazy to go get it but like. Dick is also very depressed here and ALSO suffering from PTSD, he's just repressing it really well (also unhealthy). And like, yeah he's happy to see Nix, but it's the kind of happy that's like... he's grasping on to the nearest life saver to pull him out of the darkness. Nix is that life saver... but what happens when that life saver is also compromised? Some people get frustrated, they lash out. Or they shut down. Dick did both, and it's... well. You already know how I feel about that, lol.

Anyway. Yeah. HAHAHAHAHA that's it.

[airenyah]

i've managed to get really far with my ep4 meta, i've only got just over 3 scenes left (the "be my bf" scene, style finding out the truth, the gym scene, and i gotta finish the nc scene) but the problem is that i've only got about 4h left which i'll probably need to write it all up in the first place (also it's less than 3h bc i'm also travelling) and then i would still need to make the gifs and proof read it, which is also gonna be time consuming rip

[asimplearchivist]

‘ 𝓾𝓷𝓽𝓲𝓵 𝓶𝔂 𝓿𝓸𝓲𝓬𝓮 𝓲𝓼 𝓰𝓸𝓷𝓮 . ’

𝐂𝐇. 𝐈 𝐨𝐟 𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐋𝐋𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍𝐒.

[𝓪𝓼𝓲𝓶𝓹𝓵𝓮𝓪𝓻𝓬𝓱𝓲𝓿𝓲𝓼𝓽'𝓼 𝓶𝓪𝓼𝓽𝓮𝓻𝓵𝓲𝓼𝓽] [ 𝐌𝐎𝐎𝐍 𝐊𝐍𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐏𝐎𝐒𝐓 ] AO3 | SPOTIFY | PINTEREST summary ☾ ⤏ steven, unbeknownst to him, meets the love of his life at one of its lowest points. pairing(s) ☽ steven grant/reader word count ☾ 15.7k a/n ☽ [gif credit] ⤏ aka my personal love letter to one steven grant (and myself, because I want to be loved like I love just once).⤏ i am going to be completely honest on this one, guys: this is a borderline self-insert fic that is 100% self-indulgent on my part bc i have felt like shit the last two months and want to treat myself. ⤏ i kept it as a reader-insert because a) some people (including myself) enjoy experiencing different ‘pov’s of reader-inserts, per se; b) it’s easier to be kinder to and romanticize myself when it’s ‘not me’; and c) i feel that it’s still vague/inclusive enough to be counted as a general reader-insert versus labeling it strictly as a self-insert/original character. i really only describe personality traits and the reader being petite, really (bc nothing comforts my 5’0” ass more than knowing i would actually be able to kiss the boys without craning my neck all the way back tbh). i use a few southern colloquialisms, too, just fyi. :) ⤏ typical moon knight fanfic disclaimer: I don’t claim to know very much about did beyond what I’ve gleaned from both the show, the various meta posts I’ve read on tumblr, and from other fanfics themselves, so please forgive and correct me on any glaring discrepancies/issues I may have presented here (or link me any posts that discuss more accurate representations of did, perhaps—that’d be greatly appreciated). some of the terminology/technicalities escape me. I tried my best to get their voices and characterizations just right, and I sincerely hope I succeeded bc they’re very special to me. ☽ MASTERPOST ☾ ☾ ☥ ⤏ NEXT CHAPTER ☽

The first time Steven met you, it was strictly by happenstance.

He had always considered himself a man with many friends. Although his routine was relatively simple compared to other Londoners who thrived in social settings and spent all of their free time anywhere but home to mingle and chase tail, he had familiar faces he saw frequently. He committed their names to memory when they’d give them off-handedly, he made a point to speak to them in passing even if he or they were otherwise occupied, and he kept a mental list composed of all the details he was able to glean strictly from observation when they didn’t readily volunteer the information.

Perhaps it was a little silly. All lot of them had trouble remembering him, sure, but he couldn’t hold it against them—tons of people had trouble keeping track of faces and people. Sure, JB never quite got his name right even after Steven had worked at the museum for a couple of months by now, but he was a busy man monitoring the security cameras all day long and stayed distracted (with his infatuation with otters, no less—as endearing of a trait as any for someone with a secret soft side). Donna stayed in a tizzy, always worked up over something beyond her control (Steven couldn’t imagine how difficult it must be dealing with the higher-ups trying to meet goals and attempting to exceed them). He didn’t really dislike them for it, even if it had grown rather grating as of late. (Even if it would only take them both a moment to look at his conveniently given and placed nametag.)

Crowley didn’t talk much, all part of the gig, so Steven didn’t hold their one-sided conversations against him, either. The gentleman with the broom cart (whose name Steven never had managed to catch, as gruff as he was) seemed only to ever respond with grunts. The security guards, the tour guides, the usual suspects on the morning and night bus rides…Steven interacted with them all, and they had enough good graces to acknowledge it most of the time.

Over time, however, as his dreams (or perhaps more aptly named nightmares) grew more vivid and more bizarre, as he seemed to lose track of time more and more (how exactly does one manage to miss an entire weekend when one isn’t a blackout drunk?), and as Steven’s anxiety led him into taking more and more precautions to make sure his self-diagnosed sleepwalking disorder didn’t strand him on the other side of London (again), it became more readily apparent that those people with whom he took such care to converse did not seem particularly inclined to return the favor. Sure, he’d accidentally nodded off a few times leaning on the other passengers in the morning bus, ran a little late at times getting to the museum (much to Donna’s ever-increasing ire), and maybe got a little carried away with his nattering when he got invested in something he was excited to share information about, but…would it really kill someone just to respond long enough to reassure him that he wasn’t virtually invisible?

It was one such morning after he overslept, convinced he was late, and worked himself into a right and proper state trying to get to the museum on time that he realized that it was, in fact, Sunday, not Saturday. Much to his bewilderment but proven by his phone, the museum stood barren and closed, doors locked and lights off. He stood at the entrance staring at his dumbfounded expression in the glass for a good five minutes, thoughts racing as he tried to recall anything about the previous day. There was no way he slept an entire day, right? He hadn’t been staying up too late trying to manage his disorder, even if he had been running a little tired lately.

His distress was punctuated by a fat, chilly droplet landing right on his nose. The early spring weather was unseasonably cold this year, leading to an abnormally wet season (as if rain could ever be abnormal in London, but the meteorologists remained convinced), and within seconds of Steven turning and trotting down the steps the skies parted and released their torrential downpour as if just to spite him specifically. Everyone else in the immediate vicinity, if they weren’t holed up in their cars or the myriad establishments bordering the museum district, already had their umbrellas up to shield themselves from the frigid onslaught, ambling along and circumnavigating the puddles lingering from the storm the night before..

Steven shrank into his coat, tugging the collar up and over his head as best he could as he crossed the street and aimed for the first building he saw with its neon, ivory OPEN sign glowing against the gloom—on the corner directly across from the museum entrance. The door was heavy, the handle cold enough he was surprised his palm didn’t stick to it, but he managed to pry it open and tumble inside.

A few people glanced up from their tables to give him a range of skeptical to humored looks before going about their business. Steven hedged to the side of the door in case someone else came in, dripping onto the old hardwood with no small amount of regret.

It was a coffee shop. Comfortingly warm against his numb face, he basked in the scents of espresso and sweets permeating the place. His attention was caught by the bookshelves on the wall to his right, and he was entranced—all until a barista slipped out from the kitchen and addressed him with a croon. “Oh, goodness, look like the weather caught you!”

Steven almost accidentally ignored you thinking that you were talking to someone else (for so rarely did someone speak to him in a tone that wasn’t irritated or dismissive). After his cursory glance in your direction, he did a double-take, realizing you were looking right at him.

“Yeah, I—looked at the forecast wrong, methinks!” he responded sheepishly (and he had—he’d been expecting Saturday’s overcast mist, not Sunday’s shower). “I’m makin’ a right mess, aren’t I? I should probably go before I warp the stain—”

“No! No, just wait a second.” You raised a placating palm before dipping below sight behind the counter. You emerged and rounded the corner next to the display case holding a towel, walking right up to him and offering it to him with a sympathetic smile. “I can’t count the number of times I thought I could beat Mother Nature,” you joked. “It sucks that it’s been so cold on top of it. I’m surprised I haven’t gotten sick.”

Steven accepted it graciously, muttering his earnest thanks as he went about mopping up his sopping curls. Once he’d wiped all the rain he could off of him, he handed it back to you. “Hope I don’t get one, neither,” he responded. “It just wouldn’t do to catch cold in the middle of all this, would it? No.”

You chuckled a bit, eyes glittering with mirth. “Maybe it’ll help if I get you something hot to drink?”

Steven glanced at the menu hanging on the wall behind the counter, eyes rounding a little at the prices. He’d overspent on books again after payday, so he was having to be a bit more frugal this week than usual. “Oh, no, don’t go to the trouble, I’ll just call a cab and get a ride home before it gets too bad.”

“It’s no trouble at all,” you assured him, wringing the towel between your hands. You hesitated only a heartbeat before you leaned in a little closer, smile turning a bit bashful. “I’ll make it on the house, how’s that sound?”

Steven normally considered himself one to give where charity was concerned, but he had to admit that the sound of something warm on his urgently empty stomach was divine at the moment. He cleared his throat, glancing towards the other customers still wrapped up in their own little worlds. “No, I couldn’t—wouldn’t want anyone jealous that they’re not gettin’ the special treatment, you know.”

“It can be our little secret,” you offered quietly, winking conspiratorially at him.

He blinked, heat creeping up into his face. “Oh, well. If you insist, then…just this once?”

“All right.” Your smile lit up your entire face, and you headed back behind the counter to deposit the towel in an unseen hamper.

Steven followed, training his eyes on the menu—the standard fare was reasonable, with alternative options for dietary restrictions. A lot of the custom concoctions did seem lovely, and he was a tad surprised to discover that they served breakfast and lunch, also—with vegan options, most notably. “Wow, I never even knew this place existed. I must’ve been walkin’ right by it this whole time.”

“Do you work at the museum?” you inquired, folding your arms over the counter and propping your chin up in your palm.

