#its because the new notebook is smaller so i fill the whole page in black

[chimeride]

[beanenigma]

Tips for people who like to write by hand

So you’re an old timey writer who enjoys the feeling of paper as you breathe life into a story? Or, like me, you can’t use your phone at school and just wants to get some writing done while math class bores the others? 

Well, me too and I’ve come to your aid! I’ve done some pretty stupid things that costed me hours and hours of searching for lost scenes and struggling to find ideas I knew I’d written down so you don’t have to! 

Find the right notebook for you

By experience, notebooks take a long time to be filled. In good nanowrimo times, I take from 6 to 8 months to finish one. So you’ll be stuck with this guy for a long time. Make sure to pick one that you like and is right for your needs. I, for example, prefer spiral notebooks. You can rip out pages if you need to (if you mess it up, if someone asks you for one, if you just need a page to write down a grocery list or something, etc) and you can put a pen on the spiral. I also like having a pocket to put pieces of ideas I have. 

Some spooky stories about having the wrong notebook: 

I got stuck with a brochure old planner for two years. My mom didn’t use it in the year it was meant for, so I thought oh, it’s free real estate. As it turns out, it had really small space between the lines, so the pages would take forever to fill, it had all those day and hour numbers and the paper was really thin. It was terrible and it made writing terrible. It would have been a thousand times better if I just spent a few bucks on a regular notebook. 

More recently, I started using just the kind of notebook I like, a spiral notebook with a pocket. But I bought it a couple of years ago at a fandom event I attended and the cover was a personalized Divergent cover. At the time, I thought if was pretty cool and everyone would know the reference. But now it has aged so very poorly. The cover has blood all over it and it says “Faction Before Blood”. So now I’m scared to pull it out to write at uni and people will think I’m in a gang or something. 

Number your pages

I know, it sounds like a lot of work. But you can get a notebook with pages already numbered, number it yourself or do it like I do and number it every 10 pages (just because it’s easier). If you don’t feel like doing all of this repetitive work,  date your writing. It’s cool to see how much you progressed, how long you have been writing this project, when you had this idea, etc. One thing doesn’t have to exclude the other, but both methods serve the same purpose. 

And this purpose is to help you get an idea of how much you write (and feel good about your progress) and to help you organize yourself on all you’ve been writing. Which takes us to the next tip. 

Make the first page an index

Not only it will take the pressure off the first page, it will also help you so you don’t keep losing the awesome stuff you’re writing and forgetting it exists. Everytime you start a new scene or change projects, go to the index and write down the page or the date you started this new section. Since I number every ten pages, I find the first page with a number on it and start counting forward or back to the new page. But you can do it in any way that suits you. 

Make a random idea page 

It doesn’t have to be the second page (it usually isn’t for me), but it’s good to have one. Sometimes, in the middle of writing, you have that great idea for something you need to change on what you’ve already got, or you got a completely new insight. It’s good to have your idea page somewhere close you can just flip to, write it down and get right back to writing. And don’t go easy on that page! Write it diagonally, vertically, draw on it, anything. It’s just there to take out those ideas so you can take a look at it another time and not mess the flow you’re in right now. 

Keep your enemies close. And your pen even closer!

You know your favorite bic friend? It has a secret weapon just for you to use. That little flap of the cap? Use it to keep your pen always close. I normally put it on the spiral of my notebook. But if you have a brochure, you can put it on the cover. Sometimes it damages it a bit, but it’s a good trade for having it always ready for action. If you use moleskine, I saw that they normally have designated pen places. If they don’t, I have a tip for it just under this one! 

Take your time to find which kind of pen is your weapon of choice. Personally, I think nothing beats a black ballpoint pen. I know some people like fineliners for writing, but they make the other side of the paper all gross looking and I like to keep it clean. Plus, I write really small and fineliners often bleed in my handwriting. I took my time searching for my favorite brand and I settled on Molin ballpoint pens. 

I would recommend buying your favorite pens in bulk. Nothing is worse than pen hunting around when you have an urgent idea. I bought 50 pens for super cheap and I stack them EVERYWHERE. In all my bags, in my sketchbooks, in my bullet journal, in my writing notebook, in my drawers, anywhere I think it will be easy to find one when I need it ( also giving some to my friends who keep stealing my pens).

Crafting the perfect notebook

You don’t have to be a crafter to modify your notebook to better suit you! Find a ribbon anywhere in the house. Cut it to be a little longer than the book. Tape that bad boy to the inside of the back cover and everytime you stop writing, put that ribbon on the page you stopped. This helps you not to get lost in your previous writing and get right back to business when you resume.

Also, if you really like that moleskine vibe but don’t have the cash, just get a regular clothing elastic, make cut it just the size of the notebook and glue both ends to the inner part of the back cover. There you go! Now you can close it (and keep it closed).  

If you like post-its, you can take half of the block (or however many sheets you cant put in there and still close the notebook comfortably) and glue it to the inside part of the cover of your notebook so it will always be conveniently available for you.

If your notebook doesn’t have a place to put your pen on and you really don’t want to mess up the cover, you  take a small elastic (smaller than the pen) and tape (or preferably glue it) it to the back part of the notebook with both ends inside. There! Ready for the trip! Speaking of which...

Always carry your notebook with you

You never know when inspiration is going to strike. In class. At the bank. In a mall. Whenever you have a little time, you can write something. Or just take a look at what you’ve done and feel good about it. 

Not in the mood for writing? Edit. Reread what you’ve done and start finding what you want to change once you type it in.  When doing this, don’t be scared to cross out entire sentences and rewriting them on top. If it starts getting too messy, go to a blank page and rewrite the scene and you think it should have been done the first time. It seems counter-intuitive in a copy+paste kind of age, but I assure you it is worth it.

Typing your work

This is one of the biggest reasons I love writing in pen and paper. When you type, your first round of editing is done! 

Don’t zone out when typing. As I said, typing is your first round of editing. It is important to keep aware of all of the things you might have done wrong when writing. Some people say writing it on paper and then typing it is a waste of time. I say it saves time and lives. 

Keep it loose!

Just because you are writing in an actual physical book, it doesn’t mean you are writing a actual physical book. This is still your notebook and these are still your notes. So don’t be afraid to get messy. Write things out of order (seriously, it’s okay to not go chronological. i know it’s hard). Outline. Sketch. Tip-ex the whole thing. Get post-its on it. Take notes. Make genealogical trees. Draw maps. 

If you’re feeling down or uninspired, try very basic writing exercises: write what you see, what you feel, something to try and make you laugh or something to make someone cry. It’s your place to express yourself. And once you got those creative juices flowing, happy writing :)

I hope you enjoyed my tips and please, feel free to reblog this with your own tips and tricks. I’d love to hear them! And follow me for some more writing content! 

[rokutouxei]

the wonder that’s keeping the stars apart

ikemen vampire: temptation through the dark theo van gogh / mc | T | [ ao3 link in bio ]

The challenge seemed pretty simple: to try to befriend the university bookshop's most sour employee, Theo van Gogh. As a literature major with a boatload of book recommendations on her back, it ought to be a simple task indeed. But as she uncovers what lies between Theo's pages, the more she finds it harder to become closer to him without having to put the feeling directly into words. What can she learn from Theo about what it means to stay—and how can she teach Theo about what it means to let go? | written for ikevamp big bang 2020!

[ masterpost for all chapters ]

CHAPTER 2 OF 22

In a small house in the better neighborhood of the university, a young man is beginning to dream. He’s chasing the afterimages of a vision he’d caught, trying to see if he can get it down on paper. It’s scary, but it’s exciting. He’s prepared his materials—the canvas, the pen, the paint—and he’s closed the door, and opened the shutters, letting the morning light flood the studio-cum-library in their small, rented home.

Vincent holds the pen gently, like a prayer, in his hands, before beginning to sketch.

--

The thing with living in such a small university town such as this is that you cannot escape the inevitable.

And by inevitable, that means you know someone who knows someone, and everyone kind of vaguely knows each other in some way or another—through a club, or a shared favorite hang-out spot, or an extracurricular. Everyone is someone’s something by a degree or another.

She’s learned this in her first year at university, but the lesson’s about to be driven a little closer to home today.

She’s seated in the café as usual, annotating a book when Vincent approaches her, a small brownie in hand. It’s not the ones they serve regularly, cut on a smaller bit, and maybe it’s one of the edges or corners in the baking tray. “Can I offer you a little snack?” he asks, offering the plate in front of her.

Looking up at him through round-rimmed glasses, she blinks. “Oh? Thank you, but—what’s this for?” she asks, as Vincent puts the plate down on a free spot on her table. He takes a seat on the free chair next to her.

“Can I ask you a favor?”

Modeling isn’t exactly her forte, but Vincent insists that he doesn’t need a full-blown model for his project—besides, he couldn’t have afforded it, even if he did need one. He’s working on “something”—by the rumors in the art department, she assumes it’s for his thesis, his capstone project, but who knows?—and he needs a little help on the lighting. He’s working with some tricky fabric, draped down bodies, and he isn’t quite sure how it should come out.

“It’ll only take two hours tops,” he promises, “if you wouldn’t mind. It’s not nude or anything risque, I just need to be able to see how the fabric drapes accordingly to the light. I’ll treat you to dinner afterward?”

Here’s the thing—one does not exactly say no to Vincent. The university town is small enough as it is, and everyone knows Vincent because he’s a legend in the art department. You do not turn down the offer to be painted by a master, or at least that’s how the logic goes. But at the same time, Vincent is always sunflowers and soft smiles, and when he looks at her like that… the only thing that comes out of her mouth is “Of course I will!”

“I’m sorry this is all so sudden,” he says sheepishly. “I just had this idea a bit back, and I’ve been wanting to work on it…”

“No, it’s okay,” she replies instantly. “You’re always reserving my favorite seat for me anyway, and you’ve always been so nice to me. We’re basically friends now, and friends do this for each other, yes?”

Vincent’s eyes glow in a way you’ve never seen before, and it makes you flush a little. “Friends? Of course, yes, thank you so much.”

His shift won’t end in another hour and a half, so he treats her to coffee (“you didn’t have to!” “it’s on me, I swear!”) as she’s waiting for him. She picks up her beautiful, hardbound copy of 1800s English literature, now lovingly highlighted and with many flags at certain pages, and begins to read, scribbling notes on a separate notebook.

By 5:15 Vincent is ready to go, dressed out of his uniform and into his casual clothes, a sweater one or two sizes too big for him over a shirt and some pants. He calls out her name gently, hand leaning on her table.

And she stares.

Vincent isn’t her type—he’s a little too angelic for her liking, as she does prefer those on the more rugged side—but she won’t deny that he’s attractive. She had never seen Vincent in casual clothes before—she’d seen him hang up his barista apron at the end of shifts before, but never actually caught him go home—and she pauses for a moment when he arrives at her table.

“Are you okay?”

“Haha,” she says awkwardly, coughing her shock away. “Yeah, I almost didn’t recognize you, is all. Let me just pack up?”

She hadn’t expected it, but she should have—that her friendly local barista, the legend of the art department—is living smack dab in the middle of their small town, at the perfect distance to everything. In a house, too, not a small dormitory. It’s a beautiful one painted white with a small garden and a porch outside, a tree standing tall and providing shade on the house, and a small classic mailbox in front—it looked like a house that belonged in the suburbs instead of in the middle of this very schoolish town. She can’t help the small whistle of appreciation when they get there.

