#just fucking raw in your text post cramming them in

[futurechancer]

[minyoongleschimjoongles]

Windfall 1

Pairing(s): Poly!BTS X OC, Sugar Daddy! BTS X OC

Warnings: Implied sexual situations

Note: In this fic, Zara can’t speak very much Korean. Until the language barrier is closed, Bold Text indicates that a person or an app is speaking in Korean.

Masterlist

The way Seokjin tells the story, the day he and the boys met Zara was foretold for centuries. He distinctly remembers the clouds parting to reveal the shining sun, and a choir of angels singing praises to the heavens. The moment her green eyes met Namjoon’s dark ones, the world stopped spinning for a noticeable moment, then her eyes swept over the rest of them, and their fates were sealed forever.

Jin’s full of shit.

The truth of the matter is this; the sky was downpouring, the clouds inky grey above pedestrians, locals and tourists as they ran for cover into stores and under awnings. It seemed to Zara like they’d never see the sun again.

The small coffee shop she was sitting in was overcrowded, but the wifi was free, and the Chai Tea was cheap, a blessing to Zara’s depressingly thin wallet. On the laptop in front of her was the essay that was due at midnight, the half-edited blog post scheduled to go up in two days, and the raw footage for her latest youtube video. When you were a content creator in college, multitasking was key.

Jin’s “chorus of angels” was actually the squealing of a group of prepubescent girls that had caught sight of the Boys as they moved through the shop with their coffee orders. Polite as they were, they were taking photos with the fans as they passed, though Big Hit would surely yell at them when they find out.

Zara was paying no attention to the commotion, eyes on her computer screen, listening to the audio of her video through the chunky headphones she wore. Had she been paying attention, Zara might have been able to prevent the disaster that occurred right at that moment.

Namjoon, still smiling at the young fan he’d just taken a selfie with, made to take another step towards the door. His foot caught on a table leg, his long, clumsy limbs pinwheeling in an attempt to recover his balance. The coffee was released in favor of the edge of Zara’s table, his eyes widening in horror as they followed the downward trajectory of the beverage, straight onto the keys of Zara’s computer. The screen flickered once, twice, then blinked out completely.

The world did go still when Zara’s eyes met Namjoon’s for the first time, but that’s because of the fury that surrounded the small young woman.

“Holy fuck,” Yoongi’s words were carried with a nervous exhale. Zara’s angry gaze swept over him briefly before going over the other five young men, before finally settling back on Namjoon.

“What,” she reached up to pull her headphones off her head, “the fuck?!”

“Oh, shit!” Namjoon straightened to his full height, grabbing for napkins to sop up the coffee before it began to drip into her lap. “Fuck, I am so sorry!”

Zara stood quickly, and despite being half a foot shorter than he was, the look on her face made him take a step back. He watched as she began to fiddle with her laptop, trying to get it to turn back on, to no avail.

“Oh, no,” she whined softly when she realized how screwed she actually was. “Oh, no, no, no!” She hung her head and brought her hands up to her face, thinking over her options. Her essay and her blog post weren’t an issue; anything she had to type, she did in Google Docs before submitting or posting. She didn’t need to worry about the unedited video footage either; her personal channel was nowhere near as popular as her family’s, so there was no uproar if supply didn’t meet demand, and her “fans” would understand. But the memories, and the photos she’d saved on her computer couldn’t be replaced, and to be honest, neither could the computer. At least, not for a long time. She quite simply couldn’t afford it on her meager part-time retail salary.

Namjoon reached out to gently brush her shoulder with his fingertips. “I’m so, so sorry. Are you okay?”

Becoming aware of the whispers and the many eyes on her as she had a quiet meltdown, Zara stepped away from him, shoving her ruined laptop into her bag. Namjoon watched her with guilty eyes, casting a pleading look at his brothers over his shoulder. Taehyung, the epitome of ‘no help’ shrugged his shoulders. Namjoon turned back to see Zara had shoved the rest of her stuff into her bag, leaving her half-finished tea on the table.

“I can make it up to you,” he said, as she hoisted her bag onto her shoulder and made for the door.

“Look man, don’t worry about it, okay?” Zara’s voice shook as she called over her shoulder. “I gotta go, I gotta get out of here.”