“I do, actually,” he beamed, though it was dashed a tad with his next confession. “I want to be a tour guide one day—you know, I’ve been studyin’ up for it and all—but they’ve got me in the gift shop. For now! They said they’d move me up with a new position becomes available.” They said that they would consider him for the role, but Steven clung to his hope that they’d soon realize how bloody good he’d be at it, as hard as he’d been working for it for so long.

“You always have to start somewhere,” you replied warmly. You gestured to the shop around you. “This is just to hold me over ‘til I’m finished up.”

“Are you a transfer student?” Steven asked.

Your brow rose slightly, but your smile didn’t waver. “How observant. Most people ask me how I got lost on this side of the pond.”

“It isn’t often I see Americans anywhere but in the more touristy spots,” he agreed, “but the university is quite prestigious. You must be very academically successful if you landed a transfer scholarship like that.”

“It took a lot of work,” you admitted, “but it’s been worth it. I never thought I’d do anything like this, and I would’ve laughed at you a couple of years ago if you’d told me I’d move this far away from home. I’ve never really been the traveling type, but I’m so grateful that I’ve had the opportunity to do so.”

“What are you studyin’?” Steven inquired. An English major, perhaps—you struck him as the literary type with your articulation, despite your soft, southern drawl.

“Oh.” Your face darkened and you fiddled with the hem of your sweatshirt—dark gray, warm flannel, with a silver astronomical design embroidered into the front. “Well. I went to a university back home and got a degree in writing—” Nailed it! “—but I was notified at graduation that I qualified for this so I thought why not? It’s a bit self-indulgent, really, as I’ve always been a history nut, but I’m, um��” You reached up and scratched the nape of your neck, glancing away as though embarrassed. “...focusing on Egyptology?”

Steven’s brows shot halfway up his forehead. “No kiddin’!”

“Nope,” you confessed, a bit sheepish. “I picked up a book with pictures of King Tutankhamun’s treasures when I was three and I’ve been in love with it since. Maybe it’s a little niche, but it makes me happy—I’m taking other history classes, too, so I’ll end up with an Ancient History major with a minor in Egyptology—that’s just my main focus since I always wanted to be an Egyptologist when I was little. I don’t know that I could ever stand the heat, though, so I’m happy with writing in the comfort of my own home.”

“No, that’s great!” he raved, grinning from ear to ear. “I’m a bit of a history buff meself! The museum has a huge Egyptology exhibit coming up next month, so I’ve been brushin’ up on it all. You know, in case I get to audition.”

“Oh, yeah?” you tried, emerging from your shell just a bit. “Do you have a favorite period?”

“New Kingdom, definitely,” he said immediately. His heart was thrumming, and he was trying (in vain) to contain at least the majority of his enthusiasm. “There’s just so much material to go through. All the texts recovered from Deir el-Medina fascinate me to no end!”

“Yeah, Paneb was a right bastard,” you joked. “He had the whole town stirred up all the time. But we’re not going to talk about Ea-Nasir.”

“Oh, yeah—imagine keepin’ all your hate mail for posterity,” he returned, strumming his fingers against the inside of his sleeves. “What about you?”

“Oh, I’m an Old Kingdom gal,” you said with a chuckle. “Pepi II’s letter about the pygmy won me over. Not to mention all the drama with Teti’s assassination. The workmen’s village at Giza? Oh, how could I pick one thing?”

Finally! Finally, it felt like Steven was talking to someone that spoke his language!

“It’s really hard to, isn’t it?” His stomach was starting to grumble. He cleared his throat, tamping down his anticipation just enough to concentrate on the matter at hand. He glanced up at the menu again, a little remiss with some of the unfamiliar choices—most of those displayed were coffee, but he’d been trying to curb himself off of it in favor of cutting out caffeine altogether for a better sleep schedule. “I, um…sorry, got a little sidetracked there. What would you recommend that’s decaf?”

“Oh, I love chai,” you told him. “Most of the teas we carry are decaf, though we do have decaf coffee, too. We’ve got all the usuals like chamomile, mint, Earl Grey…” You tilted your head slightly. “I’ve been avoiding caffeine since I was a teenager—it makes me antsy.”

“How do you normally take your chai?” he queried, curious.

“As an iced latte,” you said. “Cold foam, cinnamon, whole milk. I like it warm, too, especially this time of year, but there’s something about it iced that I can’t seem to part from—maybe that’s the southern upbringing in me.” You gestured to the equipment behind you. “Would you like to try it?”

“Yeah, sure! But with oat milk, please?”

“You’ve got it, darlin’,” you beamed, and set to work immediately. “I usually drink a small since it’s a bit sweet, that okay?”

“Certainly.”

Never would Steven have thought that he’d find such a deeply kindred soul a stone’s throw away from his workplace he’d never even noticed before today. He had to confess that he was charmed by you almost instantly. It had been a while since he’d met someone so engaging and open—not to mention generous and drop-dead gorgeous to boot! Ironic, really, that the foreigner was treating him more kindly than his native kinsmen. What did the Americans say about southern hospitality?

“Thank you so much,” he said when you returned with the cup and set it in front of him. “It looks great!”

“Go ahead and try it,” you suggested, “and if you don’t like it, I’ll replace it for you with something else.”

Steven had absolutely no intention of telling you to your face that he disliked your favorite beverage, even if he did decide it wasn’t to his taste—much less make you go out of your way to make him another free drink. But as he sipped the heady, sweet mixture the spices melted over his tongue. Despite being served cold, the flavors warmed his mouth and settled cozily into his belly.

“Oh,” he suspired, licking the foam from his lips, “that’s lovely. You’ve won a convert.”

Your smile was nearly blinding with delight. “I’m glad! It’s not for everyone, certainly, but those who do like it always seem to love it. No in between, I guess.”

Steven resisted the urge to suck the entire thing down, folding it between his hands instead as he committed more details of your appearance to memory. Your black apron was a bit big for your frame, dwarfing you a bit, but your sweatshirt did, too—your jeans were well-fitted but not snug. You were wearing very little makeup, just a touch around the eyes, but it emphasized your lashes like a fawn’s. While comfortable, if a bit plain, your ensemble made you seem like the epitome of homey.

“How long have you lived in London?” he asked after another delightful sip.

“Since the start of spring semester,” you said. “It was a big adjustment to show up at the tail end of winter, but I think I’ve gotten the hang of it now for the most part. I still get lost occasionally, but that’s why Google Maps was invented. I’d be up a creek without a paddle without it.” You leaned against the counter again, bracing yourself on the stained surface and gazing up at him as if there existed no other person in the world. “I live right next to the campus, but I work here to get away even though my scholarships carry most of my bills and fees. Ironic, though, ‘cause I don’t exactly consider myself a socialite.”

“You’ve fooled me,” he said with a chuckle. “Bit odd bein’ an ambivert, yeah?”

“I really only talk a lot when I get excited or when I’m with people I’m comfortable being around,” you confessed shyly. “I’ve been told I talk too much about stuff nobody really cares about, so I try not to bother anyone.”

“Now who on earth would have gone and told you that?” he pressed, heart aching all the while. How many times had he been told the very same thing, sometimes with less polite wording?

“Oh, not exactly like that,” you rectified in a hurry, “it’s just…you can tell, you know? When someone isn’t really paying attention to anything you’re saying. I usually get interrupted anyway, so sometimes I find it easier just to keep quiet.” Your skin darkened again, and cleared your throat as you dipped your face to conceal it with a hand. “Oh, I’m sorry. I don’t know why I went into all that. See? Rambling too much—words got away from me.”

It was like looking into a mirror—so much so that Steven almost felt a bit of deja-vu.

“No, don’t be sorry,” he said softly. “I understand completely—really, I do. Better than you might think.”

You raised your gaze back up to him, and he understood at once why the philosophers and poets both waxed so romantic on the concept of windows to the soul. He could see your tenderness, your diffidence, your sincerity all there in your jewel-like eyes.

“People talkin’ over you all the time,” he continued with a low murmur, looking down at the cup when the intensity of your stare grew too much—just like looking directly into the sun, “actin’ like you’re invisible or somethin’. Gets frustratin’, yeah? Couldn’t even bother to act like you’re there, could they? No. Seems like too much to ask.”

“Yeah,” you said somberly, but when Steven dared a glance up at you, your expression was one of complete understanding. Never before had he felt so seen. “It doesn’t help when you’re really not a people person to begin with.”

And now that Steven considered it more deeply, he realized that you were right—why did he prefer to stay home rather than go out? Keeping company with a goldfish certainly wasn’t an extrovert’s definition of a good time. Hell, the only reason he really went out of his way to engage with those on the fringes of his daily routine was because he felt it was rude not to because of constant exposure, not because he was itching to have the conversations themselves. He worried constantly that he’d overshare or annoy people, when most wouldn’t even think of it.

He let out a soft laugh, pressing a palm across his forehead.

You quirked a brow, your expression perking up just a bit at the sound. “What?”

“I just realized I’m not really a people person, either,” he said, shaking his head. “Thought all this time everyone else was just awkward at social interaction.”

“Oh,” you chuckled, and there was that ephemeral sparkle of mirth back in your eyes. “Well. Better late than never, right?”

“Right.” He paused, then set the drink on the counter to fish around in his pocket for his wallet. “Here, since you’ve been an absolute angel—”

“Oh, no, please,” you said, waving your palms at him in an attempt to dissuade him, “it was my pleasure. Finding someone else as big of a nerd about Ancient Egypt was tip enough, thank you. You’ve made my whole day.”

And even though his morning thus far had been an utter disaster, Steven believed that you had made his entire day, too.

“Well, all right.” He pointed a finger at you with a wry, toothy grin. “But next time you won’t be able to talk me out of it.”

“Next time?” you echoed, and the unadulterated hope in your eyes made his heart clench.

“Yeah,” he said, “where else will I be able to order the ambrosia of the gods? And nerd out about ancient civilizations? Not all baristas carry a double-edged sword like you do.”

You bit your lip, rolled the hem of your sleeve between your fingertips, and looked down and away. “Oh, stop it. It’s really just a hobby.” You gave him another cheeky smile. “But, if it would make a difference to you, since you seem the type…” You leaned in across the counter, and Steven found himself copying the action as though you had magnetized him. “...there’s a bookstore upstairs, too.”

Oh, bloody Nora, as if you weren’t already perfect enough.