“Our father knew the landlord,” Vincent explains, as he unlocks the door. “So we get it rather cheaply. Careful of the landing.”

We? She catches the plural but doesn’t get to ask, as she enters the apartment and marvels at it. It’s not extravagant, but it’s still rather fancy, considering she stays in a small studio room. There are paintings hanging on the walls—Vincent’s, she assumes—and everything is in attractive, warm colors. What catches her attention, however, is the small framed photo on the side table by the sofa, of two boys on a swing, a blond one (Vincent?) pushing one with brown hair (a cousin?).

“Five and three,” Vincent says, by way of explanation. She’s about to ask him who the other child is, but Vincent interrupts her. “Do you need water? A break?”

They’d walked quite a bit from the café, after all, and while she had her bike with her, Vincent didn’t, and so she just rolled it next to her throughout the whole 30-minute walk. “No, I’m okay. Where’s your studio?”

Vincent beams. “Here, come.”

They walk down the hall and enter a door to the left, and the studio opens up to her. The wall on the right has a row of high bookshelves, all nearly filled to the brim with books on all sorts of different topics. The wall where the door is has a layer of corkboard attached to it, where a multitude of prints and photos and papers with scribbles and notes are pinned and strung together. Most of the room’s floor is covered in some kind of paper—newspaper, craft paper—to protect the wooden slats below. There are easels stacked at the far side of the room, but facing away, so she can’t exactly see what is on them. And then, there is the set-up for Vincent’s current project: an easel in the center of the room with the sketch of a woman’s figure; a white sheet draping from the ceiling to the floor, serving as a backdrop, in the far corner; a steel circle hanging by the ceiling, the kind people sit on; black craft paper laid on the floor below it; and on top of it, a small stool, a fabric in beautiful vermillion, and some fairy lights.

“Welcome to the studio,” Vincent says, guiding her inside. “Sorry for the mess, I was working this morning.”

“No, it’s okay,” she says, carefully stepping in. “It’s so interesting to see your studio, where all the magic happens.”

Vincent flinches at that, but doesn’t make any other comment about it. She contemplates if she has to apologize, but doesn’t know exactly what she’ll have to apologize for. “No magic here,” Vincent mumbles.

He asks her to get comfortable on the wooden stool and maybe get a feel for the fabric, as he sets up his camera. The plan was this: she’ll get into the poses he needs for his project, he will take a couple photos for reference in different angles, and then he will take her out to dinner.

The time passes rather uneventfully, and pretty quickly, because the poses aren’t entirely too tricky on her end. A raised arm here, a dangle of hair in this direction, a tiptoe towards this—Vincent is gentle in maneuvering her around and quick in taking his photos, and in an hour they’re ready. Vincent thanks her profusely for her help as he’s packing away, and she laughs as she says “Well, you’re treating me to food, so it’s paid work.”

“Dinner, yes, of course,” Vincent nods, putting the camera back on its place on the bookshelf. “I actually got my brother to save a spot at, erm, my favorite place, if you don’t mind? It’s Greek food.”

“Oh, that’s fine! I didn’t know you had a brother, Vincent.”

“I do, he’s the sweetest thing,” he answers with a beam of a smile, so much so that for a moment she falters about joining them for dinner. One Vincent was bad enough for her heart as it is, but two of them? That’s not good news is it?

Except, yet again, the rule of not saying no to Vincent applies, and so after a bit of tidying they’re already on the way to the restaurant. An actual restaurant, mind you, not some cheapo fast food that Arthur treats her to. (“This isn’t fair, you know? Just because I’m not in your menu of dateables and bangables doesn’t mean you treat me disproportionately to everyone else.” “Stop complaining and eat your McDonald’s.”) It’s a small one, admittedly, but most of the stalls in this town is, anyway. Vincent peers into the building and then pulls her in, inviting her inside.

Vincent pauses for a moment. “I’ve been told he has quite an… aggressive face, but don’t be afraid of him okay?”

“If he’s your brother, there’s no reason to be scared,” she says with a smile. For a moment she is looking for a twin puff of sunflower blond hair, but then, remembering the photos, she begins to look for an equally-fluffy brown mop of hair, and just at the exact moment she comes to the realization—

“Hondje?!”

“Theo?!”

--

The thing with living in such a small university town such as this is that you cannot escape the inevitable.

It’s a silly thought. She even finds it rather ironic that that is the wise saying about making friends and getting to know other people in this university because running away is the one thing she wishes she was good at.

See, the first time she saw Theo, she thought, wow, this guy looks so insufferable. I can’t believe he works here, and I have to see him every week. This is the worst.

Until it isn’t.

She knew, the moment she made eye contact with Theo across the table in that homey Greek restaurant, that that event would change her life in ways she wouldn’t have—and couldn’t have—imagined. She just didn’t know how yet. Vincent was surprised that he didn’t need to introduce the two of them to each other, and with an irritated grumble, Theo had explained that she was a frequenter of the bookstore, taking a jab at her having no other friends and spending so much time around books instead. She quips back and says the reason they don’t have customers is that Theo’s face is enough to sour anyone’s day, and so no one but her comes anyway.

But Vincent is not the kind of person to have this happen, so instead, with a truce, his kind insistence, and irresistible smile—dammit!—she and Theo, instead, become friends. Good friends. Wait, no—they become begrudging friends.

But they don’t talk.

Theo doesn’t even give her his phone number.

No, they’re not friends. Not yet, anyway. Theo makes a show of only putting up with all of this for his brother, as he continues to ignore even the most cordial of texts like “thank you for putting a rush-order on my book!”, throwing insults back and forth with her in the bookshop. But eventually, both of them find a rhythm, a little liminal space of friends by circumstance and not by desire that they’ve agreed on.

That is until they begin the book exchange.

[smolstrawberrychara]

Klance Au Month - Day 6 - Supernatural

I’m not sure how I got to writing a fluffy kid fic when my initial idea was an estate agent trying to sell a haunted house lmao, but here we go! 

Tiny Little Ghost Hunters

Some kids collect bugs. Keith collects ghosts!

Read on AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17683712

Lance swung his legs on the large wooden chair, gulping down the last of his burger. It was warm. And the sun was bright. He’d abandoned his cap ages ago – it made his forehead wet – but that meant his eyes were suffering now. The plates shone like mirrors and he squinted at the picnic table. Didn’t mum say there would be another kid? So why was he stuck here eating with boring adults who talked non-stop about how nice the neighbourhood was and kept asking whether the Kogane’s needed anymore help moving in?

“Lance.” Came a commanding voice beside him. “Eat your tomato.”

“No.” Lance mumbled, folding his arms and frowning down at his knees. Tomatoes were gross. And Veronica was being bossy.

“Lance.” His sister repeated, sending him a glare. “You're being impolite.”

“Don't care.” He said, throwing his head to the side. Who was Veronica to tell him what to do? She was still a kid like him. Five years meant nothing. He hated being the youngest.

There was a growl and then Lance’s arm was yanked violently upwards.

“OW!” He yelped, ripping it back.

“That hurt.” He spat into her face. Then he shuffled to the edge of his seat and pouted down at the grass. “Moronica.”

Veronica let out a harsh gasp. “What did you just say?”

Lance sneered up at her, “I said, Moronica.”

Hah. His sister hated that name. Her nose wrinkled in disgust, anger bright in her eyes. Lance gave a smug wiggle. That’ll show her.

“MOM!”

Argh, she was such a tattle tale.

“Lance is calling me names!”

“Hey! She-!” Lance cried but was quickly interrupted.

“Lance.” His mother snapped, piercing him to the spot with a glare. “Be nice to your sister.”

Lance sank into his shoulders as he waited for the woman to turn back to her conversation. As soon as she did, he shot back to Moronica, tongue out in the universal sign of defiance. Veronica seethed. Before Lance could even flinch, her arm flew out like a whip and his skin screamed as it got caught in a pinch. Lance squeaked, wriggling to the edge of his chair and away from the demon. Sisters were the worst. He hated family barbecues.

Rubbing his arm, Lance looked around the foreign garden. The grass was yellowed, dandelions popping out in random places and there were those sharp weeds that attacked Lance’s feet like bear traps everywhere. He frowned. It was like this whole place was designed to offend him. Lance leaned out further, peering behind him. There were dark green bushes sat around in patches, masking the exposed soil surrounding an apple tree. And underneath it was a boy. He had plasters on his knees, a cut on his face and a red jumper tied around his shoulders like a cape. He was sneaking. Lance could tell by the way his knees were bent close to the ground as he crept forward.

Lance hopped down from his chair.

“What’re you doing?” he asked, peering over his shoulder.

The boy jumped. Whipping around, he threw dark wide eyes at Lance before shoving a sticky palm over his mouth.

“SHUSH!” He half shouted before turning back, leaving his hand there. Lance craned his neck to follow the gaze but the boy didn’t let up. “You’ll scare it away.”

A mess of black hair was blocking Lance’s view and he shook his legs impatiently. What would he scare away? He wanted to push the kid down to see. But if he was telling the truth then Lance might miss whatever the thing was. He decided it best to play along and nodded against the palm. The boy finally released his face and began unscrewing the lid of a large jam jar Lance hadn’t noticed he’d been clutching. Then he turned around, bent his knees, tightened his face in concentration and, like a cat, he leapt forward.

“A-ha!” He yelled, throwing the jar to the dirt. He scooped the lid against the soil, lifting it up to the sound of gravel scattering. Then he turned around, grinning widely. “LOOK!”

Lance gasped. Inside the glass was an orb. A large white circle with a wispy tail – like smoke from a birthday candle. It hit the edges of the jar with sharp clinks and seemed to have shiny black eyes like pebbles freshly born from the sea. Lance pressed his face to the window.

“Woah.” He breathed, steaming up the glass. “What is it?”

“Ghos!” The boy announced proudly, “think it was a moth.”

The ghost of a moth? Lance stared in awe, squishing his nose against the surface. Then the jar pushed hard against him and he found the other boy’s eyes on his, warped like a fish’s. “Wanna see more?”

More? Excitement rushed through Lance like a tidal wave. “Yeah!”

The boy sprang back. Then the coolness was ripped from Lance’s face and the jar getting tucked carefully under a chubby arm. Lance’s hand was caught by another and he was grinning again. “COME ON!”

Then he was running. Cutting straight across the grass, he fell after the boy, arm straining against its socket.

“Keith, honey-”

“Sorry mom, can’t talk. Busy.”

Lance felt his cheeks tighten as the boy, Keith, refused to stop. He tucked his face into his collar, trying to hide the giggles. His heart was racing by the time they hit the back door. Keith let him go to tug at the thick plastic handle and heave it aside. Then his hand was smothered in heat once again and Lance being pulled inside.

