#just found the first half of this in my drafts and inexplicably finished it off

[teencopandthesourwolf]

"I'll text Stiles," Scott says, grabbing his backpack. "Then I'm gonna go see Allison.”

When Scott turns back around, Derek's lips are a thin line and they are the only part of him that moves when he asks, through his teeth, "Are you going to talk to her, too?”

Scott just squints. Because—huh? 

"Derek, what do you mean, am I going to talk to her, too?” He narrows his eyes even more, suspicious. “Why else would I be going to see Allison, if not to talk to her? I don't just, like, watch her from afar like some creeper, you know." 

Scott isn't about to admit that he has, embarrassingly, done just that on occasion. Alright, occasions, plural—but only once or twice! Five or six times, tops. And only ever when he thought Allison was, or could possibly be, in danger. It's not weird, though. It's not! It's noble, okay? It just sounds weird when you say it out loud. Even if he hasn't actually said it out loud. Well, at least not just now anyways; he's said it in front of the mirror a couple times and it turns out your reflection can be pretty hurtful and judgemental which, honestly, is a little upsetting.  

Just as Scott realises that Derek must know he just told a lie—half-lie!—the Alpha's face does a thing that Scott has never seen it do before. Ever. The dude looks almost… Human. 

And, what the hell? 

Derek clears his throat and shifts his weight from one foot to the other and worries at his bottom lip a bit and now Scott is feeling anxious because who is this guy? And what has he done with Derek ‘I Will Never Give A Single Thing Away About Myself Ever Other Than The Fact I Am Eternally Pissed’ Hale? (that's one of Stiles's). 

Just the possibility of Derek ‘Emotionally Open and Vulnerable’ Hale is, like—it's just way too much for Scott to handle on a Sunday morning when he's supposed to be at the veterinary surgery in less than fourteen minute's time and has to somehow manage fitting in seeing Allison on the way.

But it seems Scott is also too nosy to just move on from this and let sleeping dogs lie. And both of those things are really annoying because strange old phrases and being overly curious is usually a Stiles thing, not a Scott thing, so Scott really doesn't know what he's supposed to do! 

W.W.S.D. 

What Would Stiles Do?

"Um, Derek, have you been—"

"Firstly, McCall, following somebody around and watching them from a distance is not creepy if you think that they need to be tailed for their own safety, alright?" Derek starts and—well.

Exactly!

Scott actually genuinely likes Derek, for just a moment, because he knew he'd been right about that! He gives himself an internal high-five and an imaginary congratulatory pat on the back because being kind to yourself is never a bad option. Unfortunately, Scott now also has to admit to himself that it does, in fact, sound weird when you say it out loud. Or, well, think it out loud. Whatever, he knows what he means.

He realises that Derek is still speaking.

"...because Stiles is human and also the biggest danger-magnet in the pack, so it makes sense that one of us should be keeping tabs on him. Thirdly, I—“ 

“Someone, Derek!” Scott blurts, “I was going to ask if you've been creeping on someone!" he interrupts because—honestly, in the most way possible—what?! The hell?!

Scott is both stunned and annoyed at hearing that Derek has been following Stiles (hiding around dark corners and slinking about the place like a wolf ninja. Scott should know. Shut up.) 

Because Stiles! Is Scott's best friend! 

And, like, how long has he been doing this? And for what purpose, really? Because Derek's heart just skipped about twelve beats, never mind one, so reason number two was obviously at least a half-lie of his own. 

That's when Derek's mouth clacks audibly shut. 

Scott just stares. And he knows; there is more going on here than meets the eye.

Then it's obvious that Derek knows that Scott knows and then everybody is knowing and looking and looking and knowing and Scott just—he can't stand it, okay? He needs confirmation. He doesn't necessarily want it, but it's like his mom always says: Life's tough sometimes. 

Eventually, he manages to say, "Are you stalking Stiles, Derek?" and hopes to hell he's wrong because he now feels somewhere in between being affronted on his best friend's behalf, totally grossed-out because it's Derek, ugh, and maybe just a little bit amused. Or is it bemused? Possibly confused. Scott is definitely some of those words. 

And again, seriously, what the hell?  

Has Derek honestly been creeping on Stiles because he's concerned for Stiles's safety? And, if so, why? Like, does Derek even get concerned for humans? Or other wolves for that matter (apart from maybe his own betas which is probably only a biological thing anyway, Scott reckons). Does Derek care about anybody? At all? Dude doesn't even care about himself, Scott doesn't think.

Scott now tries his best to come up with another reason, any other possible reason, that someone might have to follow a person around, but he can't seem to land on—OH, GOD! DOES DEREK HAVE A CRUSH ON STILES? Oh, shit! Oh, shit, shit, shit, shit, shit! He can't. But he—nope. No! Because what. The actual. Hell! He just—no. No, no, no. He can't! Can he? Oh, my God, what if he does?! And if it is true... ew! Derek Hale crushing is just gross! And on Stiles?! Just, no. But also, why? And also-also, how the hell did Scott not notice something sooner?! 

And another thing: Did Scott somehow wake up this morning having somehow travelled in his sleep to one of those Affirmative Universe places that Stiles is always banging on about?

Man, Scott has, like, so many questions. 

Derek still hasn't said anything and is just standing opposite Scott with his stupid arms folded across his stupid chest with his stupid beard in his stupid loft looking really, really stupidly sheepish, and Scott thinks, yep.

Affirmative Universe. 

He doesn't know what to do and Stiles isn't here to ask, so he waves a confused (and maybe amused and bemused) arm in the air and says, “Derek, what the hell is going on? Have we travelled to an Affirmative Universe or something, because—”  

“Don't you mean Alternative Universe?”  

“—you never just, I don't know, don't throw something offensive or at least defensive back at me when I'm talking to you about Stiles. Or, you know, anybody else. Or anything else, come to think of it!”   

Derek now looks, for real, actually scared.

And Scott? Well, Scott is now officially terrified.  

His phone starts ringing and, as it's already in his hand, he just answers it without looking, eyes still fixed on Derek The Imposter. 

“Yooooo, amigo, what's the plan?” 

It's Stiles. Of course it's Stiles. 

Stiles is on the phone and Derek Hale might-probably-definitely have a crush on him, and Scott may or may not be in an Affirmative Universe but can't know for sure and can no longer speak or think or breathe.

“Uh, Scottie? Scottland? Sir Scott-A-Lot? You there, ol’buddy, ol’pal?” 

Derek can obviously hear who is on the other end of the phone. He looks positively constipated, his brows knitting together even tighter than before, tighter than ever before, and his lethal jaw is ticking away like it's being controlled by the World Clock in Berlin that Scott learned about in middle school.

Scott sighs, heavy, like he's seventy years old instead of seventeen.

Derek is now giving his best version of Scott's own speciality Puppy Dog Eyes (something Stiles and Allison always accuse him of), with a definite flavour of please, don't tell…

And Scott wants to cry. Like a baby. Like, throw himself onto the floor and scream and shout and kick his feet in the air. 

Instead, he grits his teeth together like the mature person he is, feeling very firmly smooshed between a best friend-shaped rock and a werewolf-scented hard place. 

Ugh, his life is just so unfair!

He mouths YOU OWE ME to Derek, and Derek's whole body visibly sags with relief. 

Then he takes a deep breath and answers Stiles—who is now chanting ScottieScottieScottieScottieScottieScottieScottie down the phone—with, “Dude, shut up and listen, will you! I think we might have a very real problem with Affirmative Universes!”

[katnissmellarkkk]

I *DEMAND* part 3 of shattered pearl. I repeat. I *DEMAND*.

Hahahahaha omg. Well, I decided to legitimately dig through the archives of my writing drafts and found chapter three of the Peeta-Wasn’t-Hijacked fic. It’s been given like 1,000 different names on different sites. I’ve never loved any of them. And I don’t really think this is my best writing ngl. But I also figure ... why be so stingy, ya know? If I have an incomplete draft, that I probably won’t finish, why not post a little bit? Especially since I literally left everyone and their brother who were reading this fic on a cliffy for over a year.

With that said.... I wrote this part like ... 15 months ago? 14 ? 13 ? Something like that. And I haven’t edited it since so ... yeah! Here’s a small chunk of chapter three! 🥳🥳🥳 Hope it’s better than I remember it being!

But it’s lacking something and it’s only then I realize, what I’m searching for inside Gale’s mouth, is the spark that only Peeta’s ever ignited in me. I keep waiting in vain for the warmth that started in my stomach and then rose up and exploded in my chest, for the craving that no matter what I couldn’t manage to satisfy, for the thrilling, almost hysterical, tingly feeling, to overcome me and leave me lightheaded in a completely foreign way. A way that couldn’t be attributed to lack of oxygen.

But it never does. I pull back and wipe my mouth carelessly on my arm and sigh, already sensing Gale’s demeanor taking a nose dive at my lackluster reaction.

I’m not disappointed when I look to see his expression. His eyes are frustrated, his mouth is downturned, his eyebrows are pinched together. And I feel as bad as I knew I would. Because no matter what, I’m hurting someone I deeply care for.

But how I feel upon seeing Gale’s face isn’t even comparable to the amount of remorse that fills me, that overtakes my entire being, when I see Peeta standing in the doorway, having watched our entire exchange.

/

I yelled his name as he disappeared down the hall. I tried to rip out all the needles and wires connecting me to the machines and the stiff, sterilized bed but Gale used all his strength to push me down flat. I was overpowered and exhausted and my left side was screaming mercilessly, and I don’t even know what pain was the bruised lung and what pain was my hurt ribs and what pain was my heart violently smashing into the pit of my stomach.

All I know is that if I had been able to reach Peeta before he evaporated, I have no clue what I would have said to him.

What I could have said to make it alright.

Gale tried to talk to me again after that but I entirely tuned him out, no longer caring if I wounded his feelings, or anyone else's for that matter.

It seems like no matter what I do, no matter how careful or cautious or preemptive I try to be, someone still got hurt in the end.

I wish I could just shut out the world, like I did during those first few weeks in Thirteen. Hide inside closets when I had a flashback. Shove myself into a minuscule crawl space with every nightmare. Refuse to speak to anyone who wasn't Gale or my family. Only eat when my mother nearly forced me. Show no remorse for how rude or how clinically insane I came across.

But now there was an agreement in place, an agreement I made to protect the victors—namely the one who just disappeared down the hall on me—and the people who had no voice on their own. The people who’s only chance was a half-crazed, shell-shocked, battle worn seventeen year old girl, who was just gunned down on national television.

Even if I wanted to retreat to some safe haven inside my head—if such a thing even existed for me—like Annie Cresta, I knew it could never happen.

For me, that wasn’t an option. If I don’t fulfill my duties to Coin, Peeta, Johanna, Annie and probably countless more people will suffer. The districts would undoubtably suffer. Gale would suffer. My mother and Prim would suffer.

I was proven right when later that same night Plutarch came to visit me again. I'd been lying on my side to avoid having to see Gale, who was still soldered to my bedside. My good side was thankfully opposite his seat.

When the Gamemaker spoke I thought I would be forced back to work. Forced to head back to the rebels and engage in their plans.

And I was resigned to it, well aware all along that I wouldn't be given the luxury of time to grieve the hurt I just caused Peeta. Or even the pain I knew I was inflicting upon Gale. The constant seesaw my heart was bouncing up and down on.

I was endlessly thankful that I was still pumped with morphling when Plutarch said that I was needed in Coin's office, because it heavily suppressed any real emotion I had brewing deep inside.

Morphling can cause you to let down your guard sometimes, make you say or do things you wouldn't otherwise or allow things to happen you'd ordinarily have the sense to stop. But it also causes all your severe emotions, all your heightened feelings, to dull as well. And for that, in light of everything that had just transpired, I was eternally grateful for.

When the doctor had removed all the needles from my arm, and I had been given a robe to go over my hospital gown—which, shockingly, was even uglier and thinner and itchier than the gowns they gave in the Capitol hospitals—Gale escorts me down the halls, through the corridors and to President Coin’s office.

I don’t speak to him the entire time. Looking at him makes my stomach churn with remorse and regret, though I’m not even sure who those feelings are directed towards. I’m not even sure how to articulate the way I feel right now.

And, as much as I try to force him out of my mind—as much as I do my best to rip him out from wherever he crawled beneath my skin and flooded into my veins—I inexplicably miss Peeta.

In more ways than I even know how to decipher. Even inside my own head.

I thought that feeling of longing would have ebbed away once he was rescued from Snow and his twisted mansion, but even knowing he’s safe here in Thirteen, I still crave his presence next to me.

I still want him next to me almost all the time.

It’s at least partially attributable to the fact that for so long, it was me and Peeta against the world. He has been my partner in this whirlwind rollercoaster since the first games and, even when I feel like every single aspect that could potentially go wrong has, sometimes it seems like I couldn’t have gotten luckier with who was chosen that fateful reaping to stand by my side the entire horrific ride.

I wipe my eyes as inconspicuously as I can but Gale sees and almost instinctively puts his hand on my shoulder. And proves he knows me better than I give him credit for. “I’ll talk to him, Katniss.”

“Don’t,” I immediately hiss. “You’ll just make it worse, Gale. He-he,” I struggle with explaining what I want to say and I curse my best friend for even addressing my moment of weakness because now I have to go talk to Coin, looking like an unstable mess—with a near bullet wound—and I blurt out the very first thing I can think of. “He doesn’t even know you, okay? You’ll just-“

There’s no malice in Gale’s voice as he softly replies, “Well, he was fine when I went and saw him before you woke up.”

I stop now, dead in my tracks. “You saw him? After I was shot?”

He nods slowly. “Yeah, I felt like should check on him. I know...” He pauses and looks upwards and I recognize, once again, this whole thing isn’t easy for him either. “I know he means a lot to you. And I heard what happened when he saw you go down. So I went and checked in on him...” He stops again before shrugging nonchalantly. “He was calmer by the time I saw him. He was nice. He’s always been nice.” At that Gale rolls his eyes. “Too nice. Probably why Snow wanted to hurt him.”

I start walking again, moving ahead of him a few paces. “You’re not helping,” I state, my voice a monotone.

“I’ll talk to him,” Gale offers again, running to catch up.

“Please don’t, okay? Just let it be. I don’t even know if he’ll speak to me, I don’t want to have to worry about what you’ll say to him.”

I vigorously shake off his hand on my shoulder when he tries to comfort me again, and feel him root into place as I make the rest of the way to Coin’s office.

And I wonder if I hurt him now too.

I wonder if I managed to completely annihilate them both from me in one night.

/

Much to my surprise and, to be completely honest, my utter disappointment, Coin doesn’t want me to head back out and fight for the rebellion. She doesn’t want me to even film more propos.

Plutarch does, but his ideas now are pretty frivolous and have more to do with him being still stuck in the fantasy of putting on a good show and less to do with fighting for the good of the country.