Namjoon was quick to follow her out the door, his long legs carrying him over the distance between them in record time.

“Hey, hey!” he looked down as he matched her stride. Zara’s eyes stayed on the sidewalk, her hand tightening on the strap of her bag. “Come on, let me make it up to you.”

Zara’s cheeks burned, and she glared up at him.

“Oh my gosh, you’re not going to use this as an opportunity to hit on me, are you?”

To her surprise, Namjoon laughed, bringing out the most adorable dimples Zara had ever seen. “No, I’m going to use it as an opportunity to get you a new laptop.”

That stopped her in her tracks, and Namjoon grinned at her wide green eyes. “That’s better, Speedy. Hi. I’m Kim Namjoon.”

***

“How about this one?”

It had taken Namjoon the better part of an hour to convince Zara to agree to letting him buy her a computer and to come out to lunch with him and the boys, swearing up and down that they weren’t going to kidnap and murder her. Now she sat in a huddle of attractive young men, Namjoon’s phone in her hand, scrolling through the laptops Amazon offered with a frown on her face.

Namjoon looked up from the book in his hand at the price of the laptop on the phone screen and shook his head.

“No way, pick a more expensive one.”

“A more expensive one?!”

Namjoon just shushed her, a small smirk on his face.

Zara gave the boys a few more options, none of them going over $200. Finally, Jimin sighed and snatched Namjoon’s phone out of her hand.

“If you’re going to be unreasonable, I’ll have to do it myself.” He scrolled back up to the top of the page, clicking on a Macbook. Though Zara didn’t understand his words, his actions spoke loudly enough for her to understand.

“No, hey, that’s way too much!” she cried, as he clicked, ‘Buy now.’ “I’m never going to be able to pay you back!”

He completely ignored her protests, completing his order. When he had confirmation that the deed was done, he spun around to face her. His eyes darted over her face, taking in the blush, the slackened jaw, the frustrated tears.

“I can’t afford-”

“We can afford,” Taehyung assured in broken English, taking up her hands and shaking her gently. 

Namjoon closed his book, accepting his phone back from Jimin, before fixing Zara with a smile. “Look, I messed up. You don’t owe me anything. Come on, Zara, don’t cry. I hate it when girls cry.”

“I’ll find a way to pay you back,” she promised, wiping her eyes. “It’s not right to let you spend so much money on me when you could certainly be using it on something more important.” Over Zara’s shoulder, Namjoon connected eyes with each of his bandmates, his brow arched high. Jin’s shoulders lifted in a shrug. It wasn’t every day that they met someone that didn’t know who they were. It was certainly refreshing.

“You don’t have to.”

“I’ll pay you back!”

Taehyung rubbed her arms again, and seeing that she wasn’t going to cry anymore, he let her go.

“Yeah, you can try, Speedy.” Namjoon said, “Come write your number down so we can let you know when your laptop arrives,” he paused, and his grin widened a little more. “By the way, this will be the opportunity we’ll take to hit on you, Pretty Girl.”

“You’re incorrigible,” she scoffed, but now she was smiling too.

“Oh, you haven’t met incorrigible.”

***

PJM: What are you doing right now?

Zara looked away from the paper notes in front of her, a tiny smile appearing when she saw Jimin’s initials pop up. Over the past week, the boys had stayed in contact, painstakingly Google-Translating every text to ask her questions about herself, telling her stories about themselves. Jin admitted they’d googled her when she told him about her family’s Youtube channel AHillofaRide, and she admitted she’d googled them too, as soon as she’d gotten home that first day. She’d been more than shocked to discover how famous they actually were, but it got a lot of the awkward stuff out of the way and she found herself grinning like a fool every time her phone buzzed with a message from one (or all) of them.

Zara: I’m cramming for my WWII History Midterm.

PJM: I thought you were in Art School, Z?

Zara: I am, but I’m double majoring in History.

PJM: That’s amazing, Zara, you’re amazing. Art and P.E. were always my favorites in school, but I guess History was okay too.

Zara: You’re a monster, History is the best. Stop lying to yourself.

PJM: Yes, Ma’am.

PJM: So, Speedy...