The two ran past the looming kitchen counters, ducked under the wooden dining table and whooshed past the cardboard boxes piled high in the lounge. Keith pulled open another door at the end of the hall and suddenly they were plunged into darkness. Lance found himself clattering down hollow steps that creaked with every foot. He clung to Keith’s arm, slowing suddenly. He didn’t like the dark. Or stairs. He held Keith’s arm for support as he carefully began climbing down, scared his foot would fall between the wooden slats. Keith fidgeted ahead of him, jumping down the steps one at a time and bouncing on his toes whilst he waited for Lance to join him. It threw him a little off balance, but Lance refused to let go. He didn’t want to lose his chance at seeing more ghosts. When they eventually got to the bottom, Keith rushed them around the corner. Lance’s breath left his lungs as he caught sight of why. He dropped his arms, jaw falling slack.

In front of him, was a glowing wall full of ghosts. Haphazard shelfs made from broken slices of wood and large pointed nails held up hundreds of jars and bottles filled with the same tadpole-like creatures as they’d found in the garden. Some spun like tornadoes, whipping silver against their tops, whereas others were like fish bobbing in their tanks, softly glowing like lava lamps.

Keith crawled up on the stool in front of the desk, carefully placing his latest find on the table top. Then he tugged over a thick book and flipped over the heavy cover with a thud. Lance wrapped his fingers around the table ledge and pulled himself up, tiptoeing to see the pages. The corners were wrinkled, tears and creases lining the paper. But Lance was too distracted by the content to mind. He let out a gasp as he found each page covered in sketches of the creatures on the shelves, all painted in delicate watercolours. Thick inked writing titled each page and little notes surrounded the pictures like diagrams in a science book.

“Classification.” Keith explained, sliding a smaller notebook out from under a mess of rustling papers. He grabbed a crayon from a pot and stuck a finger to the page.

“This one. Moth.” He said, flicking through the jotter. “Can tell by the genie tail.”

Lance nodded, peering between the book and the rooms latest addition. It did bounce off the glass like how a moth bounced off a lampshade. Keith’s crayon began earnestly scraping against paper, and Lance scooted over to watch. His tongue slipped out of his mouth as he drew letters, writing the date, location and type. Then he looked at Lance.

“What d���ya wanna call it?”

Lance blinked, pointing to his chest. “Me? Name it?”

The boy nodded and Lance sucked in a breath. He got to name the ghost? That was a big responsibility. And a great honour. Pride swelled in Lance’s lungs as he accepted. Wracking his brain for a suitable candidate, he chewed on his thumb, brows furrowing to the point he was sure he could see them. He needed to get this right. And after a moment of painful deliberation, Lance reached an answer.

“Lance two!” He cried. “Because I’m Lance too!”

Keith grinned, eagerly adding the information to his log book. “Perfect.”

Then he looked back up at the shelves above. “You wanna choose a spot for Lance two?”

He got to choose a place for him to live too? Lance couldn’t contain his excitement, bouncing eagerly on the spot. Keith shuffled over on the stool and helped him up. Then they both crawled onto the table to stare up at the jars. There were so many. Some contained single clouds, others multiple dandelion clocks that spun around each other in a game of chase. Keith must have been collecting for years. Lance breathed in awe as he tried to find space. Then his eyes landed on the perfect spot. Three shelves up, there was a blue plastic bottle, containing a long spindly ghost that resembled an eel. A couple of dried flowers fell on the wood next to it and there was a decent gap between it and the next jar which contained a pearly coloured, jelly-fish type.

“Got it.” He announced, pointing to the space. Keith gave him a nod of approval before passing the jar containing Lance two over. Lance took it in both hands, taking a steadying breath. Okay Lance Two, he thought, time to meet your new home. Then he reached up. The jar clattered against the shelf below. Lance wasn’t quite tall enough. He stepped back with a huff, glaring at the wood. It was not going to win today. So, he stretched up to his limit once again, grabbing onto the shelf for balance. Attempting to haul himself up, he didn’t quite get the boost he’d hoped for. Instead, the wood flipped upwards.

Lance stumbled back with a yelp. The world tumbled around him, shining objects flying. The sound of shattering glass filled the room as white wisps tore through the air above him like shooting stars. He let out a screech. The ghosts! They were escaping!

Lance scrambled to sit back up. Above him, the shelf was empty. The desk around him was covered in tiny shards like diamonds. And most importantly, there were no whooshy wisps. Lance felt his eyes turn into pools. He looked to Keith who stared back open mouthed. Lance’s eyes overflowed. His throat felt tight and he let out a sob, burying himself in his hands. He’d let the ghosts escape.

“Are you okay?” Keith asked, carefully tiptoeing closer. “You want me to get my dad? He’s a firefighter ya know.”

Lance shook his head, scraping at his cheeks.

“m’not hurt.” He said, hiccupping as the emotion jumped up his throat. “It’s just- all your hard work.”

The tears spilled once again, and he was sobbing hard into his palms. Keith’s beautiful collection. He’d ruined it.

“It’s okay.” Keith said, landing at his side. He reached out to pat Lance’s arm and Lance finally looked up.

“It’s okay?” He asked, shoving his sleeve against his nose and staring up at the boy’s dark features.

“Mmhmm.” Keith hummed, giving him an encouraging smile. “We can just start again.”

Lance blinked against the tears, watching as Keith reached his hand out. “Together.”

Lance felt is cheeks pinch near painfully. Together. They could collect them together. He rubbed his knuckle against his eye one last time, relief flushing out the tears. Then he took Keith’s hand, squeezing the warmth as he got to his feet.

“Together.”

[kookiebunnii]

mono.

Autumn had a weird way of sneaking up on you. This morning, you happened to step outside your door to face an immediate ambush by freezing winds and swirling orange leaves. It was definitely a shock to the bright sun you were used to these days, but a welcome one. These days, you were always tired and melancholy-- so the fact that the weather was changing to reflect that couldn't be called a bad thing honestly. Today, you chose to dress relatively plainly. Nothing about your caramel overcoat or black cap called attention, and you were grateful for that. It was your free day today, and you wanted to spend it alone and de-stress. In your backpack, you carried a sketchbook and a notepad with your favorite array of pencils. The plan for the day was to hop on a bus, pick a stop, and explore. Along the way, you'd find a cafe or park bench to settle down and just observe. This practice became somewhat of a habit, because you felt that getting out of your head was becoming an increasingly nagging need recently. There weren't many people at the bus stop, since you had picked a time where the buses just began to run for the morning. As you glanced at the people next to you, you watched as a businessman straightened his tie before giving pointed glares at his wristwatch with growing impatience. In seemingly direct contrast, an elderly woman gives you a serene smile while clutching an array of bags, seemingly in an effort to be one of the first customers at the local farmers' market. Witnessing all this, it made you wonder at the amount of lives in world, all running in different directions, crossing paths, running parallel but never to touch, or being cut short at the end of a journey. Within your lifetime, you couldn't even hope to know the path of a single percent of earth's occupants entirely, let alone comprehend your own with clarity. After all, you knew who you were, you were [FullName], [Age] years young with an affinity for taking random walks and documenting interesting things you saw. But could you honestly say you knew yourself? That you loved yourself? The answer failed to manifest on your tongue, so you swallowed and pulled out your phone. As you slipped your earbuds into their familiar home to rest within your ears, you selected RM's mono playlist and set it to repeat. This collection of seven songs was recently released, and as you listened carefully, you couldn't help but feel that the melodies encapsulated your recent moods perfectly. Especially on a quiet, thoughtful day such as this, BTS's leader had outdone himself again. As the sound of trains and sad piano notes filled your head, you couldn't help but consider Namjoon's talent once again. You remembered his energy, filling and expanding the whole stadium when you attended one of BTS's concerts a few weeks ago. There was no doubt that he was a leader, a man who knew a lot more than what he chose to show publicly, and an artist who was quite literally bursting at the seams with songs the world needed to hear. His bright smiles, energetic dancing, and genuine appreciation for ARMY never ceased to amaze you. Although it hurt to see diminished cheering when RM appeared across the screens, you found solace in watching his dedicated and informative vlives and listening to his lyrical genius spread throughout BTS's many albums. However, you almost felt a shift in your heart when he released mono, amidst a world tour nonetheless! He was truly opening himself up and speaking himself. It was so raw and so real that it made you wish for nothing more than the ability to tell him, in person, how amazing he was and how loved he was. You were going through a tough time right around the time of the playlist release, and he had quite literally saved you. The bus arrived, the strong scent of gasoline and loud screeching of its wheels bringing you out of your little stupor. You gave the bus driver a smile and a nod before heading to the back of the bus and looking outside the window at the lazy, crawling streets. This time, as the same businessman from earlier also boarded your bus, he was angrily conversing over the phone. "Do you know who I am?" he shouted, face tinged red before quieting down after noticing the way passengers stared. In a daze, your fingers automatically moved towards pulling your notebook out and reaching for a pencil in the depths on your backpack. 'Do you know who I am,' you quickly scrawled on the empty page before hesitating and skipping to the line underneath it to add, 'Do I know who I am? Because I don't, so much so that my meaning can't be found within or outside of me.' You stared emptily at these words before turning the page over so you wouldn't have to look at them anymore. The bus was beginning its movement now, so you settled for enjoying "seoul" in silence. As the third song of the list ended with finality, you exited the bus along with a crowd of others. Everyone quickly hurried off to their known destinations, leaving you behind to take in your surroundings. You weren't entirely sure if you had been to this part of town before, but you were sure you wouldn't get lost as long as you had your phone handy. Within a few steps, you caught sight of a park filled with heavy-breathing runners and small families feeding ducks in the pond. Crossing the street immediately, you hurried over as puffs of air emitted from your mouth before disappearing in the cool air. You loved the way the leaves almost seemed to change color against the bark from the trees. As a particularly energetic toddler rushes past you to chase a fearful duckling, you smiled and sat down against a large and worn tree across the water. Although the boy fails to capture his prey, he seems to have thoroughly enjoyed the chase as he runs happily back to his parents with open arms. The father raises the child into the air with a shout before settling his son on his broad shoulders and having the petite arm of his wife looping around his own. The family of three walks away from you and you watch, unashamed, as the woman rests her head on him in content. Your pencil scratches against the smooth surface of the paper as you document the boy and duck chase, making sure to highlight his laughter before turning the page to include the silhouette of the family you had just witnessed as their stunted shadows reflect on the pavement below. As "everythingoes" begins, you close your eyes and feel the beginnings of a smile tugging on your lips. A little "dah" escapes you lips with each beat before you open your eyes. A man stands perhaps a few steps away from you, so close to the edge of where land meets water that you fear a single push would have him tumbling in. Perhaps he had been standing there earlier when the family was still present, but this time, you notice him because he is facing you and despite his hat and facemask, his eyes hold your own. As he begins to slowly trudge towards you, the moisture seems to disappear from your mouth in an instant when you realize he looks awfully, awfully, similar to the artist who's voice you're currently enjoying with great enthusiasm. By the time he is standing over you, his tall frame making you feel even smaller with you on the ground, your heart is beating a mile a minute. The hand clutching the pencil shakes against the page, so you tuck the utensil into your pocket. "May I sit here?" Even his voice echoes alongside the one that whispers against your ear, and you couldn't help but think that, against all odds, Kim Namjoon was here. "Sure." You scoot over and watch as he folds his self down, his lanky legs stretching out before him in comparison to your own that are crossed over each other in shyness. Although he is not touching you, his warmth radiates off him in waves. Waves that pulled you in and pushed you out. "What are you listening to?" he asks, lowering his mask to help you hear him better. You'd know that timbre anywhere. "I-It's a new release from one of my favorite artists...a playlist of sorts," you swallow thickly and refuse to make eye contact with the man. "Playlist?" Pulling yourself together, you sighed before replying, "Yeah. It's actually really popular and successful right now. I like to listen to these songs when I need to forget and remember."