Coin simply says, “You did your job, Miss Everdeen. You united the districts,” in her calm, disingenuous—completely unsettling—tone.

And argument I put up is met with a simple shake of the head and a pursing of her lips. All indisputable rejections, her cold, blank eyes telling me wordlessly that in no way could I sway her once her mind was made up.

Still doesn’t stop me from trying though.

“I want to help the rebels,” I plead, looking to Boggs behind Coin’s chair, his face still stoic but his eyes giving me a look that isn’t altogether dismissive.

That was something. It was more than I was getting from either Coin or Plutarch.

Coin though brushes off my words and cuts me down infuriatingly quick with a single sentence. “Plutarch wanted to see Peeta earlier, talk about some propos. But when he sent for him, one of the doctors working with Peeta said he wasn’t having a good day.”

Her tone is smooth and pleasant enough but there was an undercurrent to her words that she knew I would hear. “Do you know how Peeta is? I would have thought with your waking up this morning, he’d be in better shape than he was but if you two aren’t getting-“

“Me and Peeta are fine,” I snap, not liking whatever she’s implying.

She nods, slowly at me, choosing her next sentiment carefully. “Well, let’s hope so. We need both of you now to remain the faces of this revolution. And I wouldn’t want you to do anything rash because of... problems between you and your... between you and Peeta.”

I’m shaking my head, feigning certainty, before she even finishes. “That’s not why I want to help the rebels,” I insist firmly.

“Irregardless, Miss Everdeen, we don’t have a job for you. You aren’t qualified to go into the fight and we no longer need your propos to unite the districts. Your job is done. Thank you for your help.”

And I know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that I’m being definitively dismissed now. Indefinitely.

I don’t make any effort to keep my cool, instead choosing to storm out of the room, slamming the door cacophonously behind me and wonder why I let that woman get to me so much. Why her words and implications slice me open like a knife.

Why no matter how much I try, I just can’t like her.

Something about her rubs me the wrong way and, once again, I wish Peeta was here with me in the room, because he of all people could understand what about Coin felt off and strange and so familiar.

I curse myself again, as I suddenly miss him even more than before.

Unable to force myself to put my focus elsewhere—especially now that Gale is surely angry too—I change directions and head towards the recovery room.

I don’t even knock before entering. I push the door open, only to find him sitting on top of his bed, a sketchbook in hand, a lot more tranquil than I pictured.

He looks up as I enter—and then, simultaneously freeze in the doorway, like the coward I truly am inside. Before he can speak though, I blurt out, “I know you’re mad about me kissing Gale and I don’t know how much you saw or heard, but it wasn’t... it wasn’t exactly...” I stop because once again, I’m unprepared and out of my element and have no rhyme or reason in what I’m trying to say. I don’t know the right thing to say. I never know the right thing to say.

Maybe if I did, I wouldn’t screw always everything up. “It wasn’t,” I finally force myself to continue, off his patient and somewhat bewildered glance. “It wasn’t what I wanted... I didn’t want it to happen. I don’t, I don’t even know what-“

He finally puts me out of my misery now. “Katniss,” he speaks my name along with a sigh. I watch carefully, feeling a lump build in my throat, as his blonde brows furrow over his baby blues.

He shakes his head, slow and calm. Far more reasonable than I ever anticipated. “I’m not mad at you, Katniss,” he promises, with all the genuineness in the world.

I bite my lip, befuddled by his words. “But... where have you been then?” Why did you leave me? A small voice in the back of my mind demands.

He shrugs, his gaze falling down to his bed now. His demeanor is almost embarrassed, I realize with a start.

“I wanted to give you and Gale space. I’ve been practically mauling you since you woke up so I thought-“

“But I didn’t want you to leave,” I abruptly burst out, unable to shove the words down any longer.

A pang of embarrassment shoots through me though, for the pathetic crack, evident in my tone. And I mentally berate myself.

Not for the embarrassment. For the pathetic crack itself.

And for the fact that somehow I’m the frenzied one here and Peeta is the voice of reason.

Which used to be our norm but after everything that’s transpired, I would have thought things would be reversed by now.

He just stares at me for a long moment, carefully considering his next words.

Finally, he opens his arms slowly and utters, “Come here,” in a tender murmur and I practically fly into his arms before I can second guess the offer.

I feel my injured side screaming as I curl up like a ribbon in his arms, but I surpress the wince to the best of my ability and instead bury my face in his shoulder, breathing in his sweet scent like a mad girl.

He softly presses his lips to my messy locks, carefully massaging the back of my head soothingly. “I’m sorry I ran away,” he whispers, barely loud enough for even me to hear. “I was just embarrassed. I know—I’ve always known deep down—that it’s not right for me to constantly hold you to the things you said in the games. Or to project my own feelings onto you.”

“You didn’t,” I refute venomously, my brows knitting together.

“Katniss, I know you and Gale have had something between you for a long time.”

“Gale was just a friend until me and you came back from our first games. Maybe he wanted to be more even before, I don’t know, but I never felt anything romantic for him. I swear.”

“You don’t have to defend your feelings to me,” he states softly.

“I know, it’s just...” I sigh, moving to sit upright across his thighs. “No matter what I do, it’s wrong. If I say I’m confused, you’re both hurting. If I say I want to kiss you or sleep with you or just be with you, I’m leading you on because I can’t-I can’t make any promises about my feelings right now, because I don’t even know up from down anymore. And if I say I do or don’t want to kiss Gale or be around him or hunt with him still, I’m hurting him or giving him the wrong idea or telling him the wrong things, and it all gets confused and there’s an entire rebellion that I’m the face of, and now I don’t even know if I’m a part of that, but Snow and his followers all hate me still so I know family still won’t be safe until this is all over. And you. You and Johanna and Annie went through the ringer over me. And Gale gets upset whenever he sees us together—it hurts him to see us—but I can’t always seperate you two from one another and I just-I don’t know what I can do. I don’t know what to do anymore.”

Peeta lets me rant the whole entire spiel out, his hand slowly moving in circles to rub my back, from the top of my spine down to my backside. “Katniss,” he whispers once I’m done. “You don’t have to defend yourself to me. I get it. You’re under immense pressure. The last thing I want to do is make things harder on you.”

“You’re not,” I say, shaking my head insistently. “You’re not making anything worse, Peeta. It’s-it’s not you.”

“Okay,” he concedes and unconsciously wraps me up tighter in his arms. “Just relax, okay? Relax and breathe.”

I quiver and quake against him. “I don’t think I can.”

I barely realize I’m crying until Peeta leans down to kiss my tearstained cheek softly. “Katniss, it’s okay. I’m not mad. And Gale shouldn’t be. If he is, then that’s on him. The rebellion isn’t just your responsibility. Do not let them put all that weight on your shoulders. I know they already have but it’s not all your responsibility. And no one is going to let anything happen to your mom or sister.” He pushes my hair away from my forehead, pressing his lips there for a long moment. “Or you. I promise I will not let anything else happen to you.”

I swallow hard as he rests his forehead against my temple. I squeeze my eyes shut in hopes that it will make my head stop spinning somehow. Deep breaths to center myself fail miserably and in the end, I feel my bruised ribs and lung disagree with the movement and ache worse than before.

Peeta feels me cringing against him in pain and remains careful as he shifts, reaching for something off his bedside table.

I’m in too much pain to react as pushes off my robe and tugs my hospital gown down in order to slide against my skin, his hand holding it firmly to my side.

The icy temperature brings some sort of relief to me almost instantly, and I let out an audible sigh of relief, feeling my rigid body relax even a minuscule amount for the first time.

“I don’t blame you for having feelings for Gale,” Peeta murmurs, drawing my attention back to our conversation and away from my painful left side. “And if you want to be with him, I won’t hold it against you. I’m not going to lie, I’d be ... sad but... it doesn’t mean I wouldn’t still be your friend. It doesn’t mean I wouldn’t still be at jere for you however you needed me. There’s no ultimatums here, Katniss. I’m still here for you, even if you’d rather be with Gale.”

I pause for a long moment, absorbing his words. He’d be willing to be my friend, even if I hurt him? Even if I chose someone else over him? Even after everything we went through, even after all the ways he’d been abused because Snow could see how much I care for him? How much I need him. He’s still willing to put it all aside and be there for me, no strings attached.

And I try not to compare but my brain draws the conclusion almost involuntarily, and I can’t stop myself from realizing that, in the same position, Gale would likely not be telling me the same thing.

I burrow my face deeper in his shoulder, shutting my eyes in exhaustion.

Peeta catches me off-guard, moving my hair aside to kiss my neck, eliciting a flare of heat in the place where his lips brush my skin, and I may not know exactly how I feel, but I know in that moment exactly what I want right now.

“The only person I want to be with tonight is you,” I whisper honestly, looking up at him with pleading eyes, begging him to somehow understand an emotion I don’t know how to admit. “The only person I want right now is you, Peeta.”

[levihantrash]

new chapter update!

Summary:

Levi’s pragmatism pulled the brakes. “I’m not about to dedicate my life to become a broke comic artist.”

Levi Ackerman, a gruff cleaner with an appetite for toilet humour meets the unabashedly friendly creative writing professor, Hange Zoë, who somehow ropes Levi into working on a comic with them. While the comic’s title remains undecided, Hange knows that it’s going to be set in a world where giant, human-like creatures devour other humans. Erwin Smith, the comic’s self-appointed editor, unironically thinks it’s going to be a hit. All Levi knows is that he wants to indulge in drawing this comic while hanging out with a certain writer who just won’t stop talking to him.

Where Hange, Levi, and Erwin are the creators of Attack on Titan.

Chapter 1: Free Bread

Chapter 2: New Friends

Like routine, Levi found himself waiting for a certain professor to show up. When Erwin called out to him, he couldn’t help but search behind the tall, imposing figure.

“I haven’t seen Hange this morning either,” Erwin said. Levi found himself irritated by Erwin’s discernment and by his own discrete uneasiness.

“Good morning, Erwin,” Levi greeted, nonetheless.

Hange was late, which Levi figured wouldn’t be out of the ordinary.

The morning passed without a single sign of Hange.

“Sorry, are you Mr. Levi?” A nervous-looking person approached him, holding on to a well-wrapped steamed bun. A twinge of hope stirred in Levi.

“Levi will do,” he said.

“Dr. Hange said I should pass you this,” the bread-holder blurted out.

Levi’s gaze softened. “Where’s Hange?”

“Oh! She’s rushing a deadline and insisted that I pass you this bread.”

The inexplicable rush of relief made Levi dizzy as he grasped the bread limply. “Huh. Sorry that you have to be an errand boy today.”

“It’s no trouble!”

“Who are you?”

“Sorry! I didn’t introduce myself! I’m Moblit, their teaching assistant! Dr. Hange helps me out with my master’s thesis because they’re my advisor. This is just my way of saying thanks. Dr. Hange also treats me to meals, gives me detailed comments for my work… though they might go overboard when it comes to giving speeches about the importance of world-building and honing your craft, it’s inspiring how dedicated they are in what they do.”

Moblit took a deep breath, making up for lost air in between the lengthy, whole-hearted sentences.

“Is that so…” Levi said, suddenly contemplative. “Do you want some tea?”

“Are you getting it from the staff pantry?”

“No, that stuff’s stale as shit. I have better tea, wait here.”

Levi recalled Erwin asking him in front of everyone in the staffroom if he wanted the staffroom snacks. Hange followed up, speaking at a volume that was clear enough for most of the staff to overhear, orchestrating a deliberate conversation with Erwin.

“Since there are no hard rules as to who the snacks and drinks are catered for, and technically, Levi is a staff member, he should have access to the snacks!”

None of the professors objected. It was probably because open prejudice would be socially unacceptable, Levi thought.

Begrudgingly, he accepted Erwin’s offer, and in full view of everyone, took a candy bar.

Hange gasped. “Just one?” Levi glared at them.

“Aren’t the snacks for your little sister?” Hange asked. He nodded, sensing the collective spike in sympathy for him in the staffroom.

After the whole stage, the trio huddled conspicuously in a corner outside the staffroom.

Hange whispered to Levi, “You could have played along better!”

“Erwin’s tired of your skit,” Levi said, overwhelmed and annoyed at the turn of events.

“No he’s not!” Hange said sternly, before gulping down half a bottle of water.

Erwin, standing in between them, told Hange to keep it down.

“Thanks, you two.” Levi found himself staring at the floor, embarrassed that his two friends had to construe him as a pitiful character for him to get a few snacks, even though he had been informed of the plan prior.

“I’m sorry, Levi,” Hange said, their lips compressed into a hard, grim line. “It’s ridiculous that you can’t even get snacks and refreshments as part of the staff.”

“I’m used to it.”

“If anyone’s giving you a hard time, you have us,” Hange said, still put off.

They squared their shoulders impressively. “Right Erwin?”

“You can rely on us, Levi,” Erwin surmised, equally sombre.

Growing more ruffled by their declarations, Levi hissed, “I don’t need two bodyguards.”

“No, you definitely don’t,” Hange joked. “Some people have told me about the deathly aura you emit that I must have missed…”

Fixing their attention at a vague distance, Hange’s playful jibes dwindled into an idle pondering, “I wonder if you found some joy in our companionship at least.”

They’re talking about joy and friendship again… Levi thought.

He found himself back in the present, handing a cup of black tea to Moblit, guiding him towards a bench.

Moblit squeaked out, “Thank you!”

“How did you find me?” Levi asked, betraying none of his real curiosity.

“Hange gave me a description…” Moblit began, not making eye contact with Levi.

“Did they? What’s the description?” Knowing Hange’s brand of humour, Levi braced himself.

Moblit shuffled in his seat, terribly reluctant. “They said to look out for a cold, black-haired man with an undercut, wearing an apron, gloves and brandishing a mop while scolding people to not step on wet floors.” Levi made a mental note to strangle Hange.

Moblit quickly supplemented, “You’re not actually cold though!”

“How would you know that?”

“Um… you’re offering me tea?”

Levi clicked his tongue. “That’s a low bar for human decency. You should have higher standards.”

“You’re right, Mr. Levi… I mean Levi.”

Levi noted Moblit’s jittery manner when he briefly checked his phone for a message and let out a small groan.

“Hey, you look worried sick. You didn’t receive a death threat, did you?”

Moblit laughed weakly, running his hand through his hair. “Uh, you see, I’m one of the editors for the bi-annual literary magazine and we’ve been looking for illustrators…”

“I take it that you haven’t been successful?”

“Yes… I just received someone’s rejection. It’s okay, we’ll find one,” Moblit said, although his panicked lip-biting ran contradictory to his optimistic statement. Levi’s hands twitched again. He folded them promptly into his apron pockets.

Upon finishing the tea, Moblit stood up and gave a tiny, polite bow. “It was nice meeting you Levi. Thanks for listening and for the tea!”