It wasn’t until Steven returned home, soaked to the bone and shivering from the cold that seeped into his bones after running from the cab into the apartment building, that he realized he hadn’t thought to ask you for your name. And he was normally so reliable about it, too! He kicked himself for it the rest of the day. He hadn’t even looked to see if you’d been wearing a name tag (pretty sure you weren’t, because he would have noticed it, surely), but he had been so disarmed by you in general that every other thought had flown from his brain.

After that, with the scribbled ingredients on the cup immortalized forever via a picture saved on his phone, he developed a fast habit of stopping by there at least three times a week. He had to rearrange his budget just a tad to ensure it did not turn into blatant overspending, but all the teas were excellent and the food was even better. Oftentimes he’d grab at least one meal from there one the days he did decide to go, which varied depending on how terribly he’d slept the night before. Most of the time he opted for lunch since he was afforded only a half-hour break and it was the closest spot to the museum. (The vending machines didn’t have much in the way of variety, vegan options notwithstanding.)

He learned your name the next time he saw you, which had taken a couple of separate attempts—evidently you’d been filling in for someone else for extra hours that dreary morning, as you usually came in for the closing shift during the week due to your morning classes, and typically were station in the bookstore upstairs, at that. You’d confessed that a lot of the part-timers were still inexperienced, and the staff oscillated so much that you had to juggle multiple positions throughout the week in order for the business to keep up efficiency.

Steven decided, at some indeterminate point a couple of weeks later, that you must be sunshine incarnate. Even if there was barely any daylight seeping through the brumous mantle looming over the sleepy city,  you lit up the place with your warm smile, easy laughter, and gentle soul. He could spend countless hours talking to you, although he was usually only limited to the time allotted between him ordering and someone else coming in to do the same. After he got off work late after inventory (again), on the rare occasion that he’d missed lunch and needed supper, you gave him some of the free handouts the employees were allowed to take home and let him sit and talk while you locked the place up.

It was just so easy. Where he’d struggled to even introduce himself properly without making himself out to be a bumbling fool with everyone else with whom he’d interacted, fighting against an invisible current of perceived disapproval and rejection, engaging with you was as natural as breathing. You shared so many adjacent passions with him, the both of you had never once run out of topics to peruse. When either you or he would bring up something with which the other was unfamiliar, all ears would be given in total enrapturement. You got him. You understood him. It was such a relief to have finally found someone with whom he felt comfortable enough to natter on about the Edwin Smith papyrus for a solid thirty minutes without ever losing interest. Neither still had he stopped to imagine what it would be like to be so caught up in what someone else had to say, because you sure knew a hell of a lot about mythology, too—listening to your humored yet romanticized renditions of the tales delighted him to no end.

Your book recommendations were always impeccable, likewise—although you did primarily focus on fiction unless conducting research for your own books, your taste in storytelling relied upon well-developed, detailed, and impactful characters that carried the plot rather than the other way around. (You seemed to genuinely enjoy all of his recommendations, too, despite your general avoidance of nonfiction other than history, much to his relief.) You had a soft spot for romance, whether it was found in modern, historical fiction, fantasy, or sci-fi settings, and Steven took careful note of your mentioned favorite stories, scenes, and characters when he read them himself. You’d both even started annotating and trading books to exchange reviews, and your infectious adoration of certain authors and series decidedly did not help his book collecting problem—although you confessed that you shared the same issue (only to your bank account, though). The used section of the bookstore upstairs was his dream, really—he never thought he’d manage it, naively, but he was actually starting to run out of bookshelves in his flat.

You were fiercely intelligent, hilariously witty, and unbelievably kind—a breath of fresh air where London normally left him suffocated. You were the one ray of sunlight that could pierce the gloom that would encroach on the fringes of his mood no matter how badly he felt. Visiting you was the one routine that kept him grounded, even when he only seemed to lose track of more and more time as he went along—it kept him sane, seeing the way your whole face would light up like a supernova whenever he’d slip through the door. It made him feel normal.

So when a full month had flown by since your first meeting (a happenstance for which Steven would be eternally grateful), he found himself relying on your anchoring presence more and more. The occasions that he was waking up from sleepwalking in completely random places around London were increasing at a worrying rate. No matter how many additional precautions he added to his flat in feeble attempts to keep track of and prevent the episodes (each one perhaps sillier than the last), he never could seem to determine any rhyme or reason for them. His dreams (and sometimes they edged into the territory of nightmares) were growing more frighteningly vivid and visceral by the night, even if he was following every technique suggested by Google to help mitigate his condition.

The evidence was stacking up more rapidly against everything that he’d thought he knew than Steven could neither comprehend nor keep up with—despite thinking that nothing about him could ever be anything but ordinary, a small part of him was truly starting to wonder whether he’d somehow dodged a psychiatric diagnosis all of his life. He felt like he was going mad, watching the lines between what he’d thought were conjurations of his sleep-deprived mind and what he’d been convinced was reality inexplicably blurring beyond any conceivable recognition. ( Was he mad? Had he always been mad?)

Dreaming that he had woken up in the Alps with a frankly ludicrous series of events following shortly thereafter was one thing—the angry booming voice in his head notwithstanding. Discovering that Gus had been mysteriously replaced overnight was another (because there was no way he had regrown a fin—he’d double-checked every pet site reputable enough). Finding out that he had lost track of an entire weekend, accidentally standing up a date he didn’t even recall initiating in the process, almost pushed him over the edge—it had certainly dragged him to it, nevertheless.

Then the secret compartment in his flat, the burner phone and mysterious key, the countless missed calls from a stranger named Layla, who had sounded so deathly worried about whoever in the bloody hell Marc was…Steven didn’t even want to think about the second new voice in his, grave and severe and sounding a little too much like his own to be of any significant comfort, or the mummified apparition of a plague doctor, or Lovecraftian eldritch horror, or previously undocumented cryptid that suddenly decided to start haunting him, for that matter.

But Harrow was real. His odd little cane with the creepy, glowy eyes was real. The magic scales tattoo on his arm that moved without him flexing his arm and changed colors on its own was real. His followers were very, very real. That jackal, with the frothing, rabid, snapping teeth and the milky, glassy eyes and the malnourished, gangly limbs and the wicked, scrabbling claws and the deathly, musty stench was, somehow, terrifyingly real, despite having been invisible to the security cameras.

The security cameras that had captured Steven’s own grim scowl, resolute brow, and defiant, dark eyes—but it wasn't Steven, because he didn’t look like that, even though he shared the same face with the stranger on the footage.

Marc. His name was Marc.

Why is he stuck in my bloody head?

Marc’s property damage, somehow having managed to kill the ghastly creature, if the lack of physical remains and other evidence indicated, and save his life ( ...their lives?) in the process—and at the very least, Marc had kept his word on that front—ultimately cost Steven his job. Several thousand pounds’ worth of property damage, in fact, which somehow Steven was going to have to be able to afford paying off (in increments, at least) to avoid legal prosecution—while also being suddenly and unexpectedly unemployed.

Bloody hell. The not-so-patient request to turn in his bloody nametag had somehow stung more than the pamphlet handed to him boasting the most excellent psychiatric care in the city.

(...He was mad, wasn’t he…? How had he not known? How had he missed all the signs?)

Left remiss with very few ears into which to confide, he spoke in Crowley, always the listening sort. He expelled his tizzied thoughts until he was able to regather them into some vague semblance of order, and decided his next course of action: to chase the one lead he had to hopefully deduce whoever Marc was. It seemed simple enough, although daunting. A simple image search would take him to the location associated with the logo attached to the keychain, perhaps the only source of answers to all the questions brimming in his harried head.

He wanted to know. (But should he?) He had to know. (...Did he really?)

Reeling with inconsolable stress, insurmountable anxiety, precarious emotions, and now the tumultuous internal debate of whether to delve into the affairs which Marc had warned him very explicitly not to, Steven turned to the only other person whose word he valued and trusted above all others in his immediate vicinity (save, perhaps, his mum).

It was mid-afternoon by the time he crept into the coffee shop, and fortunately it was vacant as a couple of university students breezed past him with paper sacks laden with books tucked into their arms and laughing raucously as they headed back out into the sunny spring day. Another barista was slumped behind the counter scrolling on her phone, so Steven knew you were stationed upstairs instead.

He picked his way gingerly up the winding wooden staircase, wincing every time his weight caused a plank to creak in protest. He avoided looking at the narrow windows for fear of seeing any more reflected shapes in them that he couldn’t control, eyes trained resolutely on his feet as he focused on regulating his harsh breathing in an attempt to manage his racing heart.

It was in this way that he ran right into you upon stepping into the bookstore proper. You carried a stack of new prints taller than your head and nearly dropped them all upon impact. Steven’s arms latched out to steady them and you, apologies already spilling from his lips before he could even think of a comprehensible reaction. “Oh, bullocks, sorry—I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—I should’ve been watchin’ where I was going— bloody hell, where’s my mind?”

“Steven,” you laughed breathlessly, recognizing his subdued voice and fluttering hands without even seeing him, “it’s okay! No harm done, see? Not a one dropped.” You lugged them over to the display table and set them down on the vacant surface with a soft grunt, swiping your sleeve over your shining forehead. “Whew! Updating all the new publications is a pain. My back’s killing me. I’ll definitely regret all this tomorrow.” You turned back to him, all sunshine and smiles with your terracotta sweater and the gold hoop earrings (clip-ons, he knew, because you’d never had them pierced) dangling amongst the loosened locks framing your face. “It seems a little early for your lunch break, Steven. Are you off today or have I just managed to lose track of time again?”

Your innocuous, innocently humored phrasing should not have sent him spiraling again, but…after the last week of hell that he’d endured, who in their right mind (because he surely wasn’t in his) could blame him for the already tenuous grip on reality he’d been clinging to with only whitened knuckles and sheer force of will?

Your expression fell instantly as tears welled more quickly in his eyes than he could reign them back in, slipping over his cheeks.