"What do you mean by that?" he's looking at you this time, dark eyes holding your own and this time you felt that even if this were all a crazy, wonderful dream-- fate was giving you the chance to say everything you had wanted to say to him. "My mind is always noisy. Throughout my days it becomes filled with the words of others, the accusations from my own thoughts, and the fear spoken by my heart. His work helps quiet that noise and reminds me of simple truths that get buried under my worries."

"What do you think those truths are?"

"That we're all here for a reason. A purpose. In that process of living our lives there's plenty of setbacks, but we are loved. We are strong, we will find who we are and speak ourselves without shame," you bring your pencil back out and scribble on the right corner of the page. He glances at your drawings from earlier before whispering, "I think those are some good truths." As soon as the last word escapes his lips, the sudden downpour greets the two of you with ferocity. The shock of the initial droplets splatters against your scribbles, smearing the lead while running grey rivers across the snow-white canvas. Perhaps his response is quicker than yours, because you find yourself clinging to the side of the blonde-haired boy as he raises his coat over your heads. With one hand grasping your sketchbook and the other twisted into the side of his sweater, you feel your heart beating against your chest as the beginning pitter-patter of raindrops from "forever rain" mixes with those resounding in your surroundings. By the time the two of you duck under the awning of a cafe, you watch as the heavy drops gather at the edge of the awning before crashing into the gathering puddles below. Really, how big of a coincidental cliche is this? "Are you alright?" he asks, taking your shivering form in with a concern genuine and it warms you up immediately along with the realization that you were still clinging to him like a lost child. Dropping your hand quickly, you cleared your throat before continuing, "Y-Yeah...but," you shake your wet sketchbook with a dejected smile. He lifts the pages up to regard them closer, brushing your fingertips in the process. "I'm sorry," he apologizes, "But they're still beautiful. It's a concept!"

You laughed, "You didn't make it rain RM, don't worry about it." He regards you with surprise before fidgeting with the band of his black facemask nervously and you bite your lip in frustration that you had let his name slip. You didn't want him to be uncomfortable if he knew you were a fan. He was likely taking a break of his own, and the last thing you wanted to do was make him feel like he needed to return back to RM instead of Namjoon. "Hey." He looks down at you when the word escapes you with a quip, watching you write something quickly in the driest section of the page and tear the whole sheet out of its binding. "This is for you. I'm glad I got to meet you today. I've always wanted to tell you how much respect and appreciation I have for you both as an artist and a person," you offered him a small smile before adding, "I have to go now. But thank you Kim Namjoon, for making this whole world a little brighter with your light." He looks like he has more to say, but as soon as you're certain he has a solid grasp on your drawings, you dash out in the rain with your hood covering your head as the RM in your earbuds sings gently, "forever rain..."

---------- Days have passed since you saw Namjoon, and as much as you've thought about it, you couldn't help but think it might have been a case of mistaken identity. In all honesty, what were the chances? Besides, you'd probably left a terrible impression anyways by giving him some ruined scribbles and a weird note. Scrolling through Twitter with a spoonful of cereal, you gasped and almost dropped your phone into your bowl of milk. Your couldn't help the tears falling silently down your face as you saw your own water-damaged picture looking back at you along with a note written in your messy handwriting. Simply, but warmly, the caption read, 'moonchild, you are the reason for my light.' a/n-- i decided to leave the note up to imagination, since i’m sure the things we’d want to say are different for everyone :-) i love “mono” so much i couldn’t help but write this even with a midterm in 12 hours so i really hope you all enjoy this!!

[esreviun]

extubation (2012)

for myself, five years ago.

I.

An endotracheal tube doesn’t come out very easily. The masses of surgical tape that hold it to your face aren’t there to keep it from accidentally slipping out of you. It’s firmly in there. It climbs up from your lungs out through your mouth and clings to the inside of your throat like something with legs. No the tape is there to keep it from moving at all. Anything— the smallest shift in your position a cough moving your arm too far— can pull a little on that tube and set your throat on fire. It doesn’t hurt— it burns. Every four hours a nurse comes in and rolls you onto your other side “to prevent bedsores.” You want to shout at them to leave you alone. You don’t care about bedsores, you care about breathing. But they still come in every damn four hours like wardens in a jail, making the rounds. It’s worst when they change your diaper. (You can’t afford to feel humiliated that you have to wear a diaper.) They have to flip you over more than once: take off the left side, flip, take off the right side, flip, put on a new one, flip, turn you over to fasten it, flip. With each flip your throat blazes and chokes you. You squeeze your eyes shut your face pressed into that horrible dank standard-issue hospital bedsheet and try not to cry from the pain. Every day. Every night. 

All this and yet when they actually remove the tube you’re terrified. You don’t want it to go. At least while it’s here, you know you can breathe— but they say that you’re probably strong enough to breathe on your own now without the ventilator. Probably?! They don’t feel like waiting until they’re sure? The nurses prop you up and get their equipment set out on the tray beside your bed. The attending makes a point of telling you: there’s a chance this might not work and you might have to be re-intubated. Just so you know. Thanks, you want to say. Thanks for paralyzing me with terror. Your bedside manner leaves absolutely nothing to be desired. She readies herself at the head of your bed and holds onto the end of the tube that’s sticking out between your chapped lips.

“When I count to three,” she says, “cough really hard.” 

She counts to three.

You cough.

II.

i haven’t forgotten i’ll never forget

III.

Junior year is when bad things start to happen, things that scare you for the first time. Pulmonology appointments were just a thing you did, until now. Like any other regular checkup. You grew up surrounded by doctors and hospitals and people poking at you and asking questions. It was normal. Being disabled was normal. You would gripe at your parents after church— after some well-meaning adult told you how inspirational you were or treated you like some paragon of bravery— saying, you didn’t envy birds for being able to fly, why would you envy other people for being able to walk? Reach things on high shelves? Take the stairs instead of the elevator? It’s not a big deal. It’s never been a big deal. Until now.

It’s the summer of 2006. Your doctors want to see you. They start running more tests. They ask you to breathe into a machine. Into another machine inside a glass box. Into another machine attached to a computer. Every time your chest rises or falls it makes numbers on screens. Every time you visit, the numbers are smaller. Your specialists start throwing code words around. Decreased lung capacity. Respiratory decline. More invasive solutions. God, you pray one night in bed, tears pricking at your eyes, please don’t let me get a ventilator.

IV.

Years later in your college dorm room you will write a poem about how it feels to hook up to your ventilator after a long day, how that first perfect breath of air rushes in and transforms you. You’ll sit there for fifteen minutes just trying to figure out how to describe that moment. It will overwhelm you. Eventually you will settle for: all you have to do is sit there and let it fill you all the way up like you’re being changed from a scribble into a sound like suddenly your shape means something but it won’t be good enough. It won’t capture it. So much of your poetry over the next several years will be trying to get another person to feel ventilated. So many of your poems will be coughs.

V.

Over the months, you shrink. September and October pass. In your high school advisory photo, which you still have today you look tiny, a massive brown striped turtleneck sweater billowing over you like you’re a sheep. When you shear the wool off of a sheep the animal underneath is thin and scraggly. When you take off your clothes, you’re skin and bones. You try to explain, to concerned friends, what your doctors told you: the less oxygen you get, the harder it is for your body to keep going. You sleep badly at night. This makes you tired. Your body works harder to keep you breathing. You burn through calories. You become bony. You can’t get comfortable in bed. So you don’t sleep well. And so you’re more tired. And so you lose more weight. It’s a vicious cycle, you say. But your doctors are going to help you break it. You have no idea how.

(You don’t say that.)

You know that to help you sleep your pediatrician suggests Tylenol PM. Every night your mom puts the little plastic cup of golden syrup by your toothbrush on the bathroom counter. You swallow it. It tastes like bitter vanilla. (You will still remember this taste in five years and it will still make your stomach churn.) You know that pulmonologists prescibe you inhalers and expensive medications to make your breathing easier. You know that they’re giving you a lot of things to make a lot of things easier. But you also know the worst part: that no one seems to be able to explain what’s happening. You hear a lot of explanations for the how but very few for the why. You wish you could sit your body down and look it in the eye and ask it to explain. It changes under your fingertips and it won’t tell you why. 

Every day you come home from school a little more exhausted and put your hand on your chest and wonder why you can’t count on your lungs anymore.

VI.

i can trust in your sinew and mystery but— never quite enough

VII.

Sometimes when it’s too much you park your wheelchair in front of the wooden computer desk in the sunroom and you put in your headphones and listen to a mandolin instrumental. The same one, every time. Kneel Before Him. Chris Thile. You’ve played this song in your ears more times than you can count now. You close your eyes and focus on the notes. The mandolin takes you away.

VIII.

You’ll write another poem in a few months about how your body has fought its hardest for you your whole life. And then you’ll write another poem about how your body has been betraying you your whole life. And then you’ll write another poem about how you can’t decide which one it is. And then you’ll keep writing those poems forever.

IX.

A dietician gives you this command: Keep a journal of everything you eat. Every day. Try to eat as many calories as you can. Eat whatever you want, as much as you can hold, whenever you’re even a little bit hungry.

In theory this is the best doctor’s order ever. In practice it’s a nightmare. You have no appetite. It’s wasted away. Early in the mornings before school you eat breakfast in the near-dark of the dining room and while your dad clears away the dishes afterward you scratch ¼ waffle w/syrup, 1 sausage, 2 oz. whole milk onto the next page of the small black notebook you carry with you now in your purse. Your dad makes you eat another quarter of a waffle. It slides thickly down your throat. You can’t remember enjoying food. You try to force down the nutritional supplements— the packets of clear starchy calorie gloop that your mom stirs into your mashed potatoes or mac ‘n’ cheese, the chocolate Boost shakes that are okay, you guess just more…cardboardy than chocolate is supposed to taste. You really try. But it isn’t enough.

They weigh you in February. You can’t stand on a scale so your dad picks you up and stands on it and then the doctor weighs him alone and subtracts the numbers. You measure 4’8”. You weigh 62 pounds. Sixty-two pounds. You’re sixteen years old.

(When you’re older you’ll wonder what the look on your dad’s face was when the doctor read your weight out. But you won’t remember it. You’ll remember the backs of your knees sticking to the rubber edge of the examination table and the weight settling into your chest.)

The doctor says the words feeding tube. You shake your head. That’s not going to happen. Ever. You tell him how on the ride home from school last week you ate an entire jelly donut and it was the first time in your life that you’d ever been congratulated for finishing junk food. The doctor laughs. So does your dad. You wish their smiles would reach their eyes.

You have to go to your mandolin when you get home.

X.

it rests on my lap, indenting the tops of my legs the smooth soft neck of it against my face my right hand gripping the far side of its body i can imagine the inside of that dark, empty body so much like mine hollow, the way the universe was before there were stars

XI.