“Good luck,” Levi said, in time before Moblit rushed off.

Bagging up the rubbish, Levi heaved the load on his shoulder easily, only to be startled by the appearance of Hange.

“Fuck! Can you stop jumping out of nowhere?” Though momentarily disconcerted, the tension built up from the day unwound instantaneously, leaving his body loose and feeble.

“Levi! Did you shit yourself?” Hange sang. They accidentally bumped into the gigantic rubbish bag, falling butt-first onto the ground, phone in hand.

“Be careful,” Levi said, in the same monotonous voice he used regardless of the situation. Unless the situation involved Hange leaping out of nowhere. He looped his free arm under their armpit to pull them back up. Hange, flushed from running, placed their phone in his hands with ill-contained excitement.

“Look at what I found!”

“Oi, what’s this—” Levi scanned the phone, his mouth running dry.

“I’m going to recruit this artist. For my comic.”

It was a sketch of a cat being patted by a person with messy, tied-up hair, their hands stroking its head.

“Don’t you think the person looks familiar? Isn’t the cat cute… remember how I told you I have one at home?” Hange released their brown hair from a voluminous ponytail, biting the rubber band in their mouth.

He swallowed. “I drew that.”

Hange’s mouth hung open. “You’re kidding!”

“Do I look like I make such shit jokes?”

“Personally, I find your shitty jokes very funny. This is exciting news! Why didn’t you tell me you’re an artist when I was trying to find one for my comic?”

Levi found her question preposterous. “You could easily find a better one. I’m inexperienced.”

“I’m also an inexperienced writer. I barely wrote one book and a few articles!”

“You’re a professor. You have the title for a reason. I just draw for fun.”

Hange spared him a baffled look. “Please. You have no idea how many great writers never become professors. And how some professors never write great books. I thought you of all people would know that a title doesn’t mean anything.”

“I thought you of all people would know that titles hold their value here, even if we think they’re stupid and don’t mean shit.”

“I know that, Levi. I’m saying, drawing for fun doesn’t make you inexperienced or unworthy of being the artist for my comic. Besides, I chose you before I even knew it was you!” Hange said triumphantly.

Locking the phone screen, Levi reiterated, “I draw for fun.”

“Then this will be our fun project!”

Levi’s pragmatism pulled the brakes. “I’m not about to dedicate my life to become a broke comic artist.”

“You won’t be broke.” Erwin slipped into their conversation as though he had always been there. It was uncanny.

“What do you mean?” Levi stared questioningly at Erwin.

“You’ll be paid for your work, Levi. Hange as well,” Erwin said simply.

“You’re paying us?” Hange and Levi asked, in unison. One, in disbelief, and the other, in delight.

“A publisher will be paying you. I’ve secured funding.”

Levi gritted his teeth. “A publisher wants to sponsor a comic that hasn’t even been written?”

“I told you, Levi,” Hange interrupted. “I’ve already submitted a draft!”

“Yes,” Erwin said.

Levi had so many questions. “How?”

“Because it’s a good story.”

“Did you bribe them? Threaten them?”

“It is a risk,” Erwin admitted.

“It’s a fucking gamble,” Levi emphasised. “Don’t know why you’re so invested in this comic.”

Hange had other worries. “Levi, did you think I wasn’t going to pay you?”

Levi hesitated. “I don’t know. Isn’t this just a fun side-project?”

Hange’s face came closer to his. With the enhanced proximity, Levi stopped breathing altogether. Their face was deadly solemn.

“Listen, Levi, creating art is hard work. Your hard work. Any artist deserves to be paid. It’s not because our relationship is transactional. It’s because it’s only right.”

Erwin added, “We’re not going to accept your art for free.”

Pushing Hange back firmly with his hands on their shoulders, Levi argued, “Plenty of people have access to my art online for free.”

“That’s your choice. We insist.” Hange grinned. “And we think we deserve to be paid too. Even I’m surprised that my project has early compensation.”

Part of Levi’s resolve ebbed away. “I’ll think about it.”

“Good enough for me!”

“First, you have to tell me what your story is.” Levi gathered up the last of his self-respect. “And if we’re going to be working together, I’ll need your number.”

Erwin raised an innocent eyebrow. “Wouldn’t you need mine too?”

“Stop teasing him, Erwin,” Hange said, grabbing the rubbish bag from Levi, struggling to balance its weight over their shoulders.

Just as Levi felt a shred of gratitude, Hange remarked, “What if he doesn’t agree to do the comic together?”

Patience running thin, Levi stomped on both their feet in a fit of unrestraint that diverged from his unaffected demeanour.

Eyes twinkling, Hange couldn’t help but feel immense glee at the prospect of working with Levi. What was probably Levi’s withheld strength made them certain that he only wanted to dirty their shoes, not bruise their toes. Like Hange would care about the cleanliness of their battered sneakers.

In front of an ordinary apartment door, Hange dug into the depths of their bag to fish out a ring of keys. The size of the ring was unprecedentedly big; the choice of keychain most definitely random, a freebie handed out to new staff that blatantly displayed the university’s name.

Without that much bribery of tea, bread, and friendship, Levi found himself standing beside Hange as they busied themselves in finding the key to their apartment. Erwin had bailed due to having another Important Meeting with Important People, even during a weekend, but encouraged Hange and Levi to take time to discuss the comic.

Hange hadn’t expected Levi to agree so readily to kickstarting the project, and with the generous reception Levi gave (a curt nod and a follow-up question), they thought it’d be best if they invited him over to their apartment. Just so he wouldn’t mistake Hange as a mere business partner. Now that would be upsetting.

Hange pushed the ludicrous speculation out of their head. Levi was first and foremost, a good friend. His bored appearance revealed glimpses of surprise, satisfaction, moodiness, and suspicion. Hange held on to these pieces with the determination to collect them all. Surely, Levi must have figured them out by now. This endless, unabashed interest Hange had taken in him.

“Why are we meeting at your place? Do you need to take a huge shit? Does the toilet at home have a better flush?”

Although Levi had no qualms about visiting Hange’s apartment, he found it unnerving to have a work discussion in someone’s living quarters. It felt too intimate, too casual. He wasn’t sure if he could handle being sucked in further into Hange’s life. They asked so many questions, yet barely answered any about themselves.

Whether intentionally or not, Hange was someone shrouded in mystery to Levi. He couldn’t ask questions either—he wouldn’t—because he was unaccustomed to expressing himself in front of people. More than that, he could envision Hange’s sharp wit poking a clean hole through his muted facade. “You’re interested in my life, Levi?” Damn that four-eyes for being so perceptive. Or was he so easy to read?

“It’s more fun,” Hange said, eventually stuffing the correct key into the keyhole, a smooth click welcoming them. “Plus, I want to introduce you to my friends! Part of the reason why I took up the position at this university.”

“Friends?” Levi asked, slipping out of his shoes to step into the apartment.

“Hange!” A voice rang, and Hange was wrapped in a hug.

“Onyankopon! I saw you yesterday—”

“Three days ago, to be exact, since you always sleep over on the lovely desk at the university.” A smooth voice entered, coming from a woman standing comfortably against the wall.

As the tallest body let go of Hange, it allowed Levi to take in the congenial features of a man whose shoulders rivalled Erwin’s towering, well-built stature. While Erwin’s smile was measuredly cordial, Onyankopon’s was candidly sincere. Watching Hange and Onyankopon, Levi felt as though he were intruding into a family reunion that had invited the entire neighbourhood. Here, he was the guest who came for the free flow of food and drinks.

“I’ve missed you too Pieck!” The woman named Pieck ruffled Hange’s hair, offering them an embrace.

Hange pulled Levi by the elbow, pointing to the new people. “Meet my roommates and college friends, Onyankopon and Pieck!”

“Hi,” Levi said, uncertain as to what else he could affix his terse greeting with. Hange resolved that predicament for him, going into further details about their friends.

“Onyankopon is a researcher and engineer! I can’t tell you the technical specifics of what he does, though, I always get them wrong. Oh, and he’s religious, but he won’t try to convert you.” Onyankopon nodded, affirming Hange’s unflattering introduction.

“Pieck… Pieck is a gardener, florist, and avid gamer! That’s why she’s always bent over, whether it’s tending to her plants or her high score in front of the monitor.”

“It’s not why I need the crutches though,” Pieck said. Hange squeezed her shoulders in response.

“Seems like my friends are all nerdy. Maybe that’s why I like them?” A sheepish smile graced Hange’s lips.

Onyankopon gestured towards Hange, imitating their dramatic flourish. “And this is Hange Zoe, the nerdiest of them all. Obsessed with words. Recently obsessed with science fiction. They’re always reading or writing, and once they start on something, their butt doesn’t leave the chair.”

Levi’s eyes flitted around the apartment—it was relatively tidy, with a couple of framed photos and artworks. A blanket on the couch made it homely enough. His inspection didn’t miss Hange’s notice.

“Like what you see?”

“It’s neat,” he replied.

“That’s a compliment!” Hange took care to disclose this to their two friends.

“All your previous partners don’t take off their shoes, Hange. I hope he isn’t one of those.” Pieck said, using their crutch to relocate Hange’s haphazard shoes to a corner, flipping them the right side up. Levi liked her already.

“That’s gross,” Levi said apathetically, wiping away the horrifying image of dirt-smeared carpets and tiles creeping into his consciousness.

“He’s very clean, don’t worry,” Hange said easily. “Some might even say it’s his obsession.”

“I’m the cleaner at the university.” Onyankopon and Pieck turned towards Hange with patented disapproval.

“Levi, you know that’s not what I meant.”

“I think we’ll make good friends,” Pieck said, bemused.

Hange beamed at Levi. “You’ll love Pieck! She’s really quiet most of the time, just like you. Not to mention she pretends that she hates me. Just like you.”

“Good to know,” Levi said, enjoying the banter a bit too much.

“Hange says she’s going to get you to draw me, as a titan,” Pieck said, evidently sceptical.

“What’s a titan?”

“The giant, naked people I told you about, Levi! They’re called titans!”

“Why are they called titans?”

Hange landed on the sofa with a plop, patting the seat beside them for Levi to sit. “In Greek mythology, titans are immortal giant gods who were banished to the underground.”

Levi, who had little knowledge of Greek mythology, made a mental note to search for references online.

“Therefore, the titans are kind of like vengeful giant gods from the underground who have come to earth to wreak havoc on what the gods have built, which is human civilisation, basically.”

“Basically, I am wonderful enough to be titan-material,” Pieck drawled, propping their crutch at the side of the couch, sliding onto the cushions.

“A special titan that walks on all fours! Um, that’s the plan for now,” Hange said brightly.

Onyankopon, who had been content with listening, clapped his hands together in sudden realisation. “Hange, now that you’re finally home, you can take a shower.”

“I should, right?” Hange scratched their head, feeling the slickness of unwashed neglect.

Levi crinkled his nose as Hange reluctantly made their way to the bathroom. “That’s disgusting.”

“And here you are, still.” Pieck’s amiable statement prickled at his skin like a light warning before impending exposure.

“Hange must really want to make a good impression if they’re showering now,” Onyankopon said, chuckling to himself.

“It’s good to finally meet you.” Onyankopon pushed a newly made cup of tea towards Levi, with the steady confidence that could only come from having known prior that it was the beverage that Levi would desire. “Make yourself at home.”

Levi said his thanks, to the hospitality of two people he scarcely knew, and to Hange, who likely told them about the tea.

Cold water blasted them in the face, as Hange became cognizant of the necessity of showering more regularly. It wasn’t like they thrived in the dirt. Hypothetically, showering wasn’t that troublesome. The shower kept forgetting itself until it was three days later and Hange stank with regret and mild self-loathing. Still, the shower felt good, giving them new clarity about the fact that they had invited Levi into their inner social circle. How would he fare? Would he be uncomfortable? Hange massaged shampoo into their hair, recalling their conversation with Pieck and Onyankopon.

After much elaboration on adapting to a new university, their visits to an amazing bakery, and the fostering of daily encounters with new friends, Pieck had caught on that every other sentence from Hange contained a sliver of Levi-sized anecdotes. The new university was so much bigger than the one Pieck, Onyankopon, and Hange had attended together; it stretched endlessly, and Hange estimated that Levi would have walked 393700.7874 steps to clean just the faculty building. The bakery near the university was fragrant, its selection marvellous, and choosing a new bread for Levi every day was a tremendously delightful task. Moreover, Hange had met so many unique characters since getting to know the people in their faculty, people like Levi whose abhorrence for social etiquette was admirable, and with whom she was eager to share their mornings and lunches. Together with Erwin, of course.

Pieck let out a tinkle of a laugh at Hange’s obliviousness. “Why are you friends with Levi?”

Thinking hard, Hange answered, “I don’t know if he thinks of us as friends.”

“Well, friendship status aside, how’s he like?”

“He’s kind. He doesn’t sound like it, but he’s kind.”

“That’s nice. How’s he kind?”

Confusion coloured Hange’s usual confidence. “Hmm. It’s gut-feeling, I guess.”

“That’s unlike you, to rely solely on instincts,” Onyankopon said, stroking his chin. Hange was a person with an abundance of rationale, a reason for everything, with justification for any ideas. Their reasoning this time fell flat.

Pieck prodded on. “You said that he doesn’t sound kind. Then what does he sound like?”

“Grumpy, sarcastic, serious. He looks like he’s annoyed with everyone. Most people find him scary, I suppose? It’s like he wants people to think he’s an asshole.”

Pieck perked up. “Oh, so you’ve become enamoured with broody, misunderstood people who’re rough around the edges?”

“Pieck, come on, I’m not writing my own romantic trope! I don’t know… he’s a good person. I can tell. He doesn’t say much though.”

“You’re a mind-reader now?”

Hange ignored her. “His art… it’s so evocative. Melancholic. Hopeful. Angry.”

“What was the artwork you last saw of his?”

“A cat,” Hange said immediately.

Onyankopon brought Hange back to reality. “What about him? What do you like about him? Not his art.”

Hange pursed their lips. “Do good people need to prove themselves to show that they’re good?”

“There could be reasons as to why you’re so adamant about his golden character,” Onyankopon said.

“He’s reliable. And his shit jokes aren’t so bad once you get used to it.” Hange surprised themselves with that comment—Levi’s relentless toilet humour was infecting their brain. The corrosive force of the word “shitty” had already moulded itself permanently into their vocabulary.

Gazing up at the ceiling, Hange bent their arms behind their head. “It’s hard to find people to truly get along with.”

Onyankopon and Pieck shared a knowing look.

With their eyes trained to the white ceiling plaster, Hange mumbled on, “it would be nice if he’d talk more openly about what he’s feeling. It’s all guesswork and I’m afraid I’m constantly reading him wrong.”

“Maybe you should take your own advice…” Onyankopon said gently.