“Sorry! I’m so sorry,” he blurted, face burning as he reached up to swipe away the undeniable evidence of his breakdown—in front of you, of all people, Christ alive, he really was losing it—with the edge of his sleeve…to no avail. More tears followed immediately thereafter, blurring his vision, dripping from his chin as he ducked his head and buried his face behind his covered hands. “God, I’m sorry, I don’t—I don’t know what’s come over me, I—”

There was a split second of silence on your end, though he scarcely noticed it but for his pulse raging in his ears and the deafening roar of his thoughts deafening him to any other sound. He barely registered your urgent call over your shoulder further into the bookstore, muffled by the harsh rasp of air dragging in and out of his lungs faster than he could dictate. He was shaking all over, adrenaline coursing through him a kilometer a minute, and his knees were on the verge of giving out from beneath him.

The warmth of your fingers curling gently—always so gentle, you were—around his wrists provided just enough of a distraction to open his eyes again, almost afraid of what he might see. But as you tugged his hands away from his dampened face, standing so close that your clothes were brushing against his and your breath fanned over his face, your eyes drew him in and dragged his thundering thoughts to a murky but much more manageable muddle.

Your brow was wrinkled with worry, mouth set in one of the few frowns he’d ever seen on your otherwise sunny disposition (even when harassed to no end by customers of the ruder variety, although your customer service smile was, decidedly, much colder and not nearly as welcoming). Your eyes were brimming with questions, but you uttered none of them, only, “Come on, there’s a quiet corner in the back.”

Steven allowed you to lead him by the hand like a child through the winding, ceiling-length bookcases into a musty reading niche set up with a lounge chair and ottoman next to a window spilling golden light onto the floor and highlighting every mote of dust that floated through its brilliant stream. You guided him to sink into the chair with a light hand on his shoulder, adjusting the ottoman back to give you enough room to sit directly in front of him. Your knees pressed into his, and when he shakily extended his trembling, open palms with a desperate snivel most people would have found repelling, you only laced your fingers with his and squeezed his hands tight enough to let him know that he could do the same.

“What’s wrong, Steven?” you murmured, beseeching him with your fractaled irises—the sunlight was illuminating every last shade and striation of color in them, more brilliant a palette than the shade ever granted justice. It gilded the edges of your features and the sweep of your fawn-like lashes in gold leaf. “Did something happen?”

Boy, didn’t everything happen—all during one weekend, no less?

The broken, wet laugh that leapt from his lips didn’t startle you, but it did make him jump. He lowered his gaze to focus on your hands clasped firmly in his, studying the creases in your palms, the whorls and arches of your fingerprints on your fingertips, and the light, faded smattering of scars in between—all to avoid the magnetic intensity of your gaze. “What hasn’t happened?” he croaked, throat burning with the effort it took to speak without loosing the gut-wrenching sob clawing ferociously at the pit of his belly. “I can’t sleep, I ruined my date, I lost my goldfish, I managed to get fired from the most pathetic excuse of a job anyone could get for something I didn’t even do, and I think I’m quite literally going mad.” He squeezed his eyes shut against the sting, feeling more tears slip out and trickle down his flushed cheeks. “Nothin’ seems real anymore. I can’t keep track of time. I’m seein’ things that would make an asylum patient have nightmares, but then it’s all comin’ back and tryin’ to eat me, and—” He clamped his mouth shut with a whimper, dropping his chin to his sternum to shut out the intrusive thoughts digging into the back of his mind. He unconsciously ripped his hands free from yours and knotted his fingers in his curls just to feel the ache. “—oh, God, I can’t—it’s too much, I—”

“ Steven, ” you said softly, hands threading through his arms to cradle his face and to thumb away his tears as you leaned in and nestled your forehead against his hairline, lips brushing his brow as you continued to murmur in a low, soothing tone that pierced through the noise like Apollo’s arrow, “it’s okay. It’s okay. I’ve got you—nothing’s coming after you in here, okay? Just our quiet, little safe place. I want you to breathe with me, okay? Just a little, I know it’s hard to concentrate, but just try for me, okay? You can breathe between if you need to. Want to try? Okay. In…one, two, three, four…out…one, two, three, four. And again. That’s it. You’re doing so good, darlin’, just focus on me. Feel my hands? And my knees? The chair, your feet on the ground, my forehead. Smell the books, the candle, your cologne, my perfume? Hear the traffic outside, the music in the other room, my voice? Okay. Good. Look at me, Steven. Please?”

He raised his head, trembling still but not nearly as close to convulsions as he’d been mere minutes prior, and you interlocked your fingers with his once more to hold them between you as you drew back just enough to peer unflinching into his eyes.

“Good. There you are, darlin’.” Your gentle smile was as precious as molten gold. “You see the books, too?”

He nodded once, unable to tear his eyes away from you. Had you always looked so divine or was he still experiencing delusions?

…No. No, he couldn’t be, because there was nothing about you that wasn’t so blissfully, sincerely, relievingly real. You were just that ethereal. How had he never noticed it before?

“Okay.” You squeezed his fingers lightly. “Can you tell me one thing that you can taste?”

“My…my tea, from this morning. Ran out of oat milk so I had to drink it straight.”

“There we go.” Your expression tightened just slightly at the edges, scanning his own carefully. “Better? Just a little?”

“A bit, yeah.” He sniffled again, swallowing roughly and finally managing to look away. “Sorry about that. You know. For…breakin’ apart in the middle of your shop like that. You…you didn’t have to stop what you were doin’ just to give me a pep talk.”

Your brow furrowed. “Steven, you were having a panic attack. I wasn’t about to go back to sorting the BookTok smut table while you looked on the verge of collapse.” You shook your head slightly, as if in disbelief. “You wouldn’t have come to me for no reason, so I can take ten minutes to help you calm down. I’ve been running around like a headless chicken all morning and I haven’t had enough time to stop. I’ll be fine.” You squeezed his hands again. “I’m sorry, for what it’s worth. I’d fix it if I could.”

Oh, how he wished that you could. He’d let you do anything you wanted if he could just feel normal again.

“Do you want to talk more about it?” you tried gently, tilting your face down to gaze up at him through those utterly enchanting lashes. “It’s okay if you don’t. I just want you to know that I’m here for you, for whatever you need, whether it’s to listen or just to sit with you.”

He swallowed, nodding jerkily. “Yeah, it’s—just complicated, yeah? A lot to take in. I really don’t mean to be a bother, I just needed—”

“Steven Grant, you are not a bother to me.” You single-handedly stole the breath you’d helped him regain not minutes prior. “You can tell me anything, okay? I’m not going anywhere.”

“I…okay.” He drew in a deep, shaky breath, held it, and released it in a hiss from between his chattering teeth. “I’m…investigatin’ somethin’. It might be dangerous, I don’t know. But I’ve got too many questions to avoid it anymore and I…I’m scared. Terrified, really. Everything seems like it’s fallin’ apart and I’m losing grips on it the tighter I try to hold on.” He blinked away another fresh onslaught of tears filming over his eyes with no small amount of frustration. “I feel like it’s my only option, to move forward, you know? I just…wanted to make sure I’m not hallucinatin’ everything around me first.” And that was the reason he’d come here, wasn’t it? Because you never failed to make him feel safe and secure and human, no matter the storm.

You studied him for a long moment, considering. But instead of accusing him of being a loon, you only tipped your chin to seek out his gaze once more—and he, like a moth to flame, was inexorably drawn to it. “Do you want me to go with you?”

The offer took him by surprise, but he knew immediately that it shouldn’t have. You had a protective streak a mile wide—he’d observed it in your fierce defense of your coworkers against irate and lecherous customers alike, as well as the thinly contained fury you’d only had enough strength to withhold in all but your tone when he’d finally vented to you about Donna for the first time. As much as he’d like to see you rip out her cheaply applied extensions one by one until she cried, he had made you promise never to start a fight with her. That you would offer first to accompany him to a destination he’d unthinkingly labeled ‘dangerous’ before anything else, regardless of currently sitting in your workplace that demanded more of you than it ever should any single person, reassured him—but he couldn’t ask you to get involved. He wouldn’t, because it was dangerous—whatever was going on inside his head (and outside of it) was something he was increasingly suspecting was beyond the scope of his present comprehension. The last thing Steven wanted was to get you hurt, too, just by proximity.

“No,” he said firmly, and your brows rose slightly. “No, I don’t—thanks for the offer, I really appreciate it, but you shouldn’t…I don’t want you at risk.”

“I don’t want you at risk, either,” you pointed out softly.

“I…” Well, shit. “...I know. But I’ll be okay. I think. I know! I’m just going to take it real careful and just see, yeah? It’ll…it’ll turn out all right. Right? Yeah.”

Your grip tightened, and your gaze turned sharper than he’d ever seen it, even at your most agitated. Deadly serious, with no room for avoidance—as if he’d ever want to avoid you. “Steven.”

He stiffened. “Y-yeah?”

“If anything happens,” you told him slowly, “I want you to call me, okay?” He opened his mouth to respond, but you interrupted him for the first time in the two months he’d known you. “I mean it. I’m not going to push my way into your business, but if you ever feel like you need help, do not hesitate to tell me. Okay?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he suspired. Why was his mouth dry all of a sudden? When had he started sweating? Was his blush as obvious as it felt?

You regarded him for another moment, scrutinizing his expression—perhaps for any traces of falsehood—before nodding and releasing his hands. You reached into your pocket and drew out your phone. “What’s your number?”

Steven recited it to you nervously, fiddling with the hems of his sleeves. You typed it in, saved it, then sent him a message that buzzed in his back pocket. (He never thought that he’d get your number in a context quite like this .)

The lapse of silence continued, stifling in its weight, until your expression softened once more into something far less grave. “...Do you trust me, Steven?”

The answer came without hesitation. “Of course,” he breathed.

Your eyes were so damned deep, he’d drown in them willingly. “All right. Just know…whatever you need, okay? I’m just a phone call away.” You swallowed, then glanced away for the first time since he’d walked into you. “I don’t like seeing you scared. It scares me. ”

He was about to apologize on reflex, but the words died on his tongue. He noticed that you, too, had started to fidget with your fingers, rolling a wrinkle in your jeans. He reached out and laid his hand over yours, drawing your attention back to him. “Where’d you learn that trick? You know, the one about the five senses?”