All the boys had taken to calling Zara by Namjoon’s initial nickname for her, and it had begun to make her heart flutter.

Zara: So, Jimin...

PJM: Your laptop’s here. Did you want to come pick it up from the arena, or did you want me to drop it off with you? I can come by now?

Zara glanced up from her phone screen to look at the messy floor of her dorm room. She and her roommates had had a study party the night before, and the floor was covered in pizza boxes, candy wrappers, soda cans and a mixture of dirty and clean clothes. She imagined much of their suite looked the same.

Zara: I don’t want to be a bother.

PJM: It's no bother. I’m just hanging around doing nothing right now, anyway.

PJM: You’d be doing me a favor, really.

PJM: I’m getting stir crazy.

Zara: Well, we wouldn’t want that. Can you give me 20 minutes before you leave?

PJM: Sure thing. See you soon, Speedy.

Zara slammed her notebook shut, bolting to her feet. She shot a quick message to her roommate, Ji-yoo (who, conveniently was originally from South Korea), and their suitemates Jane and Clara, letting them know she was having a guest over, that she was purging the disaster, getting only positivity in reply. Apparently it was about time she had a boy over.

She started with the pizza boxes, breaking them down and putting them aside to be recycled. She moved on to the garbage in the floor, gathering the wrappers and shoving them into the overflowing garbage can that she and Ji-yoo shared. She let out a grunt and scoured the top shelf of their closet for any garbage bags, letting out a victory screech when she found the roll of bags wedged between the shelf and the wall. The garbage was dumped and she moved on to the soda cans.

The clothes were a lost cause, so she tossed them all into the hamper to be dealt with later. She made the beds, folding blankets and fluffing pillows and tucking in the sheets, before moving on to their desks. Ji-yoo’s desk wasn’t awful, just a little cluttered with her notebooks and textbooks. Her makeup sat in an overflowing basket on the corner of her desk, but other than that, all Zara had to do was put some papers in the drawers. 

Her own desk was covered in pallets of paint and sketchbooks and pencils, the drawers of the organization caddy she’d bought for her supplies were open, their contents scattered across the desk and the top of the caddy. With a huff, she cursed her disorganized tendencies. By the time she had everything back in the right drawers, and the desktop cleared, she knew her 20 minute head start was over, leaving her only another 15 to clean the common area.

The dorm suite was a simple set-up, consisting of a small common area; no more than a long hallway with a counter top spanning the length of it. There was a toilet room at one end, a shower room at the other, and the two dorms between them. The door to the suite had an electronic lock on it, as did each of the dorm doors, but the girls usually left the doors open during the day.

Sharing such a small space between four girls wasn’t difficult for Zara; she had younger siblings, so she was used to lots of people living their lives around her. Living in the dorm actually helped her with a bit of her home sickness. Having three people there to talk to made living on the complete opposite end of the country from her home, made living in a strange, huge city bearable and for that she would always be thankful.

Due to the common area being the most shared space, it was the cleanest. Jane had gone out and bought the recycling and garbage bins and Clara had brought a shoe rack from home that she let all of them share. Command hooks held various jackets, hats, and accessories, and Ellie’s art had been proudly sticky-tacked to the wall by Ji-yoo. 

There was a microwave on the counter and a mini-fridge on the ground beneath it. A TV sat haphazardly next to the microwave, with Zara’s blu-Ray player and Jane’s Xbox next to it, cables a tangled mess around it. There was a lone circle chair between the two dorms, upon which a large Scooby-Doo plush sat standing guard, courtesy of Zara’s younger sister Scarlet. 

She’d just finished tying off the top of the garbage bag when her phone vibrated on the counter.

PJM: They won’t let me into the building without you here with me.

Zara: That’s because you’re a random 4 foot tall stranger.

PJM: Ouch.

Zara snorted and lifted the bag, grabbing her key card and student ID from her jacket pocket on her way out the door. She dropped the trash in the bin at the end of the hall and started down the stairs at a light jog, her slippers echoing quietly in the silence.

It was easy to see Jimin standing at the security desk, an easy-going smile on his face as he made large hand gestures to the security guard, one hand holding the Amazon box. He looked nice in his plain white t-shirt and black skinny jeans, his hair tousled from the wind. His eyes lifted to meet hers and his smile turned into a full on grin.