It was important to you even before this all began, the mandolin. You’d wanted one for years. Your grandparents buy you one for your sixteenth birthday. It’s not expensive and it goes out of tune easily and you’re not very good at it. You’ll only ever learn four or five chords and a couple of clumsy strumming patterns. Your hands are a little too small and your fingers weak and soft. The callouses don’t form quickly. Your fingertips burn. But you revel in it. You’ve never pushed your body to do anything before. You dig those strings into the pads of your fingers so hard that they leave marks that last for hours.

XII.

“When I count to three, cough really hard.” 

One.

XIII.

There’s an afternoon at school when you suddenly have to leave class and go and lie down in the counselor’s office because you feel dizzy and your head is throbbing and you’re so, so tired and you don’t know what’s going on. Your heart pounds. You’ve always been scared when your heart pounds. In eighth grade you remember feeling your heart racing and worrying that something was wrong with you like you might be having a heart attack or something. And when you were a sophomore you would freak out when you felt short of breath even though your parents would always assure you that it’s okay, honey there’s nothing wrong with you you’re fine. You’re just having an anxiety attack. It feels like you can’t get enough air but you can.

In five years you’ll know that some of these times there really was nothing wrong with you and you really were imagining it. But other times your parents were wrong. Other times were preludes to what was coming next. You were right not to trust your body. You never know.

XIV.

i am covered in memorials of the times you have turned against me 

XV.

During the last week of March you’re home from school with a cold. You’ll remember that last day of school. You sat in the empty cafeteria with a book while it thunderstormed outside. The whole wall of the room was windows, and the rain and the dark and the silence of the trees heaving to and fro in the wind made you feel like you were sealed inside of a fish bowl Alex, one of your senior friends, sat down and made some jokes with you. Then you went home.

You’ve never written a poem about that day. Maybe you should.

XVI.

Two.

XVII.

Very early in the morning on Sunday, April 1st you wake up and call your mom into your bedroom to get you a glass of water. Your voice is faint. When she turns on the light your lips and fingernails are blue.

In the emergency room the nurses take one look at you and rush you back into an examination room where they stick a probe on your finger and read that your oxygen saturation is 60% and dropping. Someone gives you an oxygen mask. It seems to help. They think you’re falling back asleep.

You’re not. Your right lung is collapsing. You don’t have a cold, you have pneumonia. It’s spread into your bloodstream. Septic. Hypocarbic. Pneumothorax. Your body begins to shut down. Your parents are rushed out of the room.

(You will remember none of this. The only memory you’ll retain of that night will be protesting no, I’m FINE, just give me a glass of water and let me go back to sleep, Mom, it’s not a big deal, I feel perfectly fine. You’ll laugh when you remember this because you know now that oxygen deprivation can make a person confused or, in your case, a blithering idiot.)

EMTs and nurses crowd your bed. Someone presses a plastic mask over your nose and mouth. You’re long unconscious by now. They pump air into your starved lungs and outside of the room a nurse has to guide your mom to a chair so that she doesn’t pass out.

(It will occur to you long after this that if you hadn’t been thirsty that night you wouldn’t have called for a drink and woken your mom up and no one would have known that your body was suffocating you in your sleep. Your parents would have found you dead in your bed the next morning. Your whole face would have been blue.)

XVIII.

you have been warring me off of this territory since the moment i set foot on it and on the day when you win i will make sure that the last word is mine

i will be riddled with scars and i will not go quietly

XIX.

You don’t die. Remember this. You don’t die. You push your body against that hospital so hard that it leaves marks that last for years. 

XX.

Three.

XXI.

actually the sword is much mightier than the pen

XXII.

No hospital room has white walls— not really— not the ones you stay in with the bad lighting and the dismal curtains and various baffling objects hung up around the bed that look like surely they must do something very important but hell if you have any idea what.

(In two months you’ll recognize them all.)

But for some reason white light is the first thing you’re going to remember. Maybe everything just seems bright to you because your eyes have been closed for so long.

XXIII.

Here is what you remember from week one:

You see your parents’ faces.

They’re crying.

That can’t be a good sign.

You drift.

And drift.

XXIV.

When you’re still sixteen still in the hospital you’ll write a poem called How To Spin Starlight. It will be the first poem you have written in months— months— and it will go like this:

the stars said “spin us” and i took a weary breath and turned the universe upside-down to draw some thread from black, black stars and spin it into glittering

It will be rubbish.

When you’re seventeen one of your best friends will tell you you don’t need the last two lines and you’ll realize she’s right. All the poem is about is being turned upside-down.

XXV.

While you lie there with a tube down your throat and a tube up your nose and a tube up your urethra and a tube sticking into your foot and a tube sticking into your hand and a tube stapled into the side of your chest and a whole handful of tubes buried under the skin of your collarbone, the Easter Bunny comes.

He visits every patient in the pediatric intensive care unit. Even the ones in medically-induced comas. He bends over your pale, prone form in the hospital bed a horrifying specter of pink plush and oversized costumed limbs.

Someday you will see a photo of this.

You will wonder who in their right mind thought this was a good idea.

XXVI.

After about a week they take you off the sedatives and you think it’s Wednesday. You burst into tears when they tell you you’re wrong. You have no idea why. Your parents try to calm you down and explain why you’re here because you don’t remember and you don’t understand. You can’t breathe. You can’t talk. You’re broken.

XXVII.

When you’re eighteen you will write a poem about your mandolin.

i am acutely aware that my horizontal wrist veins and tendons are stretched out against its vertical eight strings and imagine that with a little maneuvering they could be woven together gold and silver strings with scarlet ones

You won’t have played it for years but you’ll remember the smoothness of its body the arch of its neck the friction of its strings. In your poem you will compare it to your body: this instrument which you are not very good at controlling and which sometimes doesn’t behave.

if i lifted my fingertips a quiver might start in the deep places of that body run up along that delicate neck reach the string-tips stay there—shuddering— and release a note sweet into space

It will occur to you two years later that this is wrong. You are not an instrument because when instruments shatter they can’t be repaired. Your fingers still run over the skin of your chest and your side and your hands sometimes over bumps and indentations and rough patches and you think it would be awfully cheesy to compare myself to a poem, wouldn’t it? A poem constantly being revised?

XXVIII.

The nurse’s grip tightens on your endotracheal tube.

“Three.”

You cough.

XXIX.

You’ll try so many times over the next five years to explain what that tube feels like coming out— ripping out, more like it as though it wants to take your whole throat with it. What will be harder, though is describing what it feels like immediately afterwards: the gasping, the choking, the sensation of having lost the one thing that was weighing you down keeping you from floating away and yet at the same time feeling suddenly so unbelievably heavy. The nurses fit a mask over your nose: a C-PAP machine, to assist your breathing. It doesn’t help much. You haven’t taken a breath on your own in two weeks. You’ve entirely forgotten how. They keep saying you’re all right, you’re doing fine but you’re so scared you’re shaking and so finally in an effort to distract you and calm you down someone finds a DVD for you to watch. It’s “Grease.” It’s terrible. You watch it anyway, though because what else are you going to do? Your dad stays in the room with you. It’s dark— it’s the middle of April in Michigan and the blinds are drawn over the one window anyway— and you think, I could die here, sitting in a dark room and watching “Grease.” This could be how I actually die.

XXX.

It isn’t, though.

It isn’t.

[luci-is-a-devil-]

Mermaid!Joshua |||

Notes: this is the end! I’d like to thank everyone who read this series. Extra big thank you to @ask-student-kookie who drew this amazing picture!