“But I do talk about my feelings!”

“Monologuing in your room and reposting vague lines of poetry and sending us memes to cope with your avoidance is not the same as talking about your feelings,” Pieck said, spending the subsequently long moment of silence to snip off a yellowed leaf from the potted Monstera deliciosa next to the kitchen counter.

“Wow.” Hange, for once, had nothing to muster.

Onyankopon’s approach was less incisive than Pieck’s. “You know, I don’t think you need a reason to be friends with someone. If he’s making you happy, I think it’s a good sign.”

“Thanks, Onyankopon,” Hange said gratefully.

“But Pieck’s right about you being deliberately evasive with your own emotions. Introspection shouldn’t be so strenuous, right? Don’t you write about your characters’ internal turmoil often?”

“It’s different when you’re reflecting for yourself,” Hange contended.

“We’ll see how Levi’s like anyway, when we meet him,” Pieck said, grabbing the scissors, going towards another deadened leaf.

“Don’t bully him!”

Another snip. Another leaf fell. “Isn’t he supposed to be scary?”

Hange smiled wryly. “But you two are scarier.”

[romantichopelessly]

Happy Halloween!! This Halloween I planned to get out a Halloween fic on time, but alas school is school and my power is still out from a hurricane. However!! To thank everyone for being patient even though I promised a Halloween fic, I am posting a sneak peak! (Also to prove that I actually am working on it and not just scamming you). This is not the final version, as I usually finish a fic rough draft before fully editing, but here is the first scene as it is now!

Working Title: Dark Matter (And How You Matter to Me)

Bright fall leaves littered the cracked sidewalk as Logan made his way home from work. The satisfying crunch of them underneath his loafers was something that he likely would not admit to enjoying as much as he did. Past the buildings lining the city street, a soft orange hue was beginning to light up the dark October sky, encapsulating what most would see as the perfect autumn morning.

Logan glanced down at his watch. 6:53 A.M. He picked up his pace. The stop at the early morning coffee shop had been on a whim, and though the warmth that the cup of earl gray radiated into the chilled skin of his palm was welcome, Logan did not want to end up regretting the indulgence by arriving at his apartment after sunrise.

An early morning breeze stirred Logan’s scarf and nipped at his nose with a bite that would cause most to shudder and hunch back into their coat. Logan, however, maintained perfect posture as he rounded the corner of the block with purpose, the door to the apartment complex that he lived in now in sight.

Long fingers fished in his pocket for a moment before hooking through his keyring. The black fuzzy keychain that his roommate had gifted him brushed against his palm as he climbed the concrete steps and opened the door, anticipating the way that it stuck, just as it had every morning for the past year and a half.

Logan stepped inside, an unvocalized sigh of relief smothered in his chest. Behind him, the door fell shut, locking out the cold breeze and rising sun.

Logan picked his way across the lobby, keys still in hand. He paused for a moment at the mailboxes, glancing over boxes 221A and 221B. Nothing. He hummed softly to himself and continued up to his apartment.

His keys turned with a satisfying click in the lock and Logan finally let himself breathe, a habit of relief more than a need.

A deep inhale. In the nose. Out the mouth.

Was that tomato soup that he smelled?

Thirst burned at the back of Logan’s throat. He swallowed it down as he toed off his shoes and deposited his keys in the bowl by the front door, the jingle alerting anyone listening to his whereabouts.

“L?”

Which, of course, was exactly what Logan wanted. An artificial warmth bloomed in Logan’s chest.

“Virgil.” Logan called back, an inexplicable smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. Padding down the hallway, Logan rounded the corner to the community room to see his roommate curled up on the far corner of the couch--a position that Logan had found Virgil in more times than he could possibly count.

Though he supposed that he would have to count them had he been asked.

“Hey.” Virgil’s voice was gruff as it always was. His legs were curled beneath him, cushioning his laptop on his lap, and his hands were curled around a mug of something deep red. Likely the soup that Logan had smelled when he entered. It reminded Logan of the cup of tea that he was still holding. He turned and headed for the connected kitchen for his add-ins before he could drink it. “How was work?” Virgil called after him.

“Satisfactory.” Logan replied, depositing his earl gray on the counter before opening the fridge. “There were not many visitors at the planetarium tonight. Just the usual couples.” Logan wrapped his fingers around the jam jar that he was searching for. He pulled the top off of the to-go cup with one hand and rooted around in the drawer for a spoon with the other. He shoveled two or three (most definitely three) spoonfuls of the red gelled substance into his tea and stirred it quickly before closing the cup and jar both and finally turning to fully face his roommate.

“That’s good.” Virgil watched him with pensive eyes, eyes that made Logan’s mind do funny things, like imagine that Virgil’s look was a bit more fond than it really was. Logan crossed the room again and sat on the middle cushion of the couch, taking a slow sip of his tea. Virgil immediately stretched out his legs and nestled them underneath Logan’s thighs.

“What about you? How was your day?”

Virgil shrugged with a single shoulder. “Same old, same old. Do a bit of work, read a ton of emails, get bored and listen to music and stare at the ceiling on the company dime.”

“You are self employed, Virgil.” Logan felt the need to point out.

Virgil shrugged again, this time with a coy smile on his face. “What can I say? I’m a tough boss. Sometimes you just have to stick it to the man. And by the man, I mean me. And by you, I also mean me.”

Logan watched, emotions that he could not name despite all of his years welling in his chest as Virgil leaned forward and took a long sip from his mug of soup. To suppress the sudden insatiable urge to say something stupid, Logan took a long sip of his own drink.

Despite the emotions rolling and bubbling within Logan, the silence that followed was not uncomfortable. Rather, the quiet felt full, in a way. Virgil’s feet wiggled underneath Logan’s thigh, searching for a warmth that Logan wished he could provide more of. Virgil let out a quiet sigh as he leaned back against the corner of the couch that he was nestled into. Logan let the coppery twinged tea in his throat warm him for a moment, as the stresses of the day rolled off of his shoulders and evaporated, as they were wont to do when Virgil was around.

“Want to watch some Cosmos?”

Logan perked up, a slight smile on his lips. Not so wide that he would show his fangs, which had, of course, descended due to his thirst, but a small quirk that never could be pulled back in Virgil’s presence. “I’d love nothing more.”

[halfabreath]

Always Halfway to Go, Part II

from the Holsom water aerobics AU. Part I. Read it on Ao3. 

Everything was not fine.

They get through practices easily enough to both their surprise. It’s early in the preseason so practices are focused on building team unity and assessing skill, not one-on-one coach/player development, and Adam can’t decide if he’s excited or nervous for that day to come with Justin. One the one hand, it’s awkward. It’s weird and strange and neither of them really knows what to do about it, but on the other hand...Justin is an incredible athlete. He can play right and left equally well, he tracks the puck and pursues scoring opportunities even in scrimmages. His previous defense partner graduated last spring but he’s still first line material, even if they haven’t secured his partner for this season yet. Adam’s not sure why they haven’t assigned Pointdexter or Nurse to him yet, but Murray is inexplicably set on keeping those two together.

One night, hours into watching last season’s tape, Adam has a frightening thought: What would he have done if he hadn’t been drafted? Would he have come to Samwell anyway? Would they be partners? Would they even be friends? Would they be more? The questions are overwhelming enough, but the impossible scenarios racing through his mind are enough to make him pop a vicodin and flop into bed with only a mound of pillows for company.

Adam has to get over this crush. He tells himself that before every practice, after every practice, when he’s alone in his apartment doing his stretches. He mumbles it under his breath as he carefully steps into the pool a week later, only stopping when he wades over to where Linda, Diane, Beth, and Tabitha are gathered before class.

“Ladies,” He croons, pointing finger guns at Tabitha. They laugh and wave him off, amused by his antics, and he settles in and begins stretching his arms. “How’s it going, Beth?” He asks, trying not to notice Linda's ever-watchful gaze.

Beth flicks water at him playfully. “I saw you talking to our fearless leader after class.” She says, leaning in to whisper conspiratorially. It’s dramatic and usually Adam would eat it up because he loves gossip just as much as she does, but he just shrugs off her question and looks down at the water.

“Oh, yeah, he was helping me get to the bench. Remember when walking was easy?” He jokes, and for a minute it seems like she’s going to drop it (old people love talking about when they weren’t old, he’s discovered) but she presses on.

“Oh, I remember, but I’m not sure how getting his phone number helped you walk.” Beth glances at Justin, who’s currently stretching by the kickboard stand, but her mischievous smile vanishes the moment she looks back at Adam.  “Oh, I’m sorry, honey.” She places a comforting hand on his forearm and Adam winces, knowing his face must be doing that stupid wistful look he falls into nowadays.

He pats the back of her hand, turning to face her fully. “Don’t worry, Beth. It’s just a weird situation. I - ” Adam looks up at Justin, then back down at the clear water. The pink scar on his knee, usually straight as an arrow, dances as it refracts beneath the surface. “It's not going to work out,” Adam says, and Beth squeezes his arm silently.

There’s clapping and an echo-y greeting and then Justin’s starting class. The next thing Adam knows he's waving his arms and making waves with a bunch of septuagenarians. He looks ridiculous and his knee doesn't feel much better than it did last week but he's been told by every doctor and physical therapist he's seen that progress will feel glacial. He feels like a glacier himself when he exits the pool after class, wet and freezing and walking across the slippery tile at the speed of a mile per century. Just when he thinks he's going to have to sit down and scoot over to the bench on his ass there's a warm presence at his side. Before he can protest Justin has a steadying arm around his back and a hand under his arm.

"Thanks," He mumbles, gaze trained on the floor, as if knowing exactly which tile he's on will help him keep his balance. He uses the same technique in the shower and it’s worked so far.

Justin tightens his grip on Adam’s arm. “I wasn’t sure if you were going to come today.” He says quietly, and Adam hates that he’s the reason Justin is so unsure. They take another step forward, somehow already in sync.

“I didn’t either until this morning.” Adam says truthfully. He hadn’t even set an alarm to wake up in time, but something had forced him out of bed. Justin smiles and Adam realizes, oh, that’s what.

“I’m glad you did. It’s like - you’re my coach, right? But here I’m kind of your coach so it feels more equal.” Justin raises his shoulder in a little shrug.

Adam can’t stomp down the burst of incredulous laughter that bursts from his throat. “Equal? You think me flopping around in the water is the same as watching you skate?” He doesn’t have words for how incredible Justin looks on the ice but he has a few choice ones for the mental picture he has of himself in the water.

Justin laughs and pats his side, and Adam's suddenly aware that he's still shirtless and soaking wet. “Well, you’re a very good flopper. Excellent form on your k-treads.” There's a smile in his voice but he also sounds genuine, as if he thinks Adam really is improving even though Adam couldn't agree less.

“Yeah, but I’m bad at every supine you throw at me.” Adam sighs, remembering how awkward he'd felt as he'd tried to maneuver himself into the position. It's been months since the accident but he still forgets that his body is going to fail him.

“You know, if you need any extra help with technique…” Justin trails off, and hope sparks in Adam’s chest for one perfect second before he carefully extinguishes it. He’s about to shake his head and explain why he can’t even if he wants when Justin continues. “You can ask Tabitha. She’s my best student.” Justin finishes his sentence just as they arrive at the bench, and Adam eases himself down carefully. He laughs, half in relief at arriving safely and half from the chirp.

“That’s cold, dude.” Adam says, leaning against the backrest as he begins to dry himself off in quick strokes. Justin watches him for a half second before looking around the room, checking over both shoulders before sitting down next to Adam. His knee presses into Adam's thigh, all light pressure and sudden warmth.

Justin sits in silence, hesitating for a long moment before speaking. “Hey, can I ask you something?”

Adam stills his hands, letting the towel fall to his lap so he can turn to face Justin head on. “Sure. What’s up?” He tries to keep his voice light despite the small ball of dread that's formed in the pit of his stomach. Maybe Justin's going to tell him he shouldn't come to aerobics anymore - maybe he's going to ask if Adam will tell Hall and Murray how inappropriate he'd been - maybe he's going to ask Adam to resign and --

Justin's voice halts his increasingly panicked thoughts. “Can we like, be friends? Here, at least? You’re my coach and I’ll listen to whatever you say at practice and during games and stuff but." He cuts himself off with a short huff, trying to find the right words. "I don’t want to stop joking around or talking with you when it’s just us. Or would that violate the Coach Honor Code?” Justin's brows are downturned in worry but there's a small smile on his lips, and he looks so hopeful Adam's immediate instinct to turn him down is halted in its tracks. Adam's at a crossroad. If he says yes, he'll get too close. If he says no, he'll be alienating himself from the one person at Samwell he has a connection with. Justin's waiting patiently for his answer, face steady even as his hands pick at the hem of his shorts nervously, and it's the small, vulnerable motion of his fingers that makes Adam's decision for him.

“You know," Adam begins slowly. "No one mentioned that during the swearing-in ceremony of the International Society of Collegiate Ice Hockey Coaches, so...Yeah. Let’s do it.” Justin's beaming, and Adam can't regret his decision. He'll be careful.

Adam’s sitting in his first class of undergrad at the ripe old age of 23 and he’s surrounded by infants. Samwell is a liberal arts college so he knew he’d be in some core curriculum classes with other freshmen but he hadn’t expected how fucking ancient he’d feel. The beard definitely doesn’t help, he thinks, scratching along his jaw awkwardly. The stares he’s getting just might be the catalyst he needs to shave it.

He slumps in his seat, trying to look less massive in the sea of tiny babies he’s found himself in. Adam seriously considers leaving but the seats next to him had filled up far before the rest of the lecture hall. He’s encircled by fresh-faced eighteen year olds who keep asking him for pencils and checking if they’re in the right room. He’s trapped, surrounded on all sides, and if one more freshman laughs and places a hand on his arm he thinks he’s going to snap. Just when he’s planned the perfect escape route three familiar faces walk in.

It’s the freshmen defense: Chow, Nurse, and Pointdexter.

It makes sense that they’re here - all four of them are starting at the same time and have the exact same schedule constraints with games and practices. The more he thinks about it the more obvious it becomes, and it’s weird. It’s so weird. He’s worked so hard to keep a healthy distance between himself and the team - between himself and Justin - and now it all seems so futile. Maybe he could - would it be so bad if - it just might be possible for them to -

His circling thoughts are interrupted by a sudden flurry of movement in front of him. Chow, Nurse, and Pointdexter have spotted him and they’re settled into seats directly below him. Chow opens his mouth to speak but the professor saunters in and begins class before he can say anything. The professor begins to talk about attendance and expectations and Adam tries to pay attention, he does, but every expectation and boundary he'd constructed has knotted up inside him, tangled and heavy as it sits in the pit of his stomach. He can hear Nurse and Pointdexter whisper-fighting throughout class and every now and again Chow looks back at him like he’s checking to make sure Adam’s really there.