“There she is!” He exclaimed in Korean. He quickly set the Amazon box on the counter and, to Zara’s surprise, wrapped his arms around her, sliding between her tank top and the flannel shirt she wore. The next sentence was spoken in slow, careful English, clearly something he’d practiced. “It’s nice to see you, Pretty Girl.”

Zara could feel her face heat up against Jimin’s t-shirt.

“Zara Underhill,” the security officer said, causing Jimin to break away from her. “You’ve never had visitors before.”

“There’s a first time for everything,” Zara sighed, reaching for the sign-in sheet and signing her name. She slid the clipboard in front of Jimin and held out the pen to him. He filled out his information and signed his name with a flourish.

“Okay, Miss Underhill, he’s all yours.”

“Thanks, Phil,” Zara smiled and started back up the stairs. Over her shoulder she called, “This way, Jimin. Follow me.”

Jimin wasn’t the only one who had been practicing. Zara had enlisted Ji-yoo to teach her some Korean, sensing that her interactions with these boys would last longer than the short time they’d be in California. Although, Zara was far from fluent.

Jimin grabbed the Amazon box and followed after her up the stairs. On the third landing, he gave a little whistle. “You live so far up. Which floor do you live on?” When he saw Zara turn to blink back at him stupidly, he searched his brain for his limited English vocabulary. “What Floor?”

“Five.”

“Elevator?”

Zara shook her head and pulled out her phone, the Google Translate already open and at the ready. “It’s always crowded. I get enough crowding at home, you know, so the stairs are easier.”

Jimin nodded, smiling. He pulled out his own phone, “I guess it’s good exercise!”

When they reached her suite, she let them in and he lingered awkwardly in the doorway, looking at the art in the small common area.

“Yours?” He looked at the perfect colored pencil rendition of Rapunzel, a grin working its way onto his lips.

“Yep,” Zara replied, quickly tapping on her phone. “My sister, Scarlet, really loves fairy tales, and she was on a real Rapunzel kick. She’s got a picture of Flynn Rider I drew framed next to her bed.”

“That’s the cutest thing I’ve ever heard.” Jimin mumbled to himself. Zara grinned at him, and nodded to her dorm room.

“Come on, Legs.”

Obediently, Jimin followed her in, setting about opening the computer box as Zara settled herself at the head of her bed. She watched him quietly as he plugged it in and began the setup, letting her type in all her information, jokingly looking away from her passwords.

“There you go, Miss Zara,” his phone droned as he scooted back so that he reclined against her headboard next to her. He watched her fingers moving lightly against the keyboard as she scrolled through her Twitter. She placed her hand on the top of the screen and paused, before closing the laptop and setting it gently to the side.

“Jimin,” She said, sitting up on her knees. In response to the slightly serious edge to her voice, Jimin straightened his back a little. “Tell me what you want in return for the computer.” This is the phrase Zara had practiced.

They were back to this again, were they? Jimin’s lips twisted into a pout, and his fingers tapped across his phone screen.

“Zara, I’m serious, you don’t have to pay us back.”

“No, Jimin, I’m serious. Why won’t you let me pay you back?! It’s not like it’s a sex thing...”

Jimin, who had already been shaking his head and typing before Zara’s phone had even stopped translating, froze abruptly, lifting his eyes slowly, and Zara’s own eyes widened as realization took root.

“Oh my gosh, it is a sex thing! Jimin, you’re a total Sugar Daddy! Or would it be Sugar Daddies? Is it all of you?”

Jimin winced at her tone of voice, not needing her to translate the words, ‘Sugar Daddy,’ at all. His fingers finally typed out a response, “That’s not exactly the situation, but I guess that’s one way to put it.”

Zara stared at him a little longer, before coming to a decision. She reached for her flannel and ripped it off. Jimin started, dropping his phone onto her bed.

“Zara, what are you doing?”

She didn’t answer, reaching next for her black tank top. This action is what spurred Jimin into action.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa!” He grabbed her wrists gently, forcing her down onto her back. She gazed up at him as he hovered over her, stress showing in his eyes. “What are you doing?”

This, Zara understood.

“I’m paying you back.”