•after the night where you had seen Joshua, things were amazing •your publisher had said that your manuscript was finished, and it would be getting published soon! •your parents had fully disowned you, and your aunt had adopted you •school had come to an end, and you could spend your free time by the ocean all you wanted •things were great! •except they weren’t really •your nights with Joshua kept getting shorter, as had to go back to where he lived because of a new curfew •when you looked at the notebook the next day, you were saddened by what you saw •the notebook was drenched in water •making it impossible to read whatever was written or to write on the empty pages •when you asked Joshua, he got strangely quiet and changed the subject •you could understand that there’s something’s that you just don’t want to talk about, so you would go along with his topic changes •but as the days passed, you could tell something was wrong •his tail had lost its silver shimmer, his eyes had lost the shine that you had fallen in love with •he would speak quietly, and wouldn’t come close enough to kiss or hug •he wasn’t the same, and it was breaking your heart •the only way his eyes regained some sort of twinkle, was when you were giggling or laughing at a dumb joke you said •or when you’d read him some poems that you had written, ones where the both of you could be together •but that’s all they were •poems • •you felt off that day •feeling sick to your stomach, as if your mind knew something was going to happen but just didn’t know what •but you carried on your day as normal, editing stories, reading books, waiting until you could see Joshua •when the sun went down, you raced to your rock •the rock where you had placed the notebook, where your story had continued •immediately the queasy feeling came back, the voice in your mind telling you to leave •but you held your ground, thinking that this was ridiculous •Joshua came, his eyes were a darker brown than usual, almost black, but they held an emotion in them that you weren’t able to read •"josh? What happened?“ •in the time that you’ve been meeting, you knew that this wasn’t how he acted •something was wrong •very wrong •against your better judgement, you started walking towards him •until you heard a voice, the voice that had sung you to sleep when you studied at the ocean during school •no on could mimic the emotions that he held in his voice, so why wasn’t the Joshua in front of you moving his mouth? •"Y/N! Run! Go!” •walking backwards, you tried to listen to joshua, your joshua •but something snuck around your ankle, and started to yank at it •screaming out for Joshua, before the hand on your ankle managed to fully emerge you underwater •your lungs filled up with the clear liquid, flailing in the water, you tried to shake the grip off of your ankle •you could hear voices speaking above the water, but in you panic you weren’t trying to listen to them •your vision went blurry, and your body wasn’t listening to you anymore •closing your eyes, you went limp, accepting what had happened •your last conscious though being of the first time you met Joshua, his eyes sparkling in amusement as you spoke to him, his laughter that resembled music •he never did get to play the guitar for you, did he? • •the next time your eyes fluttered open, you were sure that this was the afterlife •but you were still underwater and you were laying on a table? •stranger thing have happened like the fact that you had almost been murdered •by who though? •you didn’t know of any other merfolk besides Joshua, therefore no one should harbor ill feelings •sitting up on table was incredibly difficult, and once you had gotten up you understood why •your legs were gone, the legs that you had tried to get the hand to release was gone •in their place was a pure white tail, with opaque fins at the end, looking closely at the fins they showed small specks of gold •but why did you have a tail? •why weren’t you dead? •noticing a figure on a chair facing the wall, you tried to get their attention •to no avail as your throat was hoarse, leaving you to croak out an unsure greeting •he turned around, and when he saw you sitting up he yelled for two people •"jeonghan! Seungcheol!“ •two boys swam into where you were, their names told you that these were Joshua’s friends •he had wrote about the adventures his friends dragged him on fairly often •how one day you’d be able to meet them •looks like that day was today •before they could ask how you were doing, you asked a question of your own •"where’s my Joshua?” •your question came out sounding smaller than you wanted, but you were glad that the tears that you felt in your eyes didn’t fall •could they even fall? You were underwater for goodness sake? •they looked at each other worriedly, as if they were gaging to see how much they should tell •"tell me everything. Please.“ •your voice cracked near the end of your sentence, and you tried to pull yourself together •the mermaid with full lips and a serenity tail started telling you what had happened •"Josh’s father is the king, Joshua is second in line for the crown. His older brother had done things that have made civilians wary of him, so everyone wants Joshua to be the next king. As days pass and Joshua keeps leaving to see you, his brother followed him.” •the story continued on, saying how Joshua’s brother had his friend turn himself into a replica of Joshua himself •so that you’d see him and come to greet him, and that’s when his brother would drown you •Joshua had found out about his brothers plan and rushed to come find you •but it was too late, your lungs had filled up with water already •Joshua scared his brother away and then had taken you to the only place that he knew could help you •that you had died on the table when jihoon was trying to awake you, that the only way for you to come back was to be a mermaid •so here you were, with a tail and a massive headache •"where is he then?“ •jihoon, the one who had been here the whole time looked at the long haired mermaid •"Joshua went to the palace to tell his dad about his brothers murder.” •it was blunt, leaving you to question why seungcheol and jeonghan were glaring at the blonde boy •"jihoon.“ •jeonghan seethed his name, as if he had said something wrong •and that’s when it hit you •Joshua wasn’t supposed to know you, he wasn’t supposed to be dating you •tears can’t fall underwater but you could definitely sob •you went to roll yourself into fetal position but it was odd with a tail, one you weren’t used to, one you didn’t exactly want right now •which made you sob a little harder •without even looking up, you could tell that the three mermaids were looking at you with pity •eventually your sobs trailed off, you rubbed your eyes out of habit even though there were no tears •glancing at the three males who were looking at you as if you were a different species •"can you take me to him?” •jeonghan was the only one to nod, which made seungcheol send him a look •"I’ll take you, follow me.“ •he swam out, and you begin to follow the rosed quartz colored tail •swimming without your legs was difficult, there was a warm sensation in your abs and your tail was going quickly •it was exhilarating despite the circumstances •it seemed like jeonghan and you were swimming forever, at one point you were sure you were going in circles •soon the palace came into view, and you started to swim faster •there were guards outside of the castle, that stopped you from entering •"we’re here to see the prince.” •jeonghan said it so determinedly, that you were honestly a little surprised how strongly he felt about this •the guards looked at each other and hesitantly opened the door •before they could change their mind, jeonghan grabbed you by the hand and led you inside the palace •it was obvious that he had been here before, he maneuvered through the palace gracefully •he stopped and knocked on a door, when the door was opened, he led you inside of the room •inside of the room sat a man on a throne, a female sat next to him on his left and a teen sat next to him on his right who looked shocked at your appearance •"your highness, this is y/n.“ •you glared at the teen in the throne sitting next to his father, he had tried to murder you just so Joshua would be afraid? Lonely? Angry? •"hello y/n, I haven’t seen you before. Did you just move into our colony?” •the queen asked, smiling at you nicely, unprepared for what would follow •"no, not exactly your highness. I was murdered today actually.“ •the look that you got from all of the mermaids in the room would be hysterical •if you weren’t so close to screaming about how unfair it was, that you were a mermaid, that you didn’t get a choice, that you died so young, all because of their oldest son •and for once, you let it all out, you allowed yourself to be angry, you screamed what had happened, how you were never going to be able to see your book be published •your screaming had made guards come, thinking that you were trying to attack the royal family •but nope, you were yelling with frustrated tears in your eyes that wouldn’t fall •when your rant was over, you looked at the teen who was red and was biting his nails, he kept his eyes on the floor •the queen a frown on her face and was looking at you •the king had his eyes wide, his eyes on his oldest son •"is this true?” •the question he asked was directed at his son, and you were honestly ready to start yelling once more if he lied •"but father! She was a human!“ •that was a confession, and he realized that he did •the guards grabbed him, and waited for the kings orders •"take him to a cell, I’ll deal with you later.” •and like that, he was gone •the queen looked unsure how to help you, that you looked incredibly broken •"I’d like to see Joshua please.“ •she nodded her head and got off her throne to take you to his room herself •she thanked jeonghan for bringing you there, for keeping her son happy •and then it was just you and the queen •it was a little odd, how a day ago you hadn’t even thought about meeting Joshua’s parents, how you didn’t know his mom and dad were royalty •and now his mom was taking you to his room •she stopped at a door that was the same green as jihoon’s tail •"I knew Joshua had met a human. I’m sorry what has happened today, dear.” •you could see where Joshua got his kindness from, and the purple in his tail, as her was a maroon •there was an awkward hug but you could tell that it meant well •smiling at you after the hug was over, she swam away, leaving you to be with Joshua •a knock on the door, and then you opened it •unable to wait for him to grant permission to come in •when you saw him, you felt your heart sing •he was lying on a bed, his eyes were closed but it didn’t look like he was sleeping •"I guess if you’re sleeping I’ll leave.“ •immediately his eyes shot open and he was off the bed, his eyes were red, making you believe he’d been rubbing his eyes •wrapping his arms around you, he hugged you tightly, as if hey let go of you, you’d disappear •after your hug hadbroken, both of you laid on his bed, and you told him what had happened •he had gotten angry when you referred to yourself as a zombie mermaid •"I love you. Not because you’re royalty, but because you’re you.” •you told him as you were trying to fall asleep, finally feeling safe inside of Joshua’s arms •"I love you. Not because you were the first human I saw, but because of the way you get so happy about your stories, the way you laugh at your own jokes. I love you y/n" •and you fell asleep certain that you’d spend many more days with Joshua •after all you couldn’t go back to land • •years later, you’re still not completely used to your tail •and Joshua likes to laugh at you for it but he’s always by your side •his brother has been banished from this colony, and the king alerted all others not to let him in •you often hung out with a mermaid called jun and his best friend minghao •of course you miss your old life, the way you could write on paper, walk to the store •but with Joshua everything felt like it was finally right •he was your home •and you were his •at night you like to recite the poems you used to tell him on that big rock •the ones where you could be together, where it didn’t matter if you had legs or not •you had made it, they were no longer just poems •it was your life, together with Joshua and the baby in your tummy •but that’s a story for another day ;)

[bangtansadnyeondan-blog]

Roses

chapter one / chapter two / chapter three / chapter four / chapter five / chapter six / chapter seven / chapter eight / chapter nine / chapter ten / chapter eleven/ chapter twelve / chapter thirteen

genre: angstxfluff

pairing: yoongixjungkook

Chapter One

Jungkook sat on his bed patiently waiting for his doctor to come in with his medication. as the lock got turned he looked a new doctor in the eyes.

"You're new," Jungkook said as he looked at the new doctor. He had black hair, pretty brown eyes, and a small face. He was smaller than Jungkook. His white doctor’s jacket didn't suit his face, nor body.

"Hello," Jungkook said respectfully as he stood up to bow to the new doctor.

His eyes widened as he saw his new patient. He was used to their dull faces, not someone with eyes as twinkling as this one. He looked back down at his clipboard as he entered the room, closing the door behind him.

"Jeon Jungkook? I'm your new assigned doctor, Min Yoongi. Let's just go over the usual for now," Yoongi started, gesturing to the weighing scale off to the side. He was instructed to take care of a few patients to start off with and Jeon Jungkook was his last and according to his file, his appointed patient. To know his patient better, he'd need to first know his vital details first and then he'd talk. He had everything on his file yet he understood his patients better when they conversed with him. So he leaned against the wall, gesturing to Jungkook to step up onto the weighing scale. His eyes were still taking in the unkempt look that graced Jungkook, contrasting his bright eyes.

"Of course," Jungkook said as he walked to the weighing scale. He lost a whole kilo last week, which worried the doctors.

"I lost weight again," Jungkook mumbled as he looked at the new doctor. "I promise don't worry, I'm not trying to lose weight," Jungkook said nervously, the last time he lost weight in a small amount of time they gave him a lot to eat and forced him to, but to one point he threw up because he couldn't eat anymore.

Yoongi just nodded, "it's alright, I'm not saying that. It happens," he sat on Jungkook's bed. "It might be unconscious. So tell me about you. I'm new and I could just base my judgment of you based on the file they've given me but I'd rather know you than the facts about Jeon Jungkook."

Jungkook sat down on his bed as he looked to Doctor Min. "Uh-," Jungkook mumbled, not knowing what to say about himself. "I-I'm J-Jungkook, I-I like drawing a-and listening m-music?" He stuttered looking at the doctor. He didn't like talking about himself, to the other doctors he didn't have to. Nobody ever asked him about himself so he didn't bother to tell anyone about himself. How could this doctor at once care about him? Jungkook wasn't good enough for anyone.

Yoongi bit his lip and flipped a new page on his clipboard, clicking his pen open. "Well, Jungkook, how old are you? And... What's the reason you're in here? Or... Are you in here voluntarily?" Yoongi was trying to be diplomatic or at least not trigger Jungkook but he needed to know more than just what was written in his file. He definitely needed more input from Jungkook. "I can't help you Jungkook unless you help me."

"I'm 19," Jungkook mumbled while staring at his feet. "I-I'm h-here because my ex-boyfriend sent me here," He said looking at the doctor. "A-after he b-broke up with m-me, I t-t-thought I wasn't good e-enough, n-no, I-I k-knew, and I-I a-am b-being a b-bacteria i-in t-this w-world," Jungkook was close to crying, but at the same time, it felt somewhat good to tell his story. He sniffed as he looked at Yoongi. "I-I w-wanted to e-end m-my l-life, I-I s-still w-want, b-but T-Taehyung b-brought m-me h-here," he mumbled as he wiped his tears away.

Yoongi was tempted to reach out to the younger boy but he held back. It wouldn't be good on his part. That's why he had been transferred to this hospital in the first place, he got too involved with his patients. "You do know that even bacteria are very important to us, right? No one in this world was made on a whim. Everyone has their role in society, maybe you just haven't found yours yet. You came to this world when you were meant to and you will go when you're meant to. Plus there's no guarantee you can end your life when you want to, right? So for now, why not live because you have to? Live because someone else wants you to?"

"B-but I-I don't e-even want it m-myself?" Jungkook said as he moved a little away from the doctor sitting next to him. He looked at the wall and took his notebook and pencil from under his pillow. He opened it at an empty page and looked at Yoongi's side profile of his face. He tried to draw it, normally Jungkook didn't draw young people since he didn't see them a lot. Though there were times he could leave his room he never did. He didn't want to bother others. He sketched Yoongi's face as he wrote next to the sketch 'Doctor Min'

"Maybe you haven't found it yet, your urge to live. How about we look for it? You said you liked dressing and listening to music- speaking of which... Do you even get to listen to music?" Yoongi said, frowning slightly as he looked around the room.

"N-no," Jungkook mumbled as he looked into his notebook again. "T-they d-don't let m-me have electronic d-devices," He said as he added a sketch of Yoongi's earring in his sketchbook. He liked the earring. It was a beautiful silver star.

"Apparently you don't go out either. So, we'll go out now. Grab what you want to, we're going for a tour. You need to get out of this room. And while coming back, we'll go to my room and listen to some music before coming back. Let's go," Yoongi said, flipping the pages closed and putting his pen away before standing up.

"N-no thank y-you," Jungkook said as he didn't make a move. "I-I'm fine h-here," He mumbled as he looked up to the doctor.