Adam’s there, all right. He’s pinned in by youths and Frogs and he doesn't know how to feel about any of it.

The rest of class passes in a long, awkward blur. He hears something about due dates and plagiarism and gender neutral language but Adam can't concentrate on any of it, too busy trying to determine exactly where to draw the lines between being a coach and classmate and friend and more without becoming the weird old guy who's hanging out with teenagers.

He's drawn from his thoughts by the sudden movements of everyone around him standing up and shuffling out. Class has ended, and he hadn't even noticed. He's just shoved the syllabus into his bag when Nurse stands and turns around, looking relaxed even in the chaos of a hundred-odd people flooding out of the room.

"Hey, C and Dex and I are going to get coffee and chill on the beach before practice." Nurse pauses, expecting an answer, but Adam stays silent. "You could like, come with us if you wanted." He continues, steady gaze falling directly on Adam's face. It's unnerving, being the sole focus of someone's attention outside of the rink. When he's there he can hide behind drills and the literal barrier between himself and the players, since he doesn't get on the ice with them, but now it's him and the freshmen. He looks between them, wondering if he should go. They're five years his junior but apparently his peers but there's still the strangeness of being their coach and if he's willing to be their friend then he can be Justin's friend and that leads to being more than friends and he's gone over why that's not possible too many times to count so Adam just shakes his head, halting the increasingly panicked flow of thoughts.

"Thanks, Nurse, but I'll see you at practice." Nurse nods, accepting the dismissal easily but Chow visibly deflates. Adam's stomach twists when the goaltender gives him a little wave and heads out of the lecture hall, Nurse and Pointdexter close behind him. As he slings his backpack over his shoulder he realizes he's not only uncomfortable; he's disappointed. He wants to hang out with them. Awkward as it may be, he wants to consider them friends - all of them, the entire team. He'd thought that the draw he felt towards Justin was a one-off, a moment of weakness that's dragged on far too long, but he's getting too close to the entire team to avoid the slippery slope of familiarity. If he becomes their friend, he'll be tempted to get closer to Justin when he's already promised that he won't.

Adam sighs and makes his way out of the lecture hall, taking his time on the steps. He has to stop and reset his position before every step, too cautious to place his full weight on his bad knee. Forward, pause, forward, pause. The halting rhythm is all too familiar these days.

In all honesty, Adam can't tell if he just had one of the best or worst Friday nights of his life. He'd had fun, but the objective fact is that spending the evening with a sixty three year old woman in a library because he doesn't really know anyone else in Samwell other than the players he's coaching sounds absolutely pathetic. Still, hanging out with Beth during her late shift had been a good time. He just has to come to terms with the fact that his closest friend is an elderly librarian he met in water aerobics.

Adam's been out of Founder's for all of thirty seconds when he hears the shouting and laughter of familiar voices across the quad, and before he can stop himself he’s walking past the Well to investigate. When he gets closer he’s greeted by the sight of the Samwell Men’s Hockey team parading four mostly-naked men by the pond. He's content to let them walk past and continue their - what did they call it? Hazeapalooza? - when Knight, who's leading the procession, stops suddenly. He turns in one sharp motion and points directly at Adam. He can feel the weight of each gaze drop on him as each team member looks over in quick succession, but before he can try to get away the team crowds around him.

"Hey, boys." He begins, a little worried by the intense look Knight's directing towards him. The team is eerily silent.

Knight's mustache twitches as he looks Adam up and down. "Were you just in the library? Studying?" He asks slowly. Adam's tempted to lie, but he's standing in the quad directly in front of the library, the only building open this time of night. It's either that or pretend like he just walks through campus alone in the dark.

"Yes? Why do you ask?" Adam looks at the team, hoping one of them will help him out, but they're all looking to Knight.

"Right, right, right, right, right, I forgot, you're a student." The glint in Knight's eye makes him distinctly uncomfortable. Objectively, he knows he doesn't have anything to be ashamed. Samwell offered him the opportunity to take classes while he coached and Hall and Murray hadn't ever seemed worried about his class schedule. He hasn't done anything wrong. Knowing it doesn't ease the churning in his stomach.

He takes a step back, feeling trapped by the circle of hockey playes around him. He's bigger than them but they have the distinct advantage of numbers and full physical ability. Adam swallows. "Uh, technically." He admits.

“Yeah, he’s in our seminar!” Chow, blindfolded and almost naked, adds, and Knight's eyes light up. Adam groans, knowing that light doesn't bode well for him. Knight cackles in unabashed glee.

"Technically...You're a freshman." He continues, speaking slowly as his intentions become clearer and clearer. Adam doesn’t like the turn things are taking one bit. 

Adam sighs, looking up at the dark sky, hoping he'll find some reservoir of patience he's buried deep. "I guess that's right."

"Which means you're a Frog." Knight points at him accusingly.

"No." Adam says firmly. "You have to be on the team to be a frog." Knight just takes another step forward, reaching out to place both hands on Adam's shoulders. Adam's not entirely sure why he's wearing sunglasses when it's already dark out; he can barely make out his own frowning reflection in the dark lenses.

Knight looks up at him for a long moment before nodding his head in one decisive burst of movement. "Yeah, you’re definitely a frog. We got another one!" Knight throws his hands in the air triumphantly as the team cheers, and Adam turns to Justin for help.

"He wants to initiate you." Justin explains. His sunglasses are resting on his forehead so Adam can at least see his eyes.

Adam shakes his head, holding up his hands. "Oh, I don't think that's appropri - " He sputters, but Knight refuses to drop it. He goes up on his toes to wind an arm around Adam's shoulders, bridging the height gap between them through sheer force of will.

"Fuck propriety! You're one of us, dude!" He yells directly into Adam's ear. Adam winces and leans away but Knight's holding on tight. He looks to Justin again, hoping he'll have some way to get him out of this, but Justin just shrugs and gestures to the team.

They’re all looking at him, and it’s clear that they want him to come. Even without the weirdness of being their coach, Adam’s hesitant to accept for another reason. They don’t actually want him, Adam Birkholtz, to come. They want Holtz, #4 for the Seattle Schooners and professional hockey player, to come. It feels disingenuous for him to accept when they won’t even get what they expect. Still...Chow somehow manages to look excited even when he’s blindfolded, and Bittle’s looking up at him with wide, hopeful eyes. Even Jack is smiling, and when he glances over at Justin, who’s worrying his bottom lip, he can’t say no. He wants to be a part of this, even if he's told himself time and time again that it's not a good idea.

"I can't formally be a part of this, but...I did park my car by Faber, and if you're heading that way..." He trails off, unable to keep from giving in. The team cheers and they immediately set off, traipsing past the commons, through the North Quad until they reach Faber. Larissa unlocks the doors and the team storms in, running through the halls as they whoop and yell. Adam walks behind them, wondering how long he'll have to stick around before everyone else realizes just how strange it is that he's there. No one seems to notice as they weave through the building until they reach the rink itself.

The cool air drapes over Adam's shoulders when he pauses just before stepping onto the ice. He holds onto the boards with a white-knuckled grip, trying to work up the nerve to step off the rubber pads. Justin turns back, somehow already attuned to Adam’s every mood, looking back at him with concern.

“You good, dude?” Justin asks, making his way back to stand across from him.

Adam nods, an automatic reaction. “Yeah, it’s just. It’s been a while.” Three months and four days, to be exact. Justin hums, a low, throaty sound, and leans against the boards.

"You haven't been on the ice since it happened?" Justin asks softly. Adam shakes his head. His only solace is that Justin has seen him in far more embarrassing positions during water aerobics. Adam can feel Justin's gaze on the back of his hand but he doesn't dare let go of the boards. He's not even on the ice yet and he's nervous.

"You can make it," Justin says suddenly. When Adam looks up his eyes are intense but earnest; he really believes what he's saying. "I mean it. You haven't fallen once after aerobics class and it's less slippery out here than it is by the pool." Adam stares at him, considering, and Justin meets his gaze.

Adam has imagined this moment too many times to count, and he never, not once, considered that his return to the ice would be during the initiation of a team he's not even on when he isn’t even fully healed. He’d always skipped the recovery in his head, even though he objectively knows he’d have to do months of skating to get back into NHL shape. When he was in the hospital, or moping at home post-op, or when his physical therapist bent his leg into the most painful position possible, Adam always imagined stepping onto home ice in Seattle, the crowd screaming as he joined his teammates in a pre-game warmup. He’s supposed to be in a Schooner’s uniform and skates, not a faded Dunder Mifflin t-shirt and sneakers thousands of miles away from home ice.

The rest of the team hasn’t noticed his hesitance, yet, focused as they are on guiding their freshmen and captain to center ice and setting up the coolers of beer and fucking fire cones, apparently? Justin is watching and waiting, though, and Adam can’t distract him from bonding with his team, so he takes in a deep breath and steps onto the ice for the first time since that horrible day in June.

It’s really not that bad. The conditioned air is cool in his lungs and Justin’s gaze is heavy on him, but he has enough traction and caution to take a few steps, and then a few more, until he’s walking by Justin to join the team on center ice.

“You coming?” He ask when he moves past, and Justin’s soft laugh is enough to give him the confidence to keep walking, slowly but surely, until he’s joined the crowd. It’s strange how normal it feels to stand among them, and despite the divide he’s been so aware of, he realizes that there’s actually space for him here. Larissa hands him a beer while O'Meara and Wicks include him in their pre and post fist bump conversation, and Adam thinks he just might get away with this when Knight appears right beside him.

“C’mon, brah, I can’t make you strip because of professionalism or whatever, but you’ve gotta kneel if you’re being initiated.” Knight says. He places his hands on Adam's shoulders, trying to push him towards the Frogs who are already kneeling on the ice.

Adam shakes his head and stands his ground "I really can't - " Knight has enough sense not to try to shove him but he cuts him off nevertheless.

“No! No more of that, dude, you’re a part of this now!” Adam can't really argue with that. He's here for better or for worse. He turns around and Knight's suddenly right there, in his space, and Adam defaults to the truth.

“I mean I can’t, as in physically can’t.” He explains, and Knight immediately flushes in embarrassment.

“I fucked up, man, I’m sorry. I can’t believe I didn’t take accessibility into account, that’s on me.” He pulls off his sunglasses, voice low and serious for the first time all evening. He claps a hand on Adam's shoulder, giving the muscle a firm squeeze. It's oddly comforting coming from a man wearing only hockey pants and a mustache straight out of a 1970's porno.

Adam shrugs. “Nah, you didn’t know, I’ll be fine.” It's impossible to know who on the team knows the full extent of his injury. It was announced when he retired but he's not sure if anyone on the team read the press release. No one ever brings up his injury.

“No, we have to have your back. Rans! Get over here!” Justin hadn't gone far and is back at Adam's side in a flash. He immediately feels more at ease. Knight places his other hand on Justin's shoulder and addresses him seriously. “You are hereby charged with the sacred god damn duty of keeping this man safe. Do you accept?” He asks.

Justin's biting his lip to keep from laughing but he manages to nod gravely. “I accept.”

Knight whoops, the sound immediately echoing around the rink. “Fuck yeah. Let’s get this fucking thing started.” He slaps them both on the back before running back over to the initiates to begin the proceedings.

Bittle sidles up to him when Justin gets distracted by the frogs bickering. The forward’s shoulders are slumped as he looks down at the tupperware he’s holding. “I can’t believe Shitty won’t let me give them just one lil’ sweater! I was freezing during this part.”

“I don’t have much experience with Samwell traditions, but I don’t think there are pies in hazing.” Adam says, hands Justin the beer Larissa had given him as he speaks. Justin takes it seamlessly, almost as if he'd been expecting it.

“Maybe not, but…” Bittle trails off, looking up at him with a calculating expression. “It would make me feel a whole lot better if just one of the frogs got some pie.” He sways, rocking up to his toes. “And Shitty said you’re a frog.” He continues, looking far too pleased with himself.

“He said that, but that doesn’t make it true.” Adam says, worried by the glint in his eye. Bittle might crumple into a ball at the first sign of physicality but now he's advancing on Adam with a steely determination. Adam might be taller and broader but he has a sinking suspicion he's not going to get out of this unscathed.

“But you’re a freshman, and I’m a sophomore, which means I get to make you do whatever I want because I’m hazing you! You’re being hazed, Coach Birkholtz!” Bittle attempts something akin to an evil laugh, but it's more endearing than frightening. Adam crosses his arms and looks down at him, one eyebrow raised.

“You know, calling me coach really takes the wind out of the sails of your sophomore authority.” He points out. Bittle frowns and draws the stack of tupperware and sweaters close to his chest.

“You’re being hazed, Holtz!” Bittle tries, sounding triumphant until he looks up at Adam. His face falls, and Adam realizes he must be doing that wistful thing again. “I’m sorry, did I get it wrong? Ransom always called you that when he watched your games.” Justin’s currently shotgunning the beer three feet away from them but he sputters when Bittle drops that piece of information, white foam dripping down his chin and throat. Adam coughs and looks down at the ice, trying desperately not to think about Justin watching a game just for him, maybe even wearing his jersey, and fuck, if he lets himself go down this path he'll have to lay on the ice to avoid embarrassment. Adam shakes his head forcefully, trying to knock the mounting fantasies away as Justin cleans himself off with one of the spare bandanas.

“No, that’s me. Well, that was me. It’s, uh, it’s been a while since someone called me that.” Adam looks down at the ice, raising his shoulders in a sheepish shrug. Eric Bittle is five feet and six and a half inches of Southern comfort and it feels safe to admit that he's not that guy anymore.

Bittle just nods, kind gaze trained on Adam's face. “We can call you something else." He says. "What other nicknames have you had? It feels weird to use your first name."

Adam can understand that. “Boys back in Juniors called me Birker.” He says with a wince, remembering the terrible nickname. Thankfully Bittle automatically shakes his head as Justin balks.

“Back in Toronto the boys all called me Ranser.” Justin commiserates, finally recovered from the onslaught of foam from his fumbled shotgun. Knight chooses that moment to wander by, sunglasses hanging off one ear and beer foam in his mustache.

“Oh, shit! Ransom,” He throws himself against Justin, wrapping one arm around his torso as he points to Adam with the other. “And Holster. Sick nicknames." Knight presses a sloppy kiss to Ransom's forehead, wandering off as quickly as he'd appeared. Adam barely notices him leave, too focused on the syllables echoing in his head long after the rink swallows the original sounds. Justin's staring straight at him, frozen.

Ransom and Holster. It's perfect. Something unknots in Holster's chest, some long-forgotten ball of tension he's been carrying around since he arrived at the first practice of the year. The shadowy corners of the rink seem brighter, the moonlight streaming through the windows more ethereal. Ransom's smiling and he is, too, and everything that seemed so wrong about his presence at Hazeapalooza fades away.