“Jesus Christ, Zara,” it was a long suffering sigh that left him, as he moved himself off of her. He sat on the edge of the bed and put his head in his hands. “You’re not going to let this go, are you?”

Silence, and then Zara joined him on the side of her bed. She stayed quiet for a few more seconds before typing out, “We could do it, you know? All of us... that would be okay.” He glanced at her and nudged her with his shoulder, reaching back for his own phone.

“The laptop really was just a gift. Hyung killed your first one, we don’t want you feeling obligated to sleep with us just because we replaced it. And it really would be all of us, Zara. All seven. I can’t explain why right now, but I promise if you decide you’re okay with it, we’ll explain right away.”

“Okay,” Zara agreed, but Jimin shook his head and stood up.

“No, we want you to seriously think about it. I want you to think long and hard about if this is really what you want. It doesn’t matter what the guys and I want.” He looked down at her and smiled, “I’ll see you around, Pretty Girl.”

And he left, leaving Zara to think.

@snowythellama​ @stskpop​

[i-got-these-words]

Okay, so this isn’t the first time that Tumblr has eaten up a post of mine and I’m seriously considering taking my business elsewhere (especially since the Tumblr Management Community seem more baffled than me about this).

Rant over.

Thank you, anon. This was fun to draft.

And, guys, lemme know your thoughts - either about Tumblr’s disappearing posts issue or the ZhanYi fic below ;)