“I had really bad anxiety when I was a teenager. Had an acute spell for about six months straight that made me hate sleeping because the thought of waking back up to deal with it all over again the next day kept me up all night. I lost a lot of weight because my stomach stayed upset and I didn’t have an appetite at all—it took a long time to go back to eating normal afterwards because my stomach had shrunk.” You looked so vulnerable, uncomfortable with baring yourself just a little bit more to his sympathetic gaze, but doing it anyway—all for his undeserving benefit. He squeezed your hand, this time. “I did a lot of research at the time to find ways to mitigate it. Figuring out the biological basis of it helped me to rationalize my triggers and responses so I could understand how to manage it better. It’s fight, flight, or freeze at its most dire state—so once I learned that, I was able to talk myself down by convincing myself I was safe.” You traced the roughness of his palm, and a flicker of something passed over your face before he could register it. “That trick isolates stimuli so you can focus.”

“That…that makes sense. I’ll have to remember that one.” He cleared his throat quietly. He hadn’t known—you hadn’t told him any of that before, never had indicated that you’d had such a rough time of your anxiety that you so often made light of in passing. “I’m so sorry you went through that. It sounds horrible.”

“It was. But it taught me to be more aware of how my mind and body work, if nothing else. And despite all the hardships, I never looked for a way out, just…a way through. And I did get through it.” You sat up a little straighter, cleared your throat, and glanced through the bookshelves before you returned your attention to him. “Are you sure you don’t need me to…?”

“I’m not going to ask you to play hookey for me,” he told you, smiling and using what was hopefully a playful tone. It seemed to work, because the tension in your shoulders eased a bit. “I will let you know if I need you.”

“Promise?” you prompted, extending the pinky of your free hand.

“Pinky promise,” he assured, linking his with yours and marveling at how petite you really were, dwarfed by the breadth of him. He’d never really noticed that, before, either. (How had he not?) “I’ll let you know what I find out, yeah? Once I get it all straight in my noggin’.”

You nodded as you both stood and started to weave your way through the labyrinth back to the main area of the bookstore. “I’m holding you to that, Steven Grant. If I don’t hear from you I’ll be putting out a search warrant.”

“I don’t think it’ll be that bad,” he fibbed—just a little, because he hated seeing you worry like this. He’d evidently never really given you good reason to worry about him before, and he felt immeasurably guilty despite the comfort you’d brought him. “I’ll see you tomorrow?”

“Yeah. Sounds good.” You flashed him a small smile, less enthusiastic than usual. “Now that you’re not working, we could actually eat together since my lunch break’s always later.”

Tentative, as though you didn’t want to send him over the edge again. He appreciated it more than you’d ever know.

“I’ll be here. Just give me about a fifteen minute heads-up so I can make it on time?”

“Will do.” As he approached the exit, you reached out and brushed your fingertips along the blade of his hand, arresting him on the spot. “Steven. Please be careful.” You glanced over at the other clerk with his back turned towards the pair of you, organizing the table you’d abandoned in favor of bringing Steven down from the brink. “I care a lot about you,” you confessed softly. “I don’t ever want to see you get hurt.”

Steven sucked in a sharp, shaky breath, folding his hands over his stomach on reflex. His body sagged and his heart puddled into the pit of his belly. “I care a lot about you, too, love. But you don’t have to worry about me gettin’ hurt—just think about the other guy! I’ll just give them the ol’ Grant one-two!” He shadow boxed to punctuate, and your quiet chuckle soothed his fluttering nerves. He stilled, then, and dropped his arms to his sides awkwardly. “...And thank you. Really. I don’t know what I would’ve done if you hadn’t…you know. Likely would’ve gone right bonkers, yeah?”

“You’re always welcome, Steven.” You hesitated, fists tightening, before you reached out to grasp his arm lightly, only enough for balance, and Steven’s rattled mind struggled to keep up with your hurried motion and didn’t catch up until after the fact—you leaned into him, all sweet perfume and warm softness, to press a chaste kiss to the dried, tacky tear tracks that would surely leave salt on your lips. You were back down flat on your feet and a full pace away from him by the time his mouth dropped open, and your embarrassment was glaringly obvious. “Take care. For me?”

“Of course, love,” he said softly, watching perplexedly as you nodded, mouth thinning, before you darted around behind a bookcase and out of sight.

Oh. You were shy.

Steven pressed his fingertips to his tingling cheek all the way down the stairs, stumbling a couple of times before he convinced himself to get a grip before he did break his promise and accidentally kill himself not two minutes after the fact. He floated through the coffee shop back onto the street, sinking his back against the wall, and closed his eyes to reclaim his breath.

The first genuine smile of unfettered delight he’d had in what felt like eons wormed onto his face, and Steven let out a dreamy sigh. He shifted, caught a whiff of your perfume, and realized that some of it still lingered on his coat collar. He resisted the sudden urge to bury his nose and to revel in it, clearing his throat and fishing his phone out of his pocket instead to start off his investigation by determining which storage company Marc’s key belonged to.

Your text waited for him, poised under his thumb. ‘Don’t be a stranger, Steven. Laters, gators! :)’

His cheeks ached with the widest smile he’d had in his life.

When the plane from Cairo landed at its destination in London’s biggest airport close at nine-thirty, well past dark, approximately two weeks later, Steven finds that he has never felt so tired in his (admittedly limited waking) life—even during the time of depriving himself of sleep in an effort to control his supposed ‘sleeping’ disorder. He’d…dozed, he supposed was the only way he could describe it, while Marc had fronted during the flight. Leaving Layla in Cairo had been hard on him (both of them, really), so Marc had needed some quiet time to himself.

Steven couldn’t quite find it in himself to blame him in the slightest.

 Marc and Layla had finally squared things away after Khonshu had finally released them—both Harrow and…their relationship. While Layla finally understood Marc’s motivations for all his blunders (and him personally, more clearly than she ever had in their married life, sad as it was to say), they both agreed that it would be for the best to go ahead and part ways. Too much damage had been done, the foundations of their relationship fractured by all the secrets and half-truths Marc had kept, and he had shattered her trust with his noncommunication.

She did make it explicitly clear that the entire ordeal in no way stopped her from caring about him (and now Steven, she made sure to add), however—Marc’s relief had been palpable, even while Steven had kept quiet and to himself listening to them discuss everything in the dingy motel room they’d shared the previous night before he’d departed. They mutually agreed to keep in touch, because while Marc had freed himself (and therefore Steven) of Khonshu’s servitude, Layla was still working with Tawaret as her Red Scarab. Hurt though he was (with mostly himself to blame, he’d admitted), Marc was protective more than anything—and though Tawaret had wormed her way past his initial suspicions with her sincere desire and success in helping them crawl their way out of the Duat, historically he didn’t exactly have a healthy relationship with Ancient Egyptian deities.

He hadn’t spoken much to Steven since then, but Steven was okay with that. Marc was a man of few words, he’d learned, and Steven suspected that it was best to give him space—regardless of when (or if) he ever decided to talk about it. Steven would be there for him either way (figuratively and literally). He’d need to make sure to remind him of that fact when they were both a bit better rested and recovered from the world-ending battle that they had managed to win by the skin of their teeth.

Steven hadn’t had the pleasure of knowing  Layla very long—and while perhaps some of his initial attraction to her could have been attributed to him inheriting at least some of Marc’s own memories, feelings, and familiarity via sharing the body, Steven was grateful that they could remain friends, at least—it spoke lengths of how close she and Marc truly had been, for her to still be willing to stay in contact despite everything that had happened. She’d made sure to send them both off with a tight, rocking hug for each of them, pressing a tender kiss to either cheek as they had seamlessly traded places per her request without so much as a shudder.

“Take care of him, okay, Steven? And you stay safe, too,” she’d murmured into his ear, her mirth belied by her melancholy. She’d paused, then reached up to adjust the lapels of Marc’s jacket lying crooked across his clavicle. “I trust you to do what I couldn’t.”

“I’ll certainly try my best,” he’d returned with a timid smile as she’d drawn away with sparkling eyes not only from fondness. He’d tried to ignore the stinging in his as he’d cleared his throat of the quiver that had threatened to creep into the back of his throat. “He’s a bit of a git when it comes to lookin’ after himself, yeah? But I’m kind of stuck with him, so…good to try to make the best of it, you know.”

“Thank you.” She’d seemed earnest in her gratitude, then, easing back another half-step. “For helping us. I owe you more than I fear I could ever fully repay.”

“You don’t owe me a thing,” he’d returned easily. He liked Layla—perhaps, in another life, he could have loved her, too, if things had turned out different, or if Marc had given him the opportunity. Marc’s envious accusations at the dig sight hadn’t hit quite so close to home as to ever confirm such feelings in himself—she was still virtually a stranger, in spite of him fearing for her life and trusting her with his without hesitation—so while he ached to see things between her and Marc end like they had, all he could focus on was that he was thankful they’d had the opportunity to meet. “You take care of yourself, too, all right? Don’t get into too much trouble kickin’ tail and takin’ names.”

She’d let out a wet laugh at that, not-so-subtly swiping at her eyes. “I will, Steven,” she’d said, and then Marc had taken over.

Until now, anyway.

Steven understood completely why Marc needed some time to himself after all that—perhaps better than anyone. It was why he was extremely grateful that, once all the process of checking out and fetching luggage was done, Marc receded in silence to the back of their shared headspace and left Steven standing at the front entrance of the airport with a flagged cab waiting expectantly for him on the drive below.

He hefted Marc’s duffel a little higher on his shoulder, curling his hands around the strap, and descended the steps quickly. He settled into the back seat, wrinkling his nose a bit at the faint but pungent scents of sweat, alcohol, and puke lingering there.

“Where to, mate?” asked the cab driver, sounding as bored as Steven would admittedly be if he had to drive people dead on their feet home in such dreary weather as this—it had stopped raining, thankfully, but mist still hung in the air and puddles littered the ground, causing any nearby lights to glisten and glitter off the wet surfaces.

Steven hesitated.

He…hadn’t really thought this far ahead, admittedly. He realized with a start that he hadn’t been home since Harrow’s cop friends…lackies… whatever had snatched him under the guise of a real investigation and arrest. It was probably a mess after they had ransacked it. It would be a miracle if not-Gus was still alive. He’d be lucky if none of his nosy neighbors had broken in to pilfer his things.

Steven fiddled with the strap pensively, evidently taking too long for the cabbie’s thinning patience. “Hear me, mate? Where do you need to go?”