“Holster, you’re being hazed!” Bitty crows with joy, laughing in a way that would be maniacal if it wasn't so endearing.

“All right, all right, what horrors will you enact upon me?” Holster holds up his hands in surrender, completely at Bitty's mercy. He’s just a freshman, after all.

“You have to eat pie! So much of it! Before it gets cold.” Bitty thrusts the tupperware into his hands and opens the lid. The smell of fresh-baked pie wafts out immediately. He can tell that the crust is still perfectly crisp and flaky even though the warm pie’s been sitting in its own steam.

“Lay it on me, Bitty.” He says, and Bitty's smile grows impossibly wider. Yeah, Adam’s dreamed of returning to the ice a million times, but he never, not once, thought he’d end up eating still-warm-from-the-oven pie as he watches a mostly-naked Jack Zimmermann howl with his classmates. It’s nice to be Holster, for a little while. He's not sure how long it will last after tonight but for now, it's harmless. Most of the team won't even remember he's there, judging by the rate at which the cooler of beers empties. He watches the ceremony with the team but peels off when they decide to go back to the Haus.

"Holster!" Adam turns, body already attuned to the name. Justi - Ransom's jogging up to him, cheeks flushed. His sunglasses are hanging from the collar of his shirt and he's lost his bandanna somewhere in the chaos of initiation but he's smiling, clear and bright, and Holster can't help but grin in return. "I'm really glad you came, dude. Did you have fun?" He asks, idly rubbing his hands over his bare biceps to warm up now that they're out of the rink.

"I did. I didn't expect it, but I did." Holster says. Ransom's smile grows wider, and he holds out a fist for Holster to bump before he runs off to re-join the team. Adam feels warm as he wanders out to his car and drives home, his knuckles tingling long after he arrives at his apartment.

The first roadie is a deeply confusing experience.

Adam spends the first half of the bus ride in the front with Hall and Murray, bent over a clipboard as they determine the lineup and discuss various plays. It's only the first away game of the season so team cohesion isn't quite where it needs to be, but Adam knows that after a hard fought game and a night in a crappy hotel the team will be closer than ever. He discusses the state of the defensive line until his knee protests too much, and Hall and Murray finish up without him as he makes his way to the only open pair of seats that's tucked firmly in the middle of the bus. The team stares as he makes his way back, but the second he stretches out his leg on the seat they all seem to realize why he's ventured back there and the chatter picks up again. Justin is curled up in the row across from him, knees tucked against his chest as he devours the textbook in front of him, but before Adam can weigh the pros and cons of disturbing him Chow's head pops up from behind his head rest. Bittle's appears a moment later and he immediately gives Adam a small hand pie. It's still warm from the oven despite the fact that they've been in the bust for several hours, and Bittle just responds to his questioning look with a shrug.

"My moomaw - my grandma, that is - says that'll cure any ailment." Bittle's voice is matter of fact, as if his moomaw's advice is law. Adam nods, a little relieved that someone's actually acknowledging his injury, the huge, life altering thing that affects him every single day that no one ever wants to talk about.

"My grandma's the same way with her kneidel." Adam says. He's tried to keep the personal talk to minimum with the players, but even he can't pass up an opportunity to talk about his grandmother's cooking. Bittle's eyes light up and he immediately launches into a string of questions about the recipe, hardly stopping to breathe or to wait for Adam's answers. He's just asked about the texture for the third time when Jack cuts in.

He's seated next to Knight across the aisle from Bittle and Chow and doesn't look up from his book when he speaks. "Kneidel is another word for matzo balls, Bittle. You tried some at Passover last year." His voice is matter-of-fact but not cold, reminding but not chastising.

Shitty, who Adam had hoped was asleep, stirs in his seat. He leans against Jack, entering his space easily as he flops on top of the book. "Fuck yeah! Zimmerball soup was the tits!" 

The conversation turns to last year's Haus-wide Manischewitz-heavy celebration, but Jack just turns the page and settles in his seat. It's astonishing how he can capture the team's attention with a few words but always relinquishes it the moment he's finished.

 Adam leans his head back against the cool glass of the window and takes a bite of the hand pie. Blueberry, just like he'd mentioned at the first practice. The filling is warm and sweet and perfect and the crust gets all over his pullover and later, when he's brushing the final crumbs out of his beard in the home team's guest facilities after he's changed into his suit, he's surprised to find it may have actually worked.. He bends his knees experimentally, relieved that the muscles aren't seizing up after the long bus ride. He knows better than to put too much stock in it; there will be more ups and downs to come.

He stares at his reflection as he ties his tie, studying his own face intently. He looks better than he has in a while, but that's probably more to do with the fact he got his haircut at an actual barber shop instead of doing it himself. The navy suit he's wearing looks nondescript; he's hoping between the beard and the neutral color he won't stand out much.

The dressing room is a whirlwind of activity as the boys rush back and forth to find their gear. Jack's taping his stick with an intensity that's frankly frightening and Chow's eyeing a wayward puck warily as Knight's latest profane-laced rant carries over the general din of thirty-odd men clamoring about. He stops by Nurse and Pointdexter's booths to make sure they haven't started fighting yet (they have), swings by Bittle to give him a word of encouragement (I'm still thinking we can make a play out of that), and ends up by Justin just as he's lacing up his skates.

"Nursey and Dex still fighting?" Justin asks offhand as he ties the laces with sure movements. He looks up just as Adam's about to reply, eyes growing wide. Adam turns, concerned that something terrible is happening directly behind him, but all he sees is Ollie and Wicks taping each others shinguards. Weird, but not at all enough to warrant Justin's wide-eyed stare. When he turns Justin is looking him up and down, eyes tracing over the lines of his suit, and -- oh.

He must look better than he thought.

Adam coughs, once, and waits until Ransom's eyes are back on his face before replying. "They were, but I calmed them down."

Justin looks up at him in surprise, eyebrows almost reaching his hairline. Oh, no. He's cute. "How'd you manage that?"

"You just have to remind them why they work well together." Adam explains with a half-shrug. Justin looks dubious and glances over at the frogs, but they're both pulling on their uniforms in relative peace. "Since we've got this three man rotation going you'll be there as a buffer." Adam says as he sits down in the empty cubby beside Justin, stretching his leg out in front of him. Standing for the next three periods isn't going to be pleasant. Justin's eyes flicker down to his knee; Adam can tell he's already planning Monday's water aerobics class in his mind.

"So I have to keep them from fighting and play?" Justin asks, lips turning down in a worried frown. He's been caught between the freshman too many times to count.

Adam immediately shakes his head. "No, I'll keep them from fighting. You just play and when they see your focus, they'll be focused, too." True to Adam's word, Nurse and Pointdexter are both concentrated on the game from the first puck drop to the last buzzer. They bicker between periods but Adam's always within earshot, stepping in to diffuse any chirps that threaten to become more. He's just switched their gloves back to the rightful owner (how on earth did they manage to trade mid-game?) when Larissa appears by his elbow. She's a steady, calming presence in the chaos of the dressing room.

"Hey, Larissa, did you see where I left that whiteboard?" He asks, glancing around the immediate area. He moves a bag to the side with his foot, hoping it hasn't fallen to the floor. The manager is silent beside him, but when he turns she's gazing up at him head on.  "Larissa." Adam repeats, confused by her silence. They stare at each other, as Adam scrolls back through every interaction he's ever had with her, trying to determine what he's done wrong. Nothing's changed, they've barely even interacted one one one since -

Adam sighs, wondering if his appearance at Hazeapalooza will finally stop haunting him. He glances around the room and leans in, hoping no one will hear him. "Lardo, do you know where my whiteboard is?" Adam tries.

The change is instantaneous. She immediately turns towards him, lips turned up in a satisfied smile. "It's right by Ransom's cubby, and here," she reaches into her pocket and produces a marker. "Is your marker. Let me know if you need anything else, Holster." He takes the marker and she's gone, walking to check in with Jack with another roll of tape already in her hand. Adam doesn't have time to dwell on the interaction, confusing as it was, and he whistles for the defensemen to gather around while he goes over their plays.

One victory later Adam's laying on a lumpy hotel bed, staring up at the ceiling while HGTV plays in the background. It's either that or QVC, and the last thing Adam needs is to order a bunch of shit he doesn't need because he's trying to distract himself from the strange place he's found himself. Just when he'd thought he'd let go of Holtz for good he'd suddenly become Holster. It's not just a nickname - it never is for hockey players. It's two syllables of possibility and a giant step over the line of professionalism and worst of all, he loves it.

When he'd been hurt last June he hadn't just lost his career; Adam had, for the first time in his life, found himself without a team. Holtz had the Schooners, Birker had the Waterloo Black Hawks, and Adam has no one but Holster - Holster has Samwell Men's Hockey.

Adam closes his eyes and lets himself imagine it: living in the Haus, having his own jersey, playing with them instead of coaching them. It feels right, too right, like there's a whole life just waiting for him in some alternate universe. Adam groans and heaves himself out of bed, needing to put some distance between himself and those thoughts. He can spiral all he wants when he gets back to his apartment, but on the road he has to keep it together.

Sighing, Adam grabs the ice bucket and his key and steps out into the hall. The fluorescent lights are harsh compared to the soft glow of the television he'd become accustomed to over the last hour. He rubs his eyes as he wanders towards the ice machine, knee protesting every step. When he turns the corner he jerks in surprise, unprepared to find Murray standing in front of the ice machine in a SMH sweatshirt and mussed hair. Murray nods, a quick greeting. They stand in silence, both waiting for the churning machine to fill the bucket.

"Good work tonight, Holster." Murray says suddenly, a sly smile playing on his lips. Adam almost drops the ice bucket. Murray just laughs softly, shoulders shaking as the ice machine grumbles beneath his hands. "Yeah, I overheard Larissa's power play." He explains, releasing the button once his ice bucket is full. The machine quiets to a soft hum.

"I know it's unprofessional," Adam begins, shrugging helplessly. "They just...decided." He says lamely, not wanting to lie but unable to say that he got the nickname when he joined in at initiation. Murray just laughs again and shakes his head.

"No, I think it's fine. You're not much older than they are, after all." Adam's stomach drops as his world tilts to the side, and Murray's standing there holding a bucket of ice like he hasn't just changed everything. "It's good for you to be close to them. They look up to you, you know." Murray says. He claps a hand on Adam's shoulder as he passes by, leaving Adam by himself but not quite as alone as before.

[scouringsaucepans-blog]

Would You Just... Clean the Grill?

I am about to do something unconventional, radical, perhaps even heroic. I am about to clean the grill.

I know.

I hate cleaning the grill. I have always hated cleaning the grill. I remember childhood as one long uninterrupted stretch of wonder and joy, pretty much because I spent it never having to clean any grills.

At 15 I could be found in the kitchen of my family home, staring at the grill with tilted head, silently, like that dinosaur trying to comprehend existence in Tree of Life. Cleaning that grill must be a nightmare, I began to think. I’m glad that has nothing whatsoever to do with me.

At university I was appropriately adequate in many ways. I finished my assignments on time and washed my pots and only occasionally maxed-out my overdraft. But the grill was just not my domain. I found if I left it long enough someone else would get angry and clean it for me – and that person’s anger was always infinitely preferable to actually doing the grill myself.

But then university was over and I was living back at home, pretending I didn’t need a job because I was going to be the next Jack Kerouac, and suddenly my mother had decided the rules had changed.

She would return from work and I would hastily tab out of World of Warcraft, back to the Word document in which had been scrawled the same lousy four paragraphs for weeks, and my mother would come upstairs and ask how the writing was going, and I would squint at my lousy four paragraphs and say, Yes, good thanks, yes. And my mother would put her arm on my chair, and I wouldn’t say anything. And she would peer out of the window, and I wouldn’t say anything. And she would walk back towards the door, and my fingers would be hovering over the alt and tab keys, and she would be at the door, through it, gone – and then she would turn around, like fucking Colombo, and offhandedly ask if I would mind quickly cleaning the grill.

And I would stomp downstairs, muttering how the grill wasn’t even dirty, I hadn’t even used it, that Jack Kerouac never would have finished On the Road if he had been perpetually forced to clean grills like this, and I would get to the grill, and in fairness it would look like the back seat of the car in that scene in Pulp Fiction when John Travolta accidentally shoots Marvin in the face.

But I had meandering poetic romans-à-clef to be writing – or at least night elf druids to be levelling up – so I would do with that grill what Harvey Keitel had the mobsters do with that car in Pulp Fiction: I would gather up all the sodden old tin foil and throw it away, and then basically ensconce the grill pan and all the crumbs and congealed fat and bits of crisped bacon in new foil, so that if someone peered close the subterfuge would not hold, but from a distance any mum-cops in the area might be fooled. And then I would make cheese on toast and go back to World of Warcraft.

***

Of course now, a decade later, I’m a proper adult, which means I don’t even change the foil in the grill. I just leave it all and hope that, like hair, it will eventually start regulating itself.

Except the roguishly deprecating tone I’ve engendered here belies the truth of the situation, which is that I am miserable. My girlfriend will come in from her exhausting job as a pub manager – which job provides the flat in which we both reside – and I’ll hastily tab away from, I don’t know, a Wikipedia page detailing Captain America’s role in the 1982 Marvel comic book cross-over event Contest of Champions, say, back to the Blogger draft in which has been scrawled the same lousy four paragraphs for an eternity, and she, my girlfriend, will ask how the writing is going, and I will squint at my lousy four paragraphs and mutter, Yes, good thanks, yes.

And it’s all fucked. I don’t know what to write. If I’m not up for work or something that will let anyone but myself down then I’ll just stay in bed all day, and the flat is a tip, and I’ve got no clean socks, and I keep reading the first page of books and then throwing them aside, and there’s this weight pressing down on my chest that has been pressing down in some form or another for as long as I can remember, and it’s like everything is too heavy, I can’t lift any of it off, it’s all fucked…

And then here I am in the kitchen one day looking at all the dishes feeling the weight pressing down, and sort of slowly yet all at once it strikes me that although I can’t lift off the heavier weights, the ones about my career and my future and the apparent inexorability of my failure, there are smaller, more manageable weights that I could lift off, if I actually so desired, and one of these, perhaps the smallest, so small that it would almost be more ridiculous to not do it, is cleaning the grill.

So I am going to clean the grill.

***

And immediately I find I can breathe easier. Although, yes, only a minuscule weight, it is the first time anything has been lifted off rather than added in aeons, and it fills me with hope. Life is not so bad. You do little bits and they add up to big bits, and eventually you are free. The trick is to go slowly, and go easy on yourself. The grill today, then later I will watch Netflix, maybe have a beer, and I’ll be prepared to tackle more tomorrow.