A/N: There is a brief glossary of terms at the end of this post.

~~~

The vertiginous passage of spectral city lights, vivid and voracious. The near-silent hum of a hybrid vehicle as it navigated through three am traffic. The taste of victory at the back of his mouth like the inside of a sports cup at halftime.

Brooding and unblinking, his cell phone was a polished brick in his palm. Holding its breath for a text that was never going to come. But holding anyway. Hoping.

Zheng Xi repressed a sigh, feeling spent and sore. Nailing his first Stanley Cup did nothing to cushion his come-down from a post-win high – a come-down that was more a crash-down, and a high that made him question the quality of what he was shooting up with. Except, if he was being honest with himself, Zheng Xi knew it wasn’t about quality; there was nothing more raw or unadulterated than being the youngest NHL team in the division and defying all odds to reign as this season’s champions.

But raw did not compare to piquant purity, and unadulterated had nothing on divine defilement; the kind of drug that had Zheng Xi tripping at first sight, and intoxicated at first taste.

“Third building on the left,” he intoned as the Prius steered towards a bank of high-rise apartment complexes.

The Uber driver caught Zheng Xi’s gaze in the review mirror. A question in his close-set eyes. A trace of recognition. They’d barely exchanged two words during the ninety-minute drive, plenty of time and opportunity for the driver to study his sullen profile, the wide-set of his shoulders, the square of his jaw – unmistakeable even through the carbon shell of a wire-caged helmet.

As the car slowed to a stop, Zheng Xi snagged a crisp fifty out of his wallet.

“Congratulations on the Championship,” the driver hedged, hesitant. Likely because the dejected customer in the back seat was nothing like the fierce D-man in the rink, or the fervent player at the postgame conference a few hours ago. “My son is a huge fan.”

Quelling the urge to wince at being recognised, Zheng Xi mumbled a thanks. Realised what a dick he was being. Slipped another fifty out of his wallet. “Do you have a pen?”

With a nod and a fumbled affirmative, the driver pulled a ballpoint out of the breast pocket of his lined shirt. Zheng Xi uncapped the pen and scrawled the Chinese characters that corresponded to his name onto one of the bills.

Handing the tip and the autographed fifty-dollar note to the other man, Zheng Xi thrust the car door open. “Have a good one.”

“Thanks, man,” the driver beamed. “And, uh,” – a pointed glance at the tall building to their left – “good luck with everything.”

Zheng Xi flinched. If only. But all the luck in the world wasn’t going to smooth this over.

He let the door slam shut behind him, teetering slightly because, after a game, his feet were more accustomed to balancing on a set of blades than swaying in an unfamiliar pair of Futurecraft 4Ds. As the Prius rolled away, he swiped a thumb across his phone screen. Hit the last number he’d dialled.

“This phone is currently switched off. Please try –” He hung up, swallowing jagged-edged knots of despair and disappointment down his dry throat.

Strides sluggish, he made his way towards the black glass of the front door, his reflection looming and growing larger with each step he took, his sense of self-worth growing smaller. He let his fingers hover over the metallochromic buttons of the intercom mounted on the wall, debating for a minute. And then thumbed through his phone for the app with the electronic passkey – the one that was issued to him back when the flat on the fifteenth floor was like a second home to him, when the man who lived in it was more than just home.

Zheng Xi flashed his phone over the digital reader and a musical little ding announced an approval. As he pushed through the unlocked door, his cell jolted in his grip with an incoming call. Zheng Xi’s throat constricted and cut off a breath mid-exhalation.

But it wasn’t him.

The name illuminating his screen reminded him of the late hour. Of how it was way past curfew. Of how, right now, he should’ve been tucked in a hotel bed, trying and failing to get some shuteye, because tomorrow was another long bus ride back to the capital, a champions’ ceremony, a team interview, a fans’ meet. All the things that had once meant something. But he couldn’t, for the life of him, remember what.

Slinking past the elevator, he pocketed his phone – Coach could chew him out later – and took the stairs two-by-two, the drumbeat of his heart dissonant and deafening. When he finally reached that familiar door on the fifteenth floor, he was a little winded, not from exertion or exhaustion, but expectation. The expectation that this was all going to go to shit.

But I gotta know for sure.

Zheng Xi took a deep, steadying breath before gently rapping his knuckles against the smooth wood. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d knocked like a guest. A stranger. Maybe at the very beginning, once or twice, before he was spending more time here than at his own bachelor pad in the next city over.  

A long moment of silence followed his knock. And, so, he rapped again, harder this time. More urgent. Desperate.

A muffled thump indicated movement in the apartment and Zheng Xi stepped back, panicking because the speech he’d prepared on the journey here now sounded ponderous and pathetic. He wet his lips as the door handle rattled slightly. And cursed the way his own hands rattled even more.

The door opened just enough for the man on the other side to peek through the gap.

“Zheng Xi?” Jian Yi’s voice was a seraphic solo made sweeter by the sleep underscoring his cadence. “What… What are you doing here?”

What was he doing there?

“Hey,” Zheng Xi croaked. Cleared his throat. Crammed his hands into the pockets of his flight jacket. “You weren’t at the press conference.”

A puzzled purse of strawberry-pink lips. “I don’t… I cover baseball now.”

Yeah. Don’t I fucking know it.

A soft squeak as the door swung wide open. A sibilant shuffle as slim, bare feet brushed a little closer. An audible swallow as Zheng Xi took in the sight before him.

Jian Yi in nothing but a creased, oversized nightshirt, his compact toes painted a frosty-periwinkle, his mussed hair sleep-curled and longer than had it been when Zheng Xi last ran his fingers through it six months ago.

“Why are you here, Zheng Xi?” The little wrinkle between fair brows made Zheng Xi want to reach out and smooth it down with his fingers. With his mouth.

I fucked up.

“You know I’m not… good with words,” Zheng Xi began, the weight in his chest growing heavier with every passing second.

Jian Yi tilted his head, perplexed but patient.

“Maybe we could talk inside?” Zheng Xi asked, daring to hope.

Stiffening, Jian Yi looked away. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

Zheng Xi nodded like he understood, but all he really understood was how big a mistake this was. He knew it then; Jian Yi was going to say no. And the rejection was going to kill him.

“It was all for nothing,” he confessed, because, at this point, he didn’t have much left to lose. “Week after week of drills til we were dead on our feet, skating til we couldn’t stand straight, playing til we passed out.” The vile taste of victory was back in his mouth again, and Zheng Xi’s stomach heaved. “NHL Champions but I’ve never felt less like a winner.”

A small, sad smile on those pink, pearly lips. “I watched the game. It was solid, D-man. You deserve the title.”

I don’t fucking want it.

“It doesn’t mean anything.” Beseeching, broken, he scanned Jian Yi’s bright gaze. “Not without you.”

A flutter of motion as Jian Yi hugged himself. A flutter of pale lashes fanning downcast eyes. A flutter of Zheng Xi’s battered heart as it braced itself.

“Jian Yi. Please.”

Shaking his head, Jian Yi staggered back. “No. I’m done being your dirty little secret.”

The words kronwalled into Zheng Xi, and the weight in his chest bottomed out.

That’s how he made Jian Yi feel?

“I’m sorry, I didn’t –”

“You don’t need to apologise, Zheng Xi,” Jian Yi softly interjected. “I know how much hockey means to you – so much that you can’t even be seen out in public with me, an openly queer sports journalist.” He shrugged or shuddered; Zheng Xi couldn’t tell. “I respect that you don’t feel ready to come out, and I would never ask you to do that for me. But all the lies and the secrets and the sneaking around… made me feel like a bad habit. Not a boyfriend.”

A prickling wetness pecked at the corners of Zheng Xi eyes. With a sharp nod, he turned on his heel. But Jian Yi closed the distance between them before he could walk away. Run away. Hide.

Tugging him down by the front of his jacket, Jian Yi wrapped his arms around Zheng Xi, the embrace tight and tender all at once. “Own it, Xixi. All of it,” he whispered.

It was over before it began, Jian Yi pulling back before Zheng Xi could snuffle those layered locks one last time.

A glint and a twinkle in a gold-flecked eye. “That’s different. After a win, you usually smell like a bar,” Jian Yi tittered. “Or eau de puck bunny. Tonight you just… smell like you.”

Zheng Xi’s lips lifted with a loose smile at that teasing tone. And fell again as Jian Yi waved a farewell and sidled back into his apartment, the resounding snick of the latch loud and lasting.

As he stumbled back down fifteen flights, Zheng Xi tapped away at his phone, searching for nearby Uber cabs. He ignored the searing sting behind his eyes, just like he ignored the missed calls and the multiple notification icons at the top of his screen; he wasn’t ready to deal with the aftermath of posting the Instagram video he had recorded at the back of the Prius. All the inevitable the ‘D’ in D-man jokes. Not yet.

But, as he huddled outside the building waiting for his ride, he thought back to how the Uber driver had treated him despite overhearing him come out to the world.

Just another pro athlete his son looked up to.

A sportsman. Not a sexuality.

And the crash-down slowed down to a free-fall til it almost felt like he was floating.

Knowing the PR team was already going to ream him out come morning, Zheng Xi hit the Twitter app on his homescreen and typed out: ‘Lacing up my rainbow skates. See you on the ice. #NHL #LGBTQAthlete #OwningIt.’