"I didn't give you a choice Jungkook, let's go," Yoongi said, his voice firm but not harsh, he wanted Jungkook out of the room and have a change of scenery. It would help Jungkook and Yoongi knew Jungkook knew that.

"O-okay," Jungkook said as he looked at Yoongi. "I-I'm s-sorry," He mumbled as he stood up and walked behind Yoongi out of his white room. Yoongi's words were quite harsh and Jungkook got scared he disappointed Yoongi in some way. Yoongi suppressed his sigh and nodded, slowing down to walk alongside Jungkook, smiling and greeting every patient and doctor and nurse he saw.

"You don't have to be sorry, I want you to enjoy yourself a bit more and realize what life can hold, even when you're in a facility like this." Yoongi clarified, walking towards the garden they had put up at the time of establishment and was still maintained well.

"Okay," Jungkook mumbled, fiddling with his hands as he looked around, Yoongi said hello to every patient, doctor, and nurse they passed, Jungkook didn't know any of them. He was nervous around these people he didn't know. They walked in the direction of the garden, a place where Jungkook would've gone to if he didn't have to pass the halls. Yoongi turned to Jungkook, noticing how he was slumped over which made him look the same height as himself.

"You okay Jungkook?" Yoongi asked, noticing his wide eyes flitting about spasmodically.

"You don't have to be nervous. These people, they're no different than you. Everyone here, trust me everyone, is here living because they can't die. Me too, so don't worry, you're not alone." He pushed the door open to the garden, which was filled with colorful flowers and rich green grass and a few tall trees. Jungkook walked into the garden, mesmerized by the beauty of the green place filled with nature.

"Pretty," He mumbled towards a flower as he looked at it. "D-do t-they have r-roses?" Jungkook asked. Knowing that Roses wouldn't be the smartest in a hospital with mentally ill people.

"They do, but they're hidden. Come along," Yoongi instructed as he pulled his white coat off, folding it over his arm before walking towards the back of the garden. Beyond a small gate, there was a garden of only different colored roses. Using his fingerprint to push the gate open, he walked through the mechanical gate, calling Jungkook to follow him in. Jungkook silently followed Yoongi to the roses. He looked at them and smiled.

"T-Taehyung hyung always t-told m-me I-I was b-beautiful like a r-rose," Jungkook said as he smiled sadly.

"I g-get why h-he s-said it I-I l-look g-good but, w-when you w-want to g-get closer I-I'll hurt y-you," He stuttered as he looked at the rose. Trying not to make his fingers bleed from the thorns.

"But it also depends on the person who holds the rose. The rose has its thorns for defense. If you want to stay guarded and keep others out, you may end up hurting them. Or you may let them choose if they think the pain is worth it because personally, I think the pain is worth it." Yoongi finished as he grabbed onto a stem carefully, pulling the rose closer to smell it, his fingers unaffected by the thorns.

"You should know how to handle the thorns. If you hold the rose the wrong way, yes you'll get hurt but not all of the stem is covered in thorns." Yoongi reminded Jungkook while pointing out bits of the stem which was void of thorns and had small needle-like projections instead. "If the rose is abused, these little needles-like projections will turn into thorns too."

"T-then e-everybody i-is a rose, and t-their l-lovers are the f-florists who know how to h-handle t-their thorns?" Jungkook said as he looked at Yoongi taking a rose. Afraid that his doctor would hurt himself with the thorns.

"Perhaps they are," Yoongi said as he walked over to sit under a tree. "But it's not just lovers, there can be several people who can come into your life and stay and not get hurt no matter what you say or do. Doesn't have to be only a lover. It can even be just a friend who cares." Yoongi looked at his hands which had impressions of the thorns but not a single cut, he smiled, he knew how to handle these thorns that he had been taught to handle by his childhood friend who was a florist.

"Oh," Jungkook said as he listened to Yoongi. Yoongi was smart. Jungkook looked at Yoongi who smiled at his hand, his hand didn't have a single scratch from the thorned flower. "I h-hope I will h-have more people i-in my life who I won't h-hurt with my t-thorns," Jungkook said to Yoongi, hoping that his doctor would be one of them in the future.

"You will. But you need to also know that there are people who want to stay and eventually, you should shed your thorns too. Before you wither." Yoongi spoke looking up at the slouched figure. "You should come out more. Maybe your ashen looking skin will start to look better... You're tall, stand straight, Jungkook. You need to own up to yourself first before others can embrace you as you are."

"I d-don't know," Jungkook whispered as he looked to a rose that was so close to the floor hidden under the shadow of all other roses. Jungkook sat down on the floor carefully taking the rose in his hand. "W-will you t-try to be the f-florist w-who c-can handle my t-thorns for n-now?" Jungkook asked looking up at the doctor who stood next to him.

Yoongi smiled slightly, crouching down next to him, "that's why I'm here. Even if you didn't want me to, I'd still try to be the florist to your rose. So will you let me take care of you? I want to help you get out of here. But you need to want that too. Do you want to get out of here? I can help you now, later and be next to you every step of the way but only if you want it."

Jungkook looked to his side where Yoongi sat down next to him. Not quite sure what Yoongi meant, did he mean it as a friend? Or as a doctor. "You w-will still get your s-salary," Jungkook stuttered as he looked at the roses again.

Yoongi laughed, "why are you worried about my salary? It's just the type of person I am." He sighed and ran his hands through the blades of grass. "I've always been very attached to my clients. I want to help them all the way, always. It's not about my job, it's just who I am." Yoongi said, slightly wistfully, his lips pursed after he went silent.

"The other doctors don't care like you do," Jungkook whispered to the floor, "I like that." Jungkook hoped that Yoongi didn't hear the last comment. He didn't want to embarrass himself already. He was rather good at these things as he stood up, removing the dirt that had gotten onto his jeans.

"I guess I can hope then you'll treat me differently than the other doctors?" Yoongi asked, still crouching on the floor. The plants looked slightly dehydrated, maybe he'd tell the gardeners to pay a bit more attention to these roses.

"I c-can t-try," Jungkook said as he looked at the sky. Which had turned dark gray. "It's getting darker, it might rain," Jungkook mumbled to himself.

Yoongi looked up too and smiled, "I guess the gardeners don't have to worry, the rain is better for the plants anyway." He stood up, stretching slightly before starting to head towards the bright white facility again.

"Come, let me show you my chamber. If you want, you can lounge in there whenever till curfew time. I'll leave something you can play music in, in my room so you don't have to have anything electronic in your possession." Yoongi continued to talk to Jungkook as he crossed the other garden, pausing once in a while to look at the flowers and other plants.

"T-thank you," Jungkook muttered as he looked at a withered flower. He looked at Yoongi again and followed him into the white building. He hadn't listened to music in some time. Yoongi waited once he entered the building, walking again once Jungkook catches up with him. He makes small conversation once in a while, when he sees someone familiar, stopping Jungkook every time by putting a hand on his shoulder. After they get to his chamber, Yoongi sighs and tosses his coat on his chair, closing the door.

"I'm sorry it took us so long to get here. After we're done here, I'll take you back to your room. Then after that, you can come back here anytime. I'll leave the door open. And if it gets locked, my password is 030993. You can enter whenever you want that way." Yoongi said as he searched for his phone and earphones, handing his unlocked phone with the earphones plugged into  Jungkook who was still standing. "You can sit, make yourself comfortable," Yoongi said as he sank into his own chair.

"Y-yes," Jungkook mumbled as he sat down on one of the chairs with the phone in his hands. He opened the music app to search for his favorite artists. He listened to the music he hadn't heard in a long time, he listened to new tunes from them and smiled as he heard an old song he hadn't listened in a year. He searched more songs he used to listen to a lot and smiled at every single one he still enjoyed. Yoongi entered details of his round into his computer, sneaking a glance at Jungkook every once in a while. After he was done with filling in the details, he started putting his notes from today in general into his computer so he could reflect back later and maybe improve. Pausing in his note taking, he looked at Jungkook for a bit before reaching for the telephone on his desk, calling the main desk to tell them he was going to have food with the patients today so he could understand their lifestyle here better.

"D-doctor," Jungkook mumbled into the phone. "C-can I-I c-call y-you H-Hyung?" he asked nervously as he looked up from the phone. Yoongi put the phone back after mumbling a thank you and looked at Jungkook.

"Hyung? Sure, if that makes you feel more comfortable," Yoongi said nodding before pulling himself back in front of the computer. "It'll be time for dinner soon, we should go down then." He said as he continued to type.

"O-okay Hyung," Jungkook mumbled as he took out the earphones and gave the smartphone back to Yoongi. "T-Thank you Hyung," He said as he looked to the floor again.

Yoongi stared at Jungkook squarely, "Did you enjoy listening to music? I told you I'll leave something for you to listen to music on. I think I'll bring my extra phone that no one calls on. You can listen to music on that. No need to thank me, I told you I'll help you."

"I did," Jungkook said as he smiled. "You don't have to, that'll be breaking rules!" Jungkook said as he looked at Yoongi. "But I'm hungry," he smiled. Yoongi stood up and pushed his chair in, leaving his coat on his chair, prepared to leave with just his id card.

"Let's go for dinner then. I'm having dinner with you too, I hope you don't mind," Yoongi said as he waited by the door after opening it, waiting for Jungkook to leave first. Once they were walking down the hallway, Yoongi leaned towards Jungkook to whisper, "Irl be bending the rules, not breaking them. Plus I'm responsible."

"O-okay Hyung," Jungkook mumbled following Yoongi to the dining room. They walked silently as Jungkook looked at the white walls. There was no art on the walls, no color just white. "W-why are the w-walls so empty?" Jungkook wondered as he looked at Yoongi.

Yoongi shrugged, "I guess it's their way of keeping it 'clean' or them trying to not trigger anyone by having a certain color of design on the wall. This is a sterile environment and I think that's how they think it should be. Once you get out, maybe you can tell them to change the walls?" Yoongi finished as he pushed the door to the dining hall open, and he knew he was dreading the meal because there was no way it was going to taste good. It was hospital food.

"Maybe," Jungkook mumbled as he walked to a table in the corner. "L-let's eat t-there," He said pointing at the table he wanted to sit at. Yoongi nodded and headed to the table a bit behind Jungkook, his eyes raking over the room.

"Why the corner?" He asked quietly as they sat down.

"I-it asks less a-attention," Jungkook said as he sat down looking at Yoongi. "I-I don't l-like attention," He added as he looked at the table.

"Sorry, that means you won't like me... Because I'm going to give you endless attention." Yoongi pointed out, his eyes still trained on Jungkook. "Should we go get the food? It's self-help here, isn't it?" Yoongi said, laying his hands flat on the table, looking at the spread across the room.

"I-I'm okay w-with you," Jungkook smiled nervously as he stood up. "L-let's g-get food," He said as he walked to the 'buffet' which was barely a buffet.

Yoongi followed behind Jungkook, "you don't have to be so nervous around me..." He took a plate, scrunching his nose up at all the tasteless food. "No wonder you're losing weight... I'm sorry you have to eat this sort of meals." Yoongi sighed, shaking his head as he thought over what to tell the management because he was definitely going to change the food served in here.

"O-oh I g-guess," He mumbled taking some of the food and a weird liquid they called as some soda. He stood at the end waiting for his hyung to finish. Jungkook didn't get a lot of food so he finished rather fast. "A-Are you done?" Jungkook asked as Yoongi walked to him.