It was almost instinct, the way that the coffee shop’s address spilled from his lips with some embarrassment—embedded into his memory since he’d ordered rides there on his days off. The cabbie flicked on the meter and took off once he’d entered it into his phone, and Steven tried to suppress his flustered response at agitating the man because what harm had he caused by waiting a moment longer than what was considered punchy? Nothing. It wasn’t Steven’s fault that the man was irritable. (What cabbie worth his salt relied on Google Maps, anyway? But then again, what cabbie worth his salt couldn’t be bothered to order a deep enough clean after toting about what must have been the cataclysmic aftermath of one hell of a stag party?)

Seeing and doing everything he had in Egypt had given Steven a slightly different outlook both about people in general as well as himself. People were, mostly, harmless—unless they were trying to resurrect and put into power an entombed goddess of destruction, anyway—so what difference did it make that Steven existed in the same place and time as them? It didn’t give them the excuse to be rude or dismissive or critical. Plus…while they’d given up that fancy healing armor (and that rather snazzy suit, unfortunately), Steven could still defend himself if need be. He had access to Marc’s muscle memory now that no more barriers stood between their psyches—he’d held his own against Arthur bleedin’ Harrow quite well, if he did say so himself, thank you very much. He’d still have to get used to the motions, sure, but…never before had he felt more capable and assured in his own abilities. He had Marc to thank for that.

Even still, as he steadied his breathing and calmed his heart, Steven frowned and directed his gaze out of the window to focus on the streets rolling by outside. The coffee shop didn’t close until ten, and you usually didn’t make it out while locking up until ten-fifteen. But because Marc had left Steven’s phone in London (in his storage locker while getting supplies, Steven suspected), Steven had been unable to contact you at all. Given the domino's effects following him leaving the coffee shop in pursuit of Marc’s unit, he hadn’t had time enough to memorize your number (and believe him, under any other circumstances, he would have done so as soon as he would have had the chance). He’d promised you lunch the next day, as well as to check in to let you know he was all right, but by the time Steven had woken back up post-jackal boxing extravaganza, he’d had to deal with Marc’s…less than ideal interrogation techniques.

Things only had…devolved from there. Steven really and truly didn’t care to give any of it much more thought—not until later, when he could see clearly without his eyelids drifting shut.

Steven wrung the hem of the jacket’s sleeves between his fingers, worrying the inside of his cheek while he did so. Even throughout…all of that…Steven had found his thoughts straying inevitably—gravitized, perhaps—back to you, over and over, no matter how hard he’d tried to concentrate on…well, you know, saving the world. Even when he’d been distracted, and terrified, and fighting for his life, he’d recalled snippets of memory so visceral he’d glanced over his shoulder more than once to make sure he was just imagining things.

Your features drenched in sunlight like a goddess in your own right. Your eyes glittering as you tittered in genuine mirth at once his silly little jokes he cringed over every time he departed from your reassuring company. Your smile warming him inside as much as your meticulously brewed teas did going down. Your lilted, soothing drawl, the shape your mouth formed as you’d snowball into a lecture on how ridiculous all the internet conspiracies about aliens building the pyramids because the Egyptians were too primitive to accomplish such feats but the Romans were esteemed geniuses of their time with all their architectural novelties, the unfettered passion that brought such vivacity to your normally demure, soft-spoken demeanor.

He had missed you. Terribly so. More than he would’ve expected, but he was unsurprised.

You’d no doubt have loved to have seen Egypt with your own eyes—you’d confessed your daydreams about it to Steven on a couple of different occasions, had told him how long you’d wanted to take a vacation there to visit all the sights and witness them for yourself. You’d shared, mortified and only after some gentle prodding on his part, that you’d even constructed an itinerary, once, complete with hypothetical flight times, prices, and locations, hotel reservations and rates, eateries recommended by locals, starting from the delta and traversing all the way up to Abu Simbel, as well as every notable tomb, temple, and archaeological site or tourist spot in between. “Maybe one day,” you’d said, so wistfully yet despondently that he’d wanted for nothing more in that moment than to sweep you up and take you there himself.

At the time, he had pictured your reactions to Cairo, Giza, and Alexander the Great’s no-longer-lost tomb with perfect clarity—your excitement would have known no bounds. You would have stopped to inspect and decipher each artifact and inscription if you’d had time enough to do so, ecstatic at the chance to lay your hands on such marvels (respectfully, of that Steven had no doubts). Steven would never have wanted you involved in such close and constant proximity to danger, but he’d still imagined it for his own sanity. You’d been his lifeline, in a way—even with his fleeting, misplaced infatuation with Layla—the thought of not making it back to London, back to you, was what had kept him going at the most harrowing of points.

As partial as you were to the mythology, you’d have been beside yourself to discover that the deities so long thought fabled—for better or for worse—were as real as anything else in this odd little home humanity called Earth. He’d sooner throw himself back into the ravenous sands of the Duat than have you anywhere near that bloodthirsty pigeon, but then again Tawaret had been an angel by comparison, so…maybe you interacting with her wouldn’t have been too bad.

You were his first recurring thought whenever he’d wake (whether he had emerged to the front or from slumber), and you’d been his last thought when Harrow had shot Marc—panicked, screaming, terrified knowing he’d failed to keep his word. When Khonshu had forced the breath back into their lungs, Steven had nevermore felt such relief at proving himself wrong.

He’d convinced Marc to loan him a little spending money, after all was said and done, and had visited a secluded marketplace to browse the vendors’ wares. He’d found a little statuette of Djehuty hand-carved from lapis lazuli, about as long and as wide as his index finger, and while the merchant’s asking price had been outrageous (and because Steven had no talent for haggling, try as he might), Marc hadn’t scolded him too badly for shelling out the questionable stack of bills. It wouldn’t go far in the way of a peace offering, perhaps, but he could use it as some sort of proof if things didn’t go over well.

You weren’t naturally a skeptical person, though, he reminded himself. You had taken him at his word during his mental breakdown without even batting an eye. You valued honesty and communication above all else, prided yourself on your integrity, and Steven knew that you would at least hear him out and consider his (rather implausible) story before you rejected it.

Maybe he could still salvage this. Maybe he wouldn’t have to give Marc one more reason to blame himself for something he’d claim that he ruined. You were a reasonable woman, driven by logic and intuition rather than emotion and feelings. Steven had always admired you for that, for your tendency to avoid taking sides, to play devil’s advocate, to balance and weigh all options, thoughts, facts, and opinions before daring to formulate your own.

A keen little set of scales you were, weren’t you? Yeah. If only you’d have been there, somehow, to help sort out his and Marc’s mess—it likely would have gone a lot smoother and faster. (Maybe they would have actually managed to balance before it had almost been too late.)

“Most everything down this way is closed for the night—you sure you want me to let you off here? Or would you rather me take you someplace else?” groused the cabbie as he eased to a stop on the street corner (because of course—why would any cabbie worth his salt take a man to his requested destination only to offer a longer drive if but to rack up a higher meter?)

Despite Steven’s increasing indignation (he was firmly placing the blame on his and Marc’s shared jet lag because he was just so tired and he would never normally get so irate by a man doing his job, no matter how lazily), he hesitated. Only the security lights were visible through the sheer blinds drawn over the windows to conceal the interior, and he couldn’t make out your shape at the till or anywhere else, for that matter.

Perhaps it had been wishful thinking to hope you’d still be there, or even on the shift for tonight at all. You’d probably worried yourself to death fretting about his sudden silence—no, scratch that, you definitely had fretted. Was he going to have to call the nearest police station to have them take down a missing persons report? Had you even filed one like you’d threatened to? Or had he inadvertently hurt you by what could in any other conceivable circumstance be taken as ghosting to the point that you no longer cared for his well-being?

The thought made his heart clench. It ached more than he might have been readily willing to admit. Oh, he had gone and messed things up royally, hadn’t he? The one person who’d actually treated him like a person (outside of Marc and Layla, of course) could very well hate his guts now. It sickened him, almost made him want to lock himself away in his flat and curl up under his duvet and hide for the rest of eternity.

But he couldn’t. Not on the off-chance you had recalled his concerns, had believed his worries, and still thought him innocent in the matter. Not if you were still waiting for him.

“What’ll it be, mate?” drolled the cabbie, muffled by a gargantuan yawn he didn’t bother to stifle. “I’d rather not sit here all night, you know.”

“N-no—I’ll stop here, thanks.” Steven patted through Marc’s pockets until he found his wallet, then rifled through the neatly organized mixture of bills until he found English currency as opposed to Egyptian—with enough for a decent tip, because Steven always tried not to be a knob. “You seem like you’re workin’ on fumes, mate, you ought to go home and get some sleep.”

“Sleeping’s for the dead,” he deadpanned, and Steven let out a breathless little chuckle as he shuffled out of the cab onto the curb and watched it round the corner and out of sight.

If only he knew.

The air was warmer than before Steven had been carted off to another continent, a bit muggy as the humidity settled like cobwebs in his lungs. He grimaced and unzipped the jacket, edging closer to the windows to squint inside properly.

Still no signs of life. Steven rested his fingertips on the dribbled glass, dropping his head. Marc still had the storage key in the bag, somewhere—he supposed that he could try going and getting his phone, but that would run the risk of the business not being open at all hours and require that much more time to charge the blasted thing back from the brink. Perhaps he’d be better off to wait until the next morning to try to sort his life back out—he wouldn’t be able to stand staying on his feet for much longer.

“ ...Steven? ”

He stiffened, straightened in an instant, and turned to see you standing at the corner, keys still dangling from your fingers after locking up and coming around the back. An impulsive glance at Marc’s watch told him that you’d finished up early—it was ten on the dot. Your expression, bleached by the cold ivory streetlamp looming over your head, was slack in disbelief.

Steven���despite having rehearsed over the last two weeks what he could possibly say to explain himself, to apologize for his abrupt absence and radio silence, to entreat you to at least hear him plead his case, to beg for your forgiveness and to seek it by any means necessary just so he could talk to you again—fell terribly short of his expectations as the moment came…and went.

His greatest shortcoming, that: his seemingly endless supply of words failing him when he needed them most dire.

“...Hiya,” he said meekly, raising his hand in a shameful little wave—then groaned internally and resisted the overwhelming urge to bury his face in his hands and pull at his hair in frustration.