But what will I watch on Netflix? Do they have Aliens on Netflix? I love Aliens so much. It’s not got the majesty of the original Alien, of course – what does? – but it is basically schlocky 80s B-movie as apotheosis. I tell you what, when you’re having a beer, a few beers, and watching Aliens – when those marines are running around in their bandanas, and Bill Paxton is shouting “Game over man, whoah man, we’re toast man,” and Michael Biehn is being Michael Biehn – when the alien queen detaches from her flaming egg sack – when that reveal comes of Ripley in her mech suit…

… Or is it Bill Pullman? Bill Paxton and Bill Pullman are similar, no? Is this a thing? Do people know about this?

I continue with such thoughts for about half an hour, until I realise I’ve spent all the reward from cleaning the grill but have as of yet not actually cleaned the grill, and that there is nothing left to do but go and clean the grill, and I instantly start feeling miserable again.

I motivate myself all over again, and head into the kitchen. To the cupboard where we keep the tin foil. There is no tin foil.

What the Paxton?

I swear, every time I try to drag myself out of this pit, God comes and puts some insurmountable obstacle in my way, like he doesn’t want me to succeed, like he wants me to stay suffering here forever. How are you supposed to fight against God?

No, Rob. Stop inventing deities to blame for your inability to complete basic household chores. Just go to the shop for more tin foil.

I go to the shop. Outside it is balmy, warm, wonderful, and everything feels great. I’m moving, life is happening, we can do this.

My cheeriness lasts for two and a half minutes, until I arrive at the shop and the lady points me to the wrong aisle for tin foil, and I decide the best course of action is to stand there pretending to choose from what is actually a selection of tinned goods until she disappears and I can go looking myself – except then the lady realises her mistake and comes jogging back, and I have to yell at her that It’s fine, it’s absolutely fine, I wanted butter beans anyway. Which I definitely didn’t.

Then at the counter I put my basket down before the woman in front has finished paying, and I don’t know what to do, whether to draw attention to the awkwardness by picking the basket up again, so I just hover there too close while the woman buys lottery tickets and chats to the cashier. I’m invading this chat, I think. My arms hang at my side like repugnant flippers. I can’t for the life of me remember how people are supposed to stand.

Finally, eight years later, it is my turn. I act too northern with the cashier to mask my embarrassment, but it comes off weird and I know she can tell I’m from the posh end of Sheffield, that I don’t belong here. All walk home I am distressed, gloomy. I think of others my age, struggling with promotions and babies and marriages, and here I am struggling to buy tin foil from a shop. I am wretched.

But the only thing more wretched, I decide as I return, would be to use my self-pity as an excuse to not clean the grill. I really am going to have to clean this grill.

So I get started – by planning out what I’ll do. First the dishes in the sink will need washing to make room. Which means actually first I’ll have to put the dry dishes away. I hate that this is a thing. Why don’t we just build kitchens with huge draining boards instead of cupboards, and then we could store dishes where they dry, thus removing a pointless and mundane job from existence? The same with clothes. Replace wardrobes with massive clothes horses, then we’d never again have to stress over folding t-shirts and the sides not being even and having to shake them out and try again, and finding pairs for all the socks, and staring at the wall as the light fades and the evening draws in, wondering whether it’s even worth being alive in such a bourgeois existence that apparently consists of nothing but putting possessions in drawers and then taking them out again, over and over, until death comes for us hunched and–

–Oh, that’s the dishes put away. Wasn’t so bad.

I wash the dishes in the sink. I wash the big roasting pan that we inexplicably store on top of the grill where it gets covered in dust and grease. I bet that was my girlfriend’s idea, I think. I find a better home for the roasting pan, on top of the highest cupboard where neither of us can reach.

Finally it is the grill’s turn. The old tin foil wilts in my hands. Underneath is a fatty pool of despair. I scrape out the pool with a spatula. I attack the grill pan with wire wool, green scourer, sponge. I attack the grill rack with same. I put it to dry.

I rinse out the empty wine bottles, the empty milk carton. I clean the hobs, the front of the oven, the kitchen tiles. I look around, panting. I do inside the sink, the back of the sink, wash out the cutlery tub with all the pond water in the bottom. I take out the recycling. I empty the cat’s litter tray, take the bins out, sweep the floor. I get it all done, do it all.

***

It is later. We’re watching Netflix. I tell my girlfriend I’m making a brew. I go to the kitchen, stand in the middle of the room, look around. The grill is gleaming. Everything is gleaming.

This will be easy, I think. All I have to do is apply today’s technique to every issue in my life that I’ve allowed to get on top of me over the past decade, and continue applying it every day for the rest of my life. Yes, I think. Easy.

[toomanypizzaboxes]

Story Process, Start to Finish

Or, how to write multi-chap stories and balance thematic content.

So I recently received a PM on FFnet with these questions: 

And basically, I was just wondering if you had any tips on how you do it? How do you get inside each character’s head? How do you manage to write a story that is both serious and light hearted at the same time?

And I was going to reply right away, except when I actually sat down and thought about it, I realized I’ve never put much thought into the hows of a project, just mainly focused on getting it done. I also realized that these questions have much longer answers than I was prepared for, as I’m terrible at summarizing. It’s one of my big weaknesses. So I thought, since I was going to be answering this anyway, why not make a post of it? Because of course what I need is more attention right? (lol, don’t answer that.) Okay, so let’s get started!

1) Start with a very vivid image of a complete scene.

This is the way I’ve started every single one of my fics. I usually get a lightning strike image in my head of a “fully-rendered” scene. This includes the the setting (colors, time of day, place, sounds, era), the characters involved, and even an aesthetic to an extent (cinematic, old-fashioned book, play). For example, Eyes Wide Open started with the final chapter, where Hinata and Sasuke confront each other while Hinata is wearing Itachi’s clothes. I pictured the tension that would exist between them, with Hinata being very passive usually and Sasuke being overwhelmed by how upset he was by his own petty jealousy. That scene was the springboard for everything else.

You may be thinking, “but that’s ridiculous and very lame advice, not everyone can do that/seems unhelpful!” but it’s not true. Everyone can; it’s just a matter of patience. If you wait long enough and daydream about subject matter that you want to write about, eventually your subconscious mind will do all the heavy lifting for you and puke out an owl pellet of fine content. That may be a little gross of a metaphor, but it’s all I got. Just keep mulling over the same variables you want to include and I promise the scene will come to you.

2) Think about what needs to happen for that scene to be accomplished.

So, now that you have the crux of your story, your visualized scene that will become the seed to the rest of the tale, it’s time to figure out what that seed needs in order to grow. 

A lot of people who write romance fics start with the same motivation I do: you have your main ship and you want them to kiss/enter into a relationship. However, a lot of younger/less experienced writers stop there. A kiss is easy, right? All they have to do is be in the same room and make eye-contact, duh! What I’m getting at is that a lot of younger writers do just that. They place each party in a setting where they’re together and of course, since we love them and want them to love each other, they immediately fall in love inexplicably and kiss that very same night, story done! 

There’s nothing wrong with that. If you want your ship to just kiss and be done with it, you can write that. However, not everyone wants to accept that it’s that easy, especially if one ships a crackship like sasuhina. It can be really difficult to keep people in-character and have them fall for each other instantly, and most people who’ve been reading/writing for the ship for a long time might not be interested in or satisfied with the usually-shallow setting that these love-at-first-sight romances offer. It’s just not fun. I, for one, want to suffer with my OTP as they grow and change in order for their love to take place!

So that’s what you have to focus on. Keeping with the Eyes Wide Open example…. There’s no logical reason for Sasuke and Hinata to be around each other. Sure, they were contemporaries in canon, but Sasuke barely paid attention to his own teammates, let alone people who held no bearing on his life in the slightest. So I changed the setting and the age group. Of course people in the same town who come from similar family backgrounds have a likelihood of sharing classes, so it’s not that difficult to imagine them meeting on the off-chance. Most of the big developments in Eyes Wide Open happened because of Sasuke’s and Hinata’s outside influences, who all knew each other and thus pushed them together. 

What does your ship require? What needs to change for them to be open to love/a relationship? I like writing slow burns because most realistic romances are slow burns. The involved parties rarely realize the road they’re on until it’s too late and then messy feelings get involved and all the delicious events start occurring. 

3) Saturate yourself with the canon materials, then study up on fandom materials.

“How do you get inside each character’s head?” It’s a really good question and I’m not too sure myself, but I’ll do my best to explain my method. 

Most of my stories begin on a whim because I’ve been binge watching/reading/playing something non-stop. If it’s gone on long enough, I’ve usually picked my favorite characters and naturally started shipping them. (Ah, the life of a crack-shipper!) 

When you want to write for a fandom, it’s wise to know the canon material as inside-out as possible. If it’s a movie, make sure you’ve watched it recently. If it’s a TV series, make sure you’ve seen all the episodes with important details. (I’ve skipped a lot of Naruto filler, for instance.) Surround yourself by canon knowledge and study it until you’ve got a grasp of the canon universe. Abilities, physics, politics, hierarchies, interaction, setting, etc. This is your foundation to branch out from. I once opened a Naruto fic where the author repeatedly referred to chakra as Charka, capitalized and all. It generally bodes poorly for the future content of the fic because if they didn’t even pay close attention to the canon really, how much effort are they going to put into writing for it? This is an important process for making your written piece feel close to the same level of charm/draw that the canon has.

Narrowing that down, if you want to write a character-driven piece, you need to know the characters. Treat them like they are real people that you want to be close friends with, then pay attention to everything about them. Fall in love with them. Study their motivations and personalities. What causes them to react in varying situations? What draws out certain emotions? It’s okay to use references. Make use of the well-curated wiki pages that many fandoms have. Get to know ages, heights, tastes in food. Manga are usually really rich in these smaller details, as it’s common for them to be sidebar filler.

Once I’m sure I’ve gotten a strong handle on the canon character, it’s time to dive into fanon. If I’m writing a fic, you can bet it’s because I’ve read up and down every website category for this pairing and haven’t found what I wanted. But the key is I’ve read so much fanon. Study how other authors write the characters. What aspects do they focus on? Do you like the way they portray x/y/z? A lot of people made Sasuke an overly-romantic, can-do-everything-perfectly type who referred to Hinata as “love” or “darling”. That didn’t really feel like Sasuke to me. In canon he’s a bitter snot who has a bit of an inferiority complex and he acts out by not using honorifics and being sort of casually disrespectful. He can also be incredibly lazy in his human interactions, so he wouldn’t be confrontational or talkative unless it got him something or he was provoked. A lot of people also made Hinata an overly-stuttering mess who’s just there to be pretty. Listen, it’s a real turn-off to be constantly bombarded by what Hinata is wearing to show off her “feminine curves” in “all the right places” and how slender or petite she is, how her long, milky legs are so enticing. You want your characters to be human and relatable. When Hinata is a runway model who can pull off some cool jutsu, I get bored. I’m not pretty and jutsu doesn’t exist in reality, so what else is there to connect with? What goes on in your character’s head? Their feelings, their dreams. What do their mannerisms do to illustrate those thoughts? Don’t focus on appearance unless necessary. It takes away from the emotional impact of your story.

How does fandom portray your chosen characters and what do you want to do differently? That’s your goal for characterization. 

4) Summarize each event needed to reach the conclusion.

This one’s pretty self-explanatory. It’s a method I got from an old “how to write shoujo manga” book. Separate the various plot points into their own, standalone-events, then write them on their own note cards. Write scenes you want to include for the heck of it, too, go crazy! This is your story, have fun! When you’re done, arrange them into a timeline with a build up to a climax and then a wrap-up. Boom, your story is half-written already. This really helps avoid (most) writer’s block, as well.

5) Start writing.

Go forth and write! Trust your instincts. You’ve gotten the hard parts out of the way and your foundation is strong at this point. Take your time and if you get self-conscious or confused, go ahead and reach out! Get a beta-reader, or maybe a friend to bounce ideas off of. Make sure it’s someone you trust. If you like, you can write the whole thing in a first draft before posting so you have time to go over it for plot holes/errors/etc, or if you’re impatient like me and don’t care as long as your ship reaches a romantic conclusion in a satisfying way, go ahead and post as you write. 

6) “How do you manage to write a story that is both serious and light hearted at the same time?”

My number one piece of advice for this question is this:

Ingest the kind of media you want to produce. 

I’m a huge fan of romantic comedies, but specifically the older ones from the late eighties and the nineties. Even more specifically, Nora Ephron. Nora Ephron is fantastic at creating a story that is just as implausible/fantastical as every other romance, but her characters are well fleshed-out, relatable, and funny. Her settings are a wonderful balance between the tantalizing energy of  fictionalized big cities and the quiet, intimate moments you get between friends and families within those cities. The structure she utilizes has a draw to it. It pulls you in and makes you feel like you’re experiencing it along with the characters. While many of her stories are really, truly comedies, there’s usually a sense of drama woven in with a skill I can only hope to achieve someday. I think the key for keeping a story light-hearted even while it deals with heavy subject matter is to keep the dramatic aspects lingering along the outskirts.

For example, in When Harry Met Sally, you follow along with Harry and Sally as they age over twelve years. Natural comedy is easy to write, because everyone has their own sense of humor that shines in the right circumstances. Harry and Sally clash over their opinions but in a way that makes it easy for them to get along, as well as providing witty, engaging dialogue throughout the film. Most of the content of the story evolves through their shared awkward encounters involving friends, romance, bad decisions, and other things that real people experience every day. However, the whole time there is an underlying message that is being slowly brought to the front: the stress over finding someone to love and belong with before one gets “too old” or time runs out. Small moments are placed amidst the various sequences, off-hand comments about aging, competing with more attractive people, disgust with the opposite sex but the desire to still find someone to love.

In reality, we deal with drama every day. A person living in poverty might be one paycheck away from homelessness, and while that detail weighs heavy on their mind, they won’t think about it constantly because that would be exhausting. Most of our time is spent living in the moment, thinking about the past and the present until we are forced to deal with drama. Utilize that in your writing. 

In Eyes Wide Open, the bulk of the story is spent in everyday life of going to college classes, eating out at a cafe, spending time with friends or spending time at home. That’s the light-hearted part of the story. The rest is comprised of the small details hinting at drama like Itachi’s cough building into his collapse and consequential surgery, Sasuke’s space-outs as he struggles with his anxiety and PTSD, Hinata’s background growth as she develops into her own person separate from what her family wants or what she thinks Naruto wants.

Compartmentalize the different subjects you want to tackle in your piece, then organize them in ways that make sense story-wise and feel satisfying emotionally. It takes practice and I’m not saying I’m the best by any means. You can write one-shots to practice until you feel good enough to try a multi-chap fic. 

I hope that I answered the questions sufficiently, and that this is helpful to anyone who reads. This is by no means a one-answer-fits-all process; it’s just things I’ve learned from my own experiences. If you have anymore questions or want to discuss something more in-depth, feel free to inbox me any time! I’m always available! Thanks for reading!