~~~

Glossary ~

Stanley Cup: The NHL championship trophy.

D-man: Defenceman; blueliner.

Kronwalled: A signature back-pedalling hit made famous by pro hockey D-man Niklas Kronwall.

[caveartfair]

7 Zines That Helped People Work through Mental Health Issues

For the uninitiated, a “zine” is often defined as a self-published, small-circulation magazine that documents the happenings of a subculture or a niche topic. But in practice, the art of the zine is governed by “non-rules.” A zine can be consist of 40 pages, or just one. It can be entirely made up of pictures or feature no pictures at all. It can make sense, but it doesn’t have to.

During the 1980s, zine-making often involved taking a pile of collages, poems, essays, images, or doodles; lining them up, just so, over the glass of a Xerox machine; then making copies, and stapling together a series of printed pages like this. Copies might be shared with friends or left in a stack at a local record store. Today, publishing a zine can be as simple as one person creating a web page or as elaborate as a small editorial team collaborating on a printed periodical with a cover star. But the non-rules haven’t changed: If you make it and publish it yourself, and it has text, images, or both, you can probably call it a zine.

Perhaps because of this flexibility, artists and other creatives have found in zines a judgment-free space, and for some, it’s a prime medium for discussing serious, personal issues, like mental health. This point was made late last month when an art exhibition in India, organized by one of Time magazine’s 100 most influential people, Dr. Vikram Patel, illustrated how zines can help break down the stigma surrounding mental health. To explore the topic further, we share below seven examples of such zines, with insights from their creators on how these creative projects helped them navigate their own experiences with mental health.

For Girls Who Cry Often (2016)

Excerpt from Lina Wu, For Girls Who Cry Often, 2016. Courtesy of the artist.