Real chuffed she’ll be with a response like that, ol’ chap. Bollocks. I’m an utter pillock, aren’t I?

“S-sorry,” he floundered, face burning as you continued to stare at him with rounded eyes and a gaping mouth. You looked caught between fight or flight but trapped in freeze mode, every muscle in your body rigid as though the sight of him reviled you. His heart twisted, but he couldn’t find it in himself to blame you. He’d be right pissed at himself, too. “It’s…been a bit much, the time I’ve had. I’m proper exhausted after that trip. Not that, uh…not that it’s any excuse, yeah? I’m just having a bit of a hard time not fallin’ asleep on my fee— oof! ”

You’d moved before he could even track the motion. Had he looked away or dropped his head and closed his eyes out of humiliation? Had he almost blacked out again even though Marc made no sign of himself known? Or was he just that tired and you were that fast on your feet? (Of course you were nimble, juggling books and drinks all day long at a breakneck pace. Why would he ever have thought otherwise?)

He supposed it didn’t matter in the end, really, because your arms were coiled around his neck to drag him down closer to your height, your face was buried into his (no doubt grimy) neck, and your hands were trembling as they gripped his nape and threaded into his matted, oily curls as though your life depended upon it. Your breaths were muffled and warm against his throat, as were the tears that smeared against his thundering pulse, and it took Steven an embarrassingly long time to come to his senses and return your vice-like embrace with his own shaking arms.

“You scared the shit out of me, Steven,” you sniffled into his collar like a secret, voice tight and hushed with the ferocity of your feeling. “I thought I’d lost you.”

Steven swallowed roughly, throat tightening and eyes filming over with the familiar hot sting he’d been doing his damnedest to hold down until he’d returned to the safety of his home—but he supposed that he already had, so what was the point in resisting anymore?

“I thought I’d lost me, too, love,” he whispered raggedly, his tenuous resolve crumbling like sandstone as he buried his face in your hair and crushed you against his chest as tightly as your clothes allowed. His tears finally slipped free of his eyes as he squeezed them closed in an effort to shut out the world around him. He could feel your heart hammering against his chest even through all his layers, your earthy perfume saturating his lungs, your inherent warmth seeping into him so like the sunshine you epitomized in his mind. You didn’t give any inclination of letting him go anytime soon, and he had no such intention, either. “I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t be,” you murmured, voice cracking with the strain of keeping yourself in check, pulling your head back just enough to peer up at him with a warbling smile. The hand on his neck slipped around to cup his cheek in your palm, thumbing away the wet streaks trailing towards his chin. Your eyes darted over his features, scrutinizing, as though you were committing the sight to memory—as though assuring yourself that he was really real, really there, really corporeal and not an apparition. “God, darlin’, don’t be sorry, I’m just—I’m just glad you’re okay. Are you safe? Are you hurt? Are you still in danger?” You mirrored your own touch with your free hand, cradling his head as though you held the entire world between your fingers, stroking the corners of his mouth in reverent reassurance. “Where have you been? I tried looking, asking around the museum, but nobody knew where you’d disappeared, and I—I thought—” You let out a sob from between gritted teeth, quivering despite his desperate grip on your upper and lower back. “—I feared the worst, after what you said the last time I saw you, and I tried talking to the police, but they thought I was crazy, and…I’ve nearly worried myself to death wondering where you’d gone.”

Nailed it. Unfortunately. Steven let out a watery laugh, biting his lip briefly before tugging you back under his chin so you wouldn’t see the conflicted emotions fighting for prominence on the limited canvas space of his face. “Oh, love, I’ve been to hell and back,” he joked quietly (one you wouldn’t get, not yet, and one he didn’t particularly care to explain), rocking you from side to side and anchoring himself with the weight of your body against his. “But I never stopped thinking about—about coming back. To you. Not once.”

Your arms slipped under his to squeeze him tight, slowly but surely soaking his shirt with your relief. Steven was uncertain how long the pair of you stood like that, getting progressively more damp from the mist and more chilled from the cooling breeze, and finally he withdrew enough to tenderly pat your cheeks dry with the hem of his sleeve. You laughed a little at that, a frail but joyous little sound, and Steven could hardly contain himself—but you beat him to it.

“You look exhausted, darlin’,” you said softly, face pinching a little as you took in his drawn features. He was sure Marc had sat up through the whole flight, as antsy as he was—the body hadn’t gotten sufficient enough rest in so long Steven was surprised neither of them had yet to collapse. The deep purple semicircles marring the heavy undersides of his eyes were sure to be sights to behold. You traced his brow, temple, and cheekbone with a featherlight touch of your fingertips. “You said you just got back?”

“Yeah,” he responded, eyes fluttering shut at your gentleness with a long sigh. “I wanted…I needed to see you. To let you know I made it back, and that I didn’t mean to shut you out, and…to tell you what happened.”

“Are you sure you’re up for it?” you pressed carefully. “You’ve obviously been stressed about it. You don’t have to tell me anything you’re not comfortable talking about.”

“I want you to know. It’s…it’s important. To me.” He cracked his eye back open, taking in the minutiae of your features, too—you seemed just as bad off as he was. “But I don’t want to be a bother.”

You gave him a sharp look, and your last reaction to a similar statement he’d made rang clear in the back of his mind without you even having to echo your response.

“You just seem tired, too, is all,” he said. “Didn’t want to keep you up any later.”

“I’ll stay up all night if you asked me to,” you told him firmly. “Whatever you need. I meant what I said.”

‘I’m here for you.’

“I…could I ask one teensy favor?” he started, hating how small his voice sounded. “Just this once?”

You quirked an inquisitive brow.

“I…don’t really want to sleep by myself tonight,” he admitted sheepishly. “My place got broken into and…I’m not sure what it’ll look like when I go back there. I…I don’t want to be alone. Could I…?”

“Of course,” you said immediately, already reaching down and grasping his wrist. “You look like you could use a good meal, too—I’ve got some leftover minestrone that I could heat up for you. It doesn’t have any animal products in it.”

Oh, he could kiss you.

“I don’t mean to impose,” he prefaced, “but…that honestly sounds heavenly.”

“You’re not imposing. Come on. The bus will be making its stop soon—don’t want to miss it in case the rain starts up again.”

Steven allowed you to lead him along the street, perfectly content to allow you to guide him. The longer he went, the more difficult it was to stay focused. The late bus, one he’d usually been forced to catch when Donna had thrust him into inventory duty, was virtually empty save a couple of other night workers having finished up their shifts. You settled Steven near the back, setting him against the window and perching yourself in the aisle seat with a watchful eye directed towards the other passengers.

Steven found himself nodding off, forehead pressed heavily into the window, when your fingers tugged his wrist lightly. “Hey. Here, lean on me—I don’t want you to get a crick in your neck.”

Hardly conscious of it, Steven allowed you to direct with a cupped hand his temple to rest on your shoulder, sinking listlessly into your side. The press of your warm palm on his cheek remained as you murmured something he didn’t quite catch, too drowsy to recall anything afterwards besides the sweet scent of chai on your breath.

You roused him at the correct stop, and he managed to keep his wits about himself long enough to take in the new, unfamiliar surroundings. The university campus loomed on the other side of the highway, impressive in its splendor, and your flat was located in a nice but affordable gated complex that he suspected you’d chosen for convenience and security rather than luxury. Multiple other residences lined this side of the road, likely housing the majority of students.

“I’m on the top floor, but luckily they have elevators,” you murmured to him as you used your key card to buzz through the gate and unlock the side door to the main corridor. You led him through the place, let him lean against you while the mechanisms’ hum lulled him, and the first thing you did upon letting him into your apartment was have him sit on the loveseat. “Give me your feet.”

“Oh, don’t—you don’t have to do that,” he protested, even as you kneeled on the carpet and pulled one dusty boot up onto your knee to untie the laces. “Please, I couldn’t ask you to—”

“You’re not asking, I’m doing,” you responded mildly. “Steven, you’re a blink too long away from going comatose—just let me take care of you, okay?” Your lips thinned for a moment, conflicted, before you dropped your gaze to your fingerwork before tugging the heavy shoe free and setting it to the side and reaching for his other foot. “I missed you. Let me do this, please.”

He had precious little will to argue, lesser so to refuse any sort of doting you might decide to bestow upon him. Steven Grant was many things, and a weak man was one of them. “I…all right,” he said softly.

“Good boy.” You patted the side of his leg with a wry little smirk that did funny things to his blood pressure, removing the other shoe, and leaving it with its twin. You stood, knees cracking, and made a placating gesture. “Wait here, I’ll be back in five.”

“All right,” he repeated sleepily because he couldn’t help it—his eyes were already falling shut again. He became dimly aware of an added weight draped over him, but it wasn’t until you came back and sank into the cushion next to him that he jerked back awake and realized you’d pulled the heavy knit blanket off the back of the couch over him.

“Here,” you said, pressing a large mug into his hands. “I know microwaved leftovers aren't as good, but I’ll be lucky to get you to down anything before you pass out on me. Again.”

“Sorry,” he mumbled, drawing up a spoonful and blowing the steam off it. It smelled divine, and his stomach pinched and growled as though it, too, had wrenched itself awake.

“Stop apologizing,” you said, eyes twinkling. “It’s kind of cute.”

“Only kind of?” he tried, slipping the spoon into his mouth. A salty medley of flavors bloomed over his tongue and Steven was convinced he’d been sent to Aaru after all. “Oh…you never told me you were a king’s cook,” he mumbled.

“I am a bit proud of my cooking,” you chuckled. “I had…tweaked that recipe, to see if you’d like it, actually. I just so happened to have made it last night.” You glanced off to the side, briefly, towards the floor-to-ceiling window that lined the far wall and displayed the heart of London in all its twinkling glory. “Good timing, I guess.”

Steven ate as much as his waning patience could stand before propping the mug between his knees and tentatively resting a hand on yours draped over your thigh. You looked back to him immediately, the only light in the room spilling off to the side from the kitchen and casting all but the curve of your face in shadow. “There’s too much to explain in one night,” he began with a sigh, “and, honestly, it’ll probably take me a bit to work up to some of the…worse stuff. But I did want to tell you what I figured out about my sleeping disorder.”