"I... I don't feel that hungry. Yeah, I'm done," Yoongi said, slightly deflated by looking at all the food. He put a hand on Jungkook's back and guided him back to the table, a frown etched into his face. "I need to talk about this to the management as soon as I can." He mumbled to himself as he sat down again.

"W-why?" Jungkook asked hearing what Yoongi mumbled. He took a bite from the tasteless rice he had taken on his plate, ready to throw up. "I-I wish I c-could go t-to McDonalds again," Jungkook mumbled as he shoved the plate forward done with eating after three bites of the tasteless food.

Yoongi bit his lip and tapped on the table. "Hey listen, Jungkook.... Can you please eat a bit more? Please? I promise I'll get you a burger tomorrow. I can bring lunch in so I'll bring in some for you too and we'll have it in our office? You're going to become underweight at this rate... I don't want you to... Just... Finish this today?" Yoongi coaxed him carefully.

"I-I'm n-not that h-hungry," He mumbled, he just really didn't like the food. Jungkook was about ready to throw up as he took another bite and had to keep his hand in front of his mouth. "I-I'm s-sorry, I c-can't eat m-more," he said as he shoved the plate away and took a sip from the vague soda. Which wasn't any better.

Yoongi pushed his glass of water towards Jungkook, "Have the water, it's the only thing here that tastes like it should." He sighed deeply, if this was the food they were serving, they wouldn't be getting anywhere with their "diets". No wonder all the patients he had seen had only been deteriorating. Jungkook looked at the concerned doctor and took the glass of water. It was the only thing he trusted in the hospital.

"O-okay," He said as he took a careful sip from the cold water. His stomach reacted with disgust, he didn't eat or drink a lot beside the times he had assigned to himself because the food here was so terrible. "W-will you r-really buy me a h-hamburger?" Jungkook asked, his eyes were big from disbelief. No doctor would actually do such things to patients, they didn't care.

"Why not? I said I'd be your florist, right? I mean I'd rather be your gardener than florist because a gardener can help you grow and improve but yes, I mean it. You can see it for yourself tomorrow then if you don't believe me or trust me yet." Yoongi shrugged. It wouldn't be surprising if Jungkook didn't trust him. He wasn't supposed to trust anyone right off the bat, Yoongi was supposed to earn his trust which is what he was going to do.

"T-thank you H-Hyung," Jungkook said as he thought about the hamburger. "C-can y-you- I-I don't w-want to be a bother," He started. "You k-know n-nevermind," He mumbled looking into the glass of water again. Yoongi nodded at the helper who asked if he could clear their plates, watching as he took away the barely touched food.

"It's okay, you can tell me," he said as he directed his attention back to Jungkook.

"C-can you b-buy me new n-notebooks?" He asked nervously as Jungkook still held onto the glass, actually a transparent plastic cup, with water. "A-and some a-aquarelle-paint," he whispered softly. He really wanted to paint with aquarelles. Yoongi nodded, pulling out his phone to take down notes. He would order them now and get them delivered tomorrow morning before coming in. That way he could bring them in tomorrow itself for Jungkook. He did have a list of other things other patients had asked from him and bring the doctor he was, he couldn't refuse them. He had already ordered a few things and he ordered some things for Jungkook as well.

"Water colors, so I'm guessing also brushes and a mug to put the dirty water in. And a sketchbook. All to be delivered tomorrow." Yoongi smiled as he finished paying, looking up at Jungkook after he was done. "Don't hesitate with me, Jungkook. I want you to be open with me, completely raw. I'm not here to judge you. I'm here to listen and help in any way I can. Let's go back."

"Y-yes let's g-go back," Jungkook said as he stood up. Hoping that Yoongi wouldn't be like any other doctor. He already proved a lot of himself, as a caring doctor. Jungkook hoped he could one day trust Yoongi.

[cutiecrates]

Cutie Reviews: Kawaii Box August 19

It’s time for another Kawaii Box review! I meant to do this one at least a couple of days ago, but it felt like every time I was about to work on it something else came up. But I’m here and ready!

Word of the month: Gakkou - School

“Everything you need to hit the books in kawaii style!“

Shimmery Mt. Fuji Pen & Donut Bunny Pen

I usually don’t start with the pens, but sometimes it can be fun to shake things up. So to start off a brand new school year, we’re lucky enough to get 2 adorable pens instead of just one~

One pen features a vibrant pastel bunny-shaped donut on top of the cap and blue ink. These come in a variety of colors- and despite how I feel about yellow, I still think this is pretty cute. The ink is blue which is quite unusual as we usually only get black ink. It’s a fine tip and it writes wonderfully and appears to only smear a small amount if you use a lot of it in one spot or thickly applied it and don’t give it a moment to dry. You can also remove the bunny donut and put it on other pens or pencils, or the “pen butt“ rather than the lid.

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Meanwhile, our other pen is a pretty and sleek, clear tube in comparison to the vibrant plastic-ness of the other one. These are also available in several colors, each topped with a clear water-filled Mt. Fuji filled with shiny stars and a decorative flower. This one is also fine tipped but has typical black ink, and it works the exact same as the other.

Honestly either pen would be nice to have :3 they’re both cute in different ways but they both also have a problem that bugs me. The fact the pen caps can’t be put onto the back of the pen. It’s not a deal breaker or anything, but its a little inconvenient.

Lollipop Highlighter Set

Besides our fun pens, we also have a set of cute highlighters- another semi-essential item for school. It seems like if you don’t buy them then you end up needing them, but then when you do buy them you probably never use them. But it doesn’t hurt to keep some on hand, and because they come in a little pouch they’ll be easy to locate. 

The highlighter is in the rounded base of the lollipop, and these are unscented.

The highlighters work well. I thought the awkward shape would make them difficult to use, and it did a very little bit, but they weren’t impossible to use. I’m a little disappointed they weren’t scented though, because as lollipops I think it would have been cute.

Shibanban Sticky Notes & Nekoni Mini Puffy Stickers

These next two items were a variety and somehow I got 2 sets of doggies. Our first is a 50-sheet set of doggy themed pieces of paper. The booklet says they are sticky notes, but this is more like a notepad. They’re not sticky at all. But its still useful as a notepad, and its double-sided; the front has these cute doggies print on it while the back has rows of lines.

There was a variety of dog designs from the brand Shibanban, and I think I got a cute one just in time for cooler weather~

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Our next item is also dog themed (in my case), a set of small, adorable puffy stickers by the brand Nekoni. The irony of seeing dogs on anything with the word neko in it always gets me; for anyone unfamiliar, Neko means cat.

This sheet consists of 24, 3-sets of stickers :3 the doggies are so CUTE! Cat person or not, I can still appreciate an adorable puppy- and these pups are beyond adorable! As much as I dislike repetitive stickers, I think I actually prefer it here because I’m more likely to use them due to the repetition. The stickers are slightly softened and squishy.

Kawaii Dessert Erasers

Next up is an adorable set of erasers x3 my elementary self who collected erasers fell in love with these, and my teenager self who collected those dessert puzzle erasers adores the plate they came on!

These erasers are available in a few varieties and colors, each ranging from sweet snacks to drink, cakes, and other desserts. I look at my set and it screams creamy, with the exception of the heart, which I think is supposed to be a box of chocolate? It might be a cake though. I like how they all seem to have some little details in common too, rather than being a whole mish-mash of random colors, which tend to make some things look cheap.

They feel very smooth, almost plastic like. But they seem to work well and didn’t give me any problems. If you like erasers as much as I do (and have some pencils or erasable tools) I’d recommend picking up a set on the Blippo.com website.

Fluffy Bunny Dancing Ears Hat

This is another item perfect to cooler weather, it’s very fluffy to help keep the head warm, and when you squeeze the bottom of the ears, they pop up!

I have to admit that despite how cute this is I was a little disappointed to see it. In a box I got some months back prior to this one (I believe it was a Yume Twins), we got this exact same hat. It’s only a coincidence though, and there is good news to this; if something were to happen to the one I now have a replacement, or I could give this one away to someone else.

Morinaga Green Tea BAKE

This next item was a mystery snack, and being the BIG fan of Green Tea I am (sarcasm I’ll have you know) I was dreading this. But I figured if it has Hello Kitty on it I should give it a chance, and I did have these before in a chocolate blend, with mixed opinion. So I figured this could be a win or lose.

SURPRISINGLY I’d actually give this a win! I was very shocked to discover I actually like this. Yes, it does taste like green tea, but it’s also a sweetened and light green tea. It has a lovely soft and crumbly texture too, and the entire pack is only 18kcal.

School Girl Aiko Notebook

Out of everything we got, I feel like a notebook is one of the most essential- next to writing tools anyway. You need something to use them in don’t you :P and this month features an exclusive Kawaii Box/Blippo.com notebook featuring Aiko in a Sailor fuku, or school uniform. She’s surrounded by typical Kawaii Box designs, and the background features a pretty pastel gradient.

The pages are blank design wise, but each features lines and a section on top for the name and date. The book itself is semi-sturdy, but it’s not extremely full. So if you don’t want to use it to take notes, you could just use it as a diary or makeshift planner, drawing pad, vocabulary sheet, etc. It’s very cute, if I was still in school I’d definitely bring it with me!

♥ Cutie Ranking ♥

Content - 5 out of 5: The items are very basic and typical of what we get in these boxes, so on one hand I was kind of bored with it and wanted to move on. But they’re also very sweet and cute, and practical so I don’t think they’re necessarily bad items.

Theme - 5 out of 5: There’s no way they could have failed this honestly.

Total Rank: 9 out of 10 Cuties. So, basically this box didn’t have a summer theme, which is okay because a lot of people begin school at the end of August or beginning of September- but at the same time, in doing a school theme I was completely bored with the items. A lot of these things we get normally, or on semi-occasion, and for me personally they’re not necessities because I already have so many. When I get a box, I really like the feeling of “ooh, I can’t wait to use this!“ and I didn’t get that.

♥Cutie Scale ♥

1. Mt. Fuji Pen - I’ve always loved liquid-filled items like these, they’re so pretty and a lot of fun to watch.

2. Dessert Erasers - These are very cute and detailed, the only thing I dislike is that after you remove the plastic wrap from them then they won’t stay on the plate. It’s fine if you’ll have it in a stable place, but it kinda loses meaning if you plan to put them in a pouch or something. 

3. Puffy Stickers - These are so cute, I don’t know which I like the most!

4. Donut Bunny Pen - I like how I can put the donut bunny on various other pens or pencil, but I dislike its yellow coloring- and the lid not being very useful is kind of a pain.

5. BAKE snacks - I was extremely surprised with these, they’re probably the only green tea item I ever liked up until now!

6. Aiko Notebook - I have a bunch of these but I do prefer the bigger ones to the much smaller hand-sized ones. They’re easier and can hold a lot more.

7.  Lollipop Highlighters - I’m not sure I’ll use these just yet because I have so many, but it could be fun to make a “highlighter assortment” with the various other ones I have.  

8. Bunny Hat - Only because I have 2 of them now. It’s very snuggly and sweet~

9. Shibanban Notes - They’re kind of cute but the design isn’t my favorite.