[flauntpage]

Let ’em Off the Hook – Observations from Celtics 108, Sixers 103

Blown lead? Check. 

Highly questionable coaching decisions? Check.

Struggles from a superstar player? Check.

Game two was an archetypal Philadelphia sporting experience, a collection of only the most bitter ingredients, pestled into slop and added to the worst mixed drink of all time. It starts smooth and then gives you a repulsive aftertaste, one that I think will probably last until Saturday night for most Sixers fans.

There’s a lot to unpack after last night, so let’s just take it one step at a time.

Why no timeout?

Twitter went off the rails during the Celtics’ 2nd quarter run, wondering why Brett Brown didn’t call time to stop the bleeding.

Brown explained post game that he trusted his team to stay organized. He’d “do it again,” if the same situation came up.

Here’s the full quote:

“I trust my players that they have shown that they can hold on to stuff, that they can stay organized. And they’ve shown that over the past third of the season. As we study this – and it’s easy for us to say, ‘oh shoot, they went on that run, do you burn a timeout?’ When we study it and we discuss it on the bench, we wanna have – I wish I had more (timeouts) at the end of a game as well. So I feel like, when you started subbing, that we were gonna be able to hold the fort. In retrospect, we didn’t. Would a timeout have fixed it? I don’t think so. We can maybe second guess that. But by and large it’s going into the game and trying to make sure that you have enough (timeouts) at the end of the game also to manage it. You knew it was going to be a close game. The notion that we were gonna maintain a 20 point lead and walk out of the Boston Garden wasn’t on my mind. I felt like what we did to them, they were going to do to us. Runs were going to be had. When you bring Joel Embiid and JJ Redick back into the game, and you’ve got a stockpile of timeouts to use, that was my decision (not to use one). As I said, I’d do it again. I’ll go back and look at the tape and if it’s something I’ll pivot out of, I’ll share it with everybody when I see you next.”

My first reaction is that I’m not surprised. This is how Brett Brown has coached all season long. He’s said 100 times before that he’s not gonna change how his team plays or “walk the ball up the floor” to address the turnover issue, preferring to let his team figure it out on their own. It seems like that same mentality is applied when opponents go on runs, and I can understand, based on his DNA, why he coached that second quarter the way he did.

That said, he has to consider the other five guys on the floor. Whether you believe in YOUR team or not, using a timeout there can break the OTHER team’s rhythm and put a halt to the action. It’s one thing to think your squad can play their way out of it, and maybe they would have if one of those three-straight three point attempts had gone in, but they didn’t. They missed. So do the simple thing, call the timeout to slow Boston’s momentum and have a talk with your team.

Brett’s pattern has been to call timeout usually after the second or third shot a team makes to begin a run, typically when he sees a mistake on defense. It’s a “nip it in the bud” type of approach that he began to use in December and January, and I think it helped correct some of the blown lead problems they were experiencing during the first half of the season. And while he’s correct that basketball is a game of runs, he could have helped his team out by settling things down and at least breaking up the opponent’s rhythm.

It felt very similar to the London game in this regard, where the Sixers started out strong then found themselves totally lost in the moment.

Ben Simmons

One point on 0-4 shooting with 7 assists, five turnovers, and a -23 rating.

He was again ineffective due to Boston’s defensive scheme, which I’ll explain a bit later.

Brown made a shrewd decision to take Simmons out of the game in the third quarter and put in T.J. McConnell, who finished 4-4 for 8 points, adding 5 rebounds, 0 turnovers, and a ending the game at +16. McConnell showed Boston a completely different look, explored different spots on the floor, and established an offensive fluidity that had been missing since the 1st quarter.

With 5:29 remaining in the fourth, with the Sixers leading 93-91, Brown inexplicably went back to Simmons and put McConnell on the bench. His team was outscored 17-10 from that point and ultimately lost the game.

Brown’s explanation:

“I mean, It’s a tough decision, I admit it. This whole playoff experience is something I want our young guys and our star players to learn from and grow. The decision, do you go with T.J. still or come back to Ben Simmons, I’m coming back to Ben Simmons. I’m coming back to Ben. He’s had a hell of a year. I think he’s the rookie of the year. I think he’s going to have to learn how to play in these environments and I’m going back with Ben Simmons.”

I understand that.

I don’t think anyone disputes the idea that your starting rookie point guard should get as much experience as possible, especially in challenging, high stakes situations. If that’s the idea though, then Markelle Fultz should be playing in this series.

Why? Because McConnell gave the Sixers the best chance to win that game last night, and Brown claiming that Ben has to “learn how to play in these environments” is basically an admission that winning right now isn’t priority number one.

Seriously.  How else do you parse that quote? Everybody knows that Simmons should have stayed on the bench, but Brown went back to his worst player on the night with the game on the line.

You can give me some push back about Markelle Fultz not being ready for this stage or whatever, and maybe you’re right, but Fultz is the #1 draft pick. He’s available. Put him in the game. Is he going to look more lost than game two Simmons?

It’s hypocritical to bench the better player on the night (McConnell) for the future of the franchise (Simmons) while completely ignoring the guy you traded up to select #1 overall. If the Sixers feel like they’re playing with house money, and everybody is just happy to be here, which is the vibe I’m getting, then put Markelle in the game, give him this experience, and move on to next year knowing a little bit more about what you have.

I wanted to give Brett a lot of credit for sitting down Simmons, and I think we can still do that, but he completely expunged his best coaching move of the series by going back to Ben down the stretch instead of staying with T.J.

Walled off

Boston attacked Simmons the same way they did in game one, meeting him with a second defender in transition and walling him off near the free throw line.

The issue is that he’s too shallow to kick out to the perimeter but also too deep to take a shot. The Celtics are doing a nice job of trapping him in that purgatory type of area where he’s caught in two mindsets.

One of the issues is that Ben is trying to push in transition before Joel Embiid makes his way up the court. In those cases, Aron Baynes, or whomever is guarding Embiid, simply just slides to double Simmons because there’s nobody else to guard. The best option is to leave the ball for Embiid for a trailing three, but he’s not shooting well from the perimeter in this series.

Even in the half court, you see similar things. Here, Al Horford sags, Baynes is there for the pickup, and if Embiid wants to stand on the three point line, Boston will live with that all day long:

Horford also kills the entry pass to Saric there, because he essentially guards two guys at once by sagging off a non-shooter.

Simmons can’t figure it out and the Sixers staff needs to coach him through it. For what it’s worth, he put it on himself after the game:

"It was mainly what I did to myself. I think mentally, I was thinking too much."

Ben Simmons on his struggles in Game 2.#GameTime pic.twitter.com/xPgzKo7mTd

— NBA TV (@NBATV) May 4, 2018

I think the “thinking too much” concept was exemplified on the 4th quarter play where he got Aron Baynes on the switch and didn’t take him to the rack:

This is why Ben Simmons isn’t the rookie of the year. He’s incapable of scoring on One of the slowest guys in the NBA. Any elite player goes to the basket here. Donovan Mitchell is ROY. Simmons with 1 point, 3 assists and 4 TO halfway though Q3 pic.twitter.com/TVn41ukTik

— Curtis (@CJKnh) May 4, 2018

I don’t necessaril agree or disagree with “Curtis” here, I was just looking for the video on Twitter and this is what came up.

Other observations

They took JJ Redick off Jayson Tatum, starting him on Marcus Smart instead. Robert Covington picked up Tatum while Simmons was Terry Rozier’s primary defender.

Horford at the five is causing all sorts of defensive issues for Joel Embiid, who is being dragged to the perimeter and forced away from the rim.

I didn’t see a ton of tweaks to combat Boston’s perimeter pressure, but Redick and Marco Belinelli did have a couple of made shots at the rim. Belinelli I think had two successful backdoor cuts. That’s something I need to check out when I rewatch the game.

Jaylen Brown came off the bench to make his series debut. He had 13 points on 5-12 shooting. You can live with that, considering he had a pair of 30 point games against Milwaukee.

Uncontested field goals: 46.4%, 26-56. They just made more of their open shots this time around.

Amir Johnson had a clean block whistled as a foul in the 1st quarter

I’m not sure what Dario was doing on that play where Jaylen Brown picked up a loose ball near half court and finished at the other end.

16 offensive rebounds and 18 second chance points. Only 12 total turnovers. Again they did fine in auxiliary categories.

Only 14 free throw attempts, compared to 26 in game one. They did a poor job of getting to the line.

There was a late game possession, at 104-97, when the Sixers didn’t know what they were supposed to run. Saric went to screen for Redick, who looked like he wasn’t expecting it. Covinton put his arms up after the play as if to say, “what was that?”

Let ’em Off the Hook – Observations from Celtics 108, Sixers 103 published first on https://footballhighlightseurope.tumblr.com/

[honestground]

>:3 Commentary thingy: It takes just a few moments to carve a hole that’s… roughly big enough. Link discards the excess, glances around again to ensure he’s alone, then shrinks back into the shadows as far as he can. “I must be out of my mind,” he mumbles, and tugs his sirwal down just far enough to free himself.

you know what, i’m gonna do commentary for various scenes across the entire fic because i am proud of it, dammit. buckle up kids it’s gonna get weird

explicit melon-fucking and a lot of self-dragging under the cut

to start off, i got the original message (jokingly?) requesting hydromelink probably back in july. it had been sitting half-written in my drafts for months until i really decided i wanted to get it finished before the end of the year

The sky is blue, the sand is dry, and Gerudo Desert is sweltering.

After the long, arduous trek through the desert, being denied entry to Gerudo Town had been a heavy blow. Had he been hydrated enough to produce tears, Link thinks he might have cried—but as it was, he had trudged back to Kara Kara Bazaar and spent the rest of the morning lying in the shade with his shirt off, head spinning and begging the sky for rain.

It had been half boredom, half curiosity that had made him climb the ladder to the top of the bazaar, and it was there that he had found his salvation. He’d been so heat-addled that he’d forked over almost half his rupees for the getup, but the gamble had paid off; the guards hadn’t given him a second glance as he’d traipsed through the town entrance.

i actually really like this introduction. i like how it’s thorough but still concise. i’m also very pleased with the line “had he been hydrated enough to produce tears, Link thinks he might have cried”, and it’s the first instance of me trying to hint to the reader that Link is moving into the realm of heat exhaustion and just needs a fuckin drink  

[….] “This one, please,” he says, pointing.

“Ah,” the merchant says. “That one’s no good—fell off the cart this morning.” She reaches out for it. “Why don’t you—”

“No.” Link closes his hands over the melon in an inexplicable surge of protectiveness. “This one. How much?”

The Gerudo woman looks slightly taken aback at his enthusiasm. Then she says, “Sixteen rupees.”

Link frowns. “You said it was no good.”

“You want it that bad?” The merchant shrugs. “Seventeen rupees.”

i straight up love this interaction. just the merchant being like pfffft, tourist. 

[….] I need you to take me, hero.

“Take you where?”

No, hero. Take me. I’m nice and cool and wet inside. What better way to quench your thirst, hero?

i originally had some of the melon’s dialogue to be, “taste my juices, hero” but like. what the fuck, me. i can’t even tell if that’s worse anymore? maybe i should have included it. i don’t know. also this was the part where i gave up writing this all those months ago.

[….] Link huffs, resigned. In his wealth of experiences, he’s had stranger requests from stranger sources and this is hardly complex. And he’s been following instructions from a voice in his head since the day he woke up, so… fine. Whatever. He shifts the weight of the hydromelon to one hand and pulls a knife from his belt with the other. 

melon: fuck me and i’ll reward youLink, who has been following the instructions of disembodied voices and literal ghosts since he woke up from a century-long coma: sounds legit

It takes just a few moments to carve a hole that’s… roughly big enough. Link discards the excess, glances around again to ensure he’s alone, then shrinks back into the shadows as far as he can.

“I must be out of my mind,” he mumbles, and tugs his sirwal down just far enough to free himself.

“I must be out of my mind” — me during this entire writing process. 

He’s embarrassed to admit that it takes only a few quick tugs to get himself to full mast, but he supposes it has been a while.

this is so fucking funny to me holy shit. LINK WHY ARE YOU SO KEEN

[….] Okay. So maybe he isn’t hating this. Maybe the melon in his hands is roughly the shape and size of a person’s head, so maybe, if he closes his eyes and lets his mind wander, he can imagine the caress of soft lips and a warm tongue, the tightness of a throat swallowing around him, can imagine golden hair and green eyes and—

not-so-smoothly injecting some zelink in there. you know i had to do it to em

[….] This has gone beyond necessity, beyond imagining that his hips are flush against skin, something feral taken root in his body and mind that makes his pelvis snap forward so hard the rind begins to crack.

yasss boi take that melon to pound town. 

side note: i hate myself

[….] He’s getting close, thinking of a slim waist and generous hips, hair falling over one shoulder as she gets on her hands and knees, and he wonders—would she be this wet? Would she taste as sweet?

i think my soul must have left my body at this point

[….] He leans back against the wall afterwards, chest heaving, his nipples peaked under the silk of his chemise, feeling warm and liquid and pleasant until he realises exactly what he’s done.

don’t know why i so badly needed to specify his nipples were hard but?? 

He’s already softening when he withdraws, making a small puddle of fruit juice and fluids at his feet.

*ungodly screeching* 

[….] Everything around him is a haze of heat and colour, the desert sun suddenly much brighter than it was moments ago. He tries to steady himself against the wall, hand slapping uselessly against the sandstone, and as he stumbles the hydromelon slips from his grip—

—and smashes on the ground.

“No,” Link says weakly.

i honestly had no idea how to finish this fic. like what does one do after they fuck a melon? i ran through a bunch of endings, all of them with the melon going silent and Link realising that he dun goofed, before settling on the melon smashing

He crouches down and tries to piece it back together, but his previous efforts have effectively reduced the insides of the fruit to slush.

i wanna be reincarnated as this melon

side note: still hate myself

[….] “I’ll be okay,” he says, gratefully taking the bag and pressing it to the back of his neck. “Thanks for this, though. Sarqso, I mean.” 

placing ice bags on areas of the body where blood vessels are closest to the skin (i.e the neck, underarms, and groin) will provide faster relief for sufferers of heatstroke. the more u know. also it felt important to have Link speaking a little Gerudo here

The woman nods. “Take care of yourself. Heatstroke is lethal out here,” she says. “It can cause delirium—hallucinations and the like.”

Link pauses, remembering the voice. Remembering the promise of a reward. Remembering the hydromelon carcass probably currently baking in the desert sun. Trying to ignore the stickiness between his legs and the rush of hot disgust that curls in the pit of his belly. Hallucinations, he thinks. No kidding.

“Actually—” He pulls out his money bag. “How much for that elixir?”

HEATSTROKE. NOT EVEN ONCE.

thank god this is over i can’t believe i did this