“All right.” You shifted and contorted to face him completely, folding your legs crossed under you and lacing your fingers with his. “Did you get an official diagnosis, or…?”

He tried to ignore that in favor of staying undistracted. (It didn’t work very well, and he squeezed your hand back.) “Well. Sort of.” He recalled the certainty with which had (sparingly) detailed their ‘insanity’, the clarity with which the Duat had conformed to Marc’s self-perception as an institutionalized patient in an asylum. “It’s not a sleeping disorder.”

“Okay,” you responded encouragingly, expression neutral.

“I have…well. We have…” He sighed, ducked his head, and scratched at his hairline. “...Have you ever heard of Dissociative Identity Disorder?”

“I took a psychology class back home, yeah.” You frowned slightly. “What, like…Multiple Personality Disorder?”

“Yes.” Steven’s eyes were drawn to your hand, and he turned it over to inspect the lines of your palm with his blunt, callused fingertips (no longer a mystery why they stayed in such rough shape, he mused). “I’m, uh…well…it’s harder to…to say out loud, I guess.” He faltered, then, eyes flashing up to beseech your understanding. “I want you to know that we’ve worked things out as much as we could, so it’s a lot better than it was, but we’ve still got a ways to go, I think. Just—just know that we’re sound of mind, and neither of us would ever, ever hurt you.”

“Steven,” you said gently, realization slowly dawning in your softening gaze, “I never once had doubts about that.”

“I…good. That’s good.” He swallowed. He’d seen the stereotypes in popular media just like everyone else ever had, and while Marc had indeed hurt people, his remorse told Steven just how little he’d enjoyed it (that being none). “Okay. So…there’s this little American man that…lives inside my head, I guess. Marc Spector. Bit of a twit when you first meet him, but he’s not a half-bad bloke once you get to know him.”

Steven paused, waiting for a biting remark from the nearest reflective surface—but your offlined television remained passive. He let out a breath of relief.

Your expectant, patient silence spurred him on. “That’s what I thought, anyway—that he lived inside my head, that is. Just started poppin’ up out of nowhere, tryin’ to scare me off of figurin’ everythin’ out. Didn’t realize ‘til later that he was just tryin’ to protect me and being a real sorry arse about it.” Steven pressed the flat of his thumb into the crease of your palm, feeling your steady, calmed pulse thudding against his skin. “Turns out…I’m the one living inside his head.”

Your brow furrowed slightly, but you didn’t interrupt him.

“He had a rough childhood,” Steven continued, voice carrying over into a rush, “lost his li’l brother. His mum blamed him for it…did some things she shouldn’t have. Marc…developed an alter based on a fictional character from his favorite movie.” He let out a shaky sigh, dropping his chin to his sternum. “Doctor Steven Grant, debonair, world-traveled archaeologist extraordinaire.” He cleared his throat, voice lowering. “I think I may have fallen a bit short of his expectations.”

He had only learned the terminology in the snippets of time Marc let him front while he and Layla were still organizing things in Cairo, looking up articles to learn more about their shared mindscape.

“I…remember our childhood,” he said, much more quietly, “but not any of the bad parts. He let me keep all the good memories. I never remembered Mum except on the good days. Learning all this…was really hard. I never thought…I knew I had gaps in my memory, but I didn’t think…I never figured it out until the wall between us got broken down.” He squeezed his eyes shut. “When…when Mum died. I didn’t know. Marc couldn’t control it anymore, and…things happened. He moved to London, got me all set up with the flat and the job at the museum, and he was finishing things up so he could…I don’t know, fall to the wayside and not come out anymore? I’m not really sure how that works…if it would even work, like that.”

He didn’t dare look up at your expression. You’d fallen completely still and eerily quiet.

“So…yeah.” He was whispering by now. “I guess that makes me the fake identity.”

“Steven Grant,” you interjected, voice low and calm, “there is nothing about you that’s fake. I don’t ever want to hear you say something like that again.”

He gulped, peeking up at your resolute expression. “Yes, ma’am,” he croaked.

“You’re the most vibrant, thoughtful, selfless person I’ve ever met,” you said, gripping his hand so tightly he felt your pulse in each of your fingertips—he wouldn’t be surprised if your prints melded with his. “You have filled my life with more joy than I’ve felt in years. I give thanks almost every day that I had the privilege to have met you at a time when I needed you most.” You leaned in closer, eyes sparkling like the stars faintly visible on the horizon beyond your balcony. “For whatever reason that Marc Spector may have created you, he did a damn good job of it. You embody every positive trait anyone could ever hope to have. You are undoubtedly one of the best men I’ve proudly called my friend. And whatever you went through, with him or without, I have no doubt in my mind that you are integral to him, a part of him he idealizes. Even if you’re an alter, not the original owner of this body,” with this, you tapped his shoulder with your free hand, “you are just as important and just as precious to me for it.”

Steven thought he had cried enough, but his eyes betrayed him yet again. Only a couple of tears slipped free before you were smearing them away, steadfast in your presence, knees pressed into the outside of his thigh. He sank into your touch, shutting his eyes in relief.

“You can tell me as much or as little about the rest of it as you want,” you murmured. “And I apologize in advance for anything that I may accidentally say or do out of ignorance—but I promise you, Steven Grant, I will stay by your side as long as you’ll have me. No matter what.”

“Even though I’ve turned out a little crazier than you may have expected?” he asked, trying to lighten the mood with such a feeble attempt at a joke—but the words came out a little bleaker than he had intended.

“You’re not crazy,” you stated, “you’re a survivor. Both of you. And I am so very grateful that you survived.”

Steven did not remember falling asleep after that. He did not remember you taking the mug back to the kitchen and turning the lights out. He did not remember you leveraging him longwise across your loveseat, a couple feet two short for him had he not already been curled up, piling multiple blankets over his lanky form and carefully slipping a pillow from your bed under his head. He did not remember you tenderly combing his unkempt curls off his forehead, gazing at him with love brimming in your eyes, and laying a lingering kiss between his brows.

He did, however, remember in perfect detail the sight of you slumped over in your recliner, facing him, wreathed in the most beautiful golden sunrise he’d ever seen in his life.

[kalethemonster]

my american trans siblings, you will be under a fascist government once january rolls around. that fact is fucking terrifying. even for me as an aussie. (though your politics heavily affect us also bc all social media algorithms treat anyone posting in english as american)

take your time to mourn your freedom. you're losing sooo fucking much and it breaks my heart. the next two months you have left should be used for networking with irl trans people and preparing yourself mentally. let yourself morn but for fucks sake stay alive.

every day you exist is an act of resistance against those who wish you never existed in the first place.

so, how can you keep yourself existing?

irl? go back to 80's queer social policy. dont ask, dont tell. but definately use ways of signing to other queer people that you are one. with irl community, do your best to keep eachother afloat and help where you can. if you grow food, share it out. if you have a vacant room, add someone who needs a place to your household (ground rules and house rules important obvi). if you gotta go back in the closet do so, if you're already transitioning medically do your best to stock up on hrt during the next two months. your irl community is the best resource you have, so networking to find them while you an still do so freely in the next two months is critical.

social media is a tad more complicated so i'll break it down by site/company.

twitter: archive any important past posts you have made via screenshots and then just fucking nuke your account, delete all posts you have made individually to make sure and the delete the acc. elongated muskrat is the annoying orange's biggest financial supporter. he will turn over any and all info he government may request about trans and queer users. if you ever needed any more reasons to dump twitter thab the ones you have already had, take this one.

meta: in terms of facebook, if you still need it for family, archive posts abt being trans via screenshots, and delete said posts. if they were posted by supportive familiy members then get them to delete what they have posted of your identity for safety reasons, then only use for family you can only reach through it. for instagram and threads private any accounts you have that has your personal information attached other than ones for personal businesses. if you need public account access for reaching out,, make an account with only your first name listed, fill it with aesthetic shit or meme posts so it isn't easily linked to you as a person.

as far as i know with bluesky, more or less post as usual but stilll protect your personal information. first name and pronouns only. do not include location markers.

redit, hold all personal info verry close to your heat, give nothing away, have like 50 burners, you dont need karma.

youtube, if you only use it for viewing, use as normal. if you upload, do your best to not show ANY recognisable outdoor landmarks, keep personal info tight, and donot get into anything political. if you can take a hiatus that would be even better.

tumblr: post as normal minus locational and government info.

common thread here is do not reveal any personal shit at all and do your best to conceal what is already posted. back to 90s rules for most sites. unfortunately tech-literate bigots finding your info is a possibility and so you want to withhold as much as you can to avoid being located and identified.

general ruled (both irl and online):

you are dealing with fascists. anything out of line they will actively try to snuff out. if anyone st all tries to get you to talk about ANYTHING REMOTE POLITICAL in any form of public space, SHUT THE FUCK UP. completely shut it down with "i dont talk about politics" or "i dont like politics". yes it's the pussy's answer to get out of shit, but being a pussy in the presence of violent fascists keeps you alive. if they try to talk about palastine, shut the fuck up. if they try to talk about trans people, shut the fuck up. if they try to talk about abortion, shut the fuck up. if they try to talk about disability/meantal health. from new years onwards, you will treat any person in the US who tried to talk about any of that shit in public that isn't doing it for the sake of protest as a narc. you will only properly discuss it behind closed doors with trusted family, comunity and allies.

as of new years day, it is the job of all allies in the us to basically be human shields for not only queer communities, but disabled, migrant, and any form of non-white communities too. if you are cis, white, able bodied, and have been an american citizen from birth, and happen to be a decent person, you are the ones who gotta protect those who cant protect themselves or cant leave the country. yes even if you're queer. if you are a white cis queer person, you can hide your sexuality for 4 years. most trans and intersex people cannot hide their gender or traits.

to recap: for the next two months, mourn your freedom, connect with your local queer comunity. do not share any personal info anywhere online unless you have a buisness, and then keep said info to the bare minimum. if people try to talk to you in public, shut the fuck up. allies and white cis lgb must protect those who cant run or hide.

the next four years are gonna be hell. but just know that of it seems no one has your back, this trans man all the way in australia has your back. love from me, my cousin, and my wonderfully supportive mother. stay sane, aqy safe, stay together.