Excerpt from Lina Wu, For Girls Who Cry Often, 2016. Courtesy of the artist.

Lina Wu, a Toronto-based artist and illustrator, collected stories and testimonies from over 20 contributors to create the 40-page zine For Girls Who Cry Often. “It’s a nice feeling to be a part of something bigger,” she said of the collaborative creation process.

For the zine, Wu focused on exploring mental health through a femme lens and let her own experiences inform her process. “For much of my life, I noticed that ‘getting emotional’ was seen as a girly or feminine thing—meaning it is often dismissed as dramatic and frivolous,” she explained.

Wu created a dreamy pink atmosphere to backdrop the contributors’ candid and sometimes dark confessions. The zine’s adolescent tone is a nod to the fanzines of the 1990s that gave teenage girls a voice. In fact, Wu points out that zines are accessible art objects because people can easily share and buy them (readers buying copies of For Girls Who Cry Often are encouraged to pay what they can afford).

An interdisciplinary artist, Wu experiments with poetry, illustrations, comics, photography, and design in her zines. And while she doesn’t bring For Girls Who Cry Often to zine fairs anymore, she noted that making it has helped her grow as an artist.

Fuck This Life (2005–present)

Excerpt from Dave Sander, Fuck This Life, 2018. Courtesy of 8ball Community.

Excerpt from Dave Sander, Fuck This Life, 2018. Courtesy of 8ball Community.

Today, Dave Sander (a.k.a. “Weirdo Dave”) is a visual artist known for collaborations with Vans and Supreme. But back in 2005, Sander was cramming newspaper and magazine clippings into his desk drawer almost out of habit. “After I got a lot,” Sander said, “I thought it would be time to make a zine.”

Flipping through the pages of any issue of Fuck This Life is like witnessing the end-of-life montage people describe after a near-death experience. For Sander, zine-making can be an aggressively cathartic process: “You get to kill shit in your own way,” he offered.

Fuck This Life is a stream-of-consciousness compilation of found imagery—like the mushroom cloud of an atomic bomb or porn stars mid-orgasm—the result of Sander channeling his pain to “create a beautiful, loud, brutal fantasyland.” He refers to the zine ashis deepest, darkest best friend. “It was my reason for living, so I guess it saved me,” he said.

Grief Poems (2017)

Excerpt from Chloe Zelkha, Grief Poems, 2017. Courtesy of the artist.

Excerpt from Chloe Zelkha, Grief Poems, 2017. Courtesy of the artist.

Chloe Zelkha describes her father’s death as a “sudden, heartbreaking shock.” Within months, she’d printed out a collection of poems she found in books or discovered through teachers and grieving groups, then spread them out on her kitchen table. There, the Berkeley-based Zelkha began painting onto the pages, cranking out one after another in succession, without drafting or revising. As she found more poems, she created more pages. The result was Grief Poems, a 26-page exercise in letting go.

Zelkha’s introduction to zines was Project NIA’s The Prison Industrial Complex Is… (2010–11), a straightforward explainer zine with minimal text and simple black-and-white illustrations. She sees zines are an inherently raw medium. “That permission that’s kind of baked into the form,” she said, “is liberating.”

Poems by everyone from Kobayashi Issa to W.S. Merwin are coated in Zelkha’s uninhibited brushstrokes. She compared her process with child’s play or dreaming: “If you watch a kid play on their own for long enough, you’ll see lots of fears, feelings, ideas eeking their way into their game, and then transforming in real time. Or when we dream, and different people, places, concerns visit us in weird ways.”

Identity Crisis (2017)

Librarian–slash–zine-maker Poliana Irizarry is probably better known for their autobiographical black-and-white zines, like My Left Foot (2016) and Training Wheels (2013). But with Identity Crisis, the San Jose–based artist seemed the most vulnerable they’ve ever been. “My abuela suffered many miscarriages at the hands of American doctors, and her surviving offspring also struggle with reproductive issues,” Irizarry wrote. “Many Puerto Ricans do.”

Before the birth control pill was approved by the FDA in 1960, nearly 1,500 Puerto Rican women were unknowingly part of one of the earliest human trials for the pill. Between the 1930s and ’70s, nearly one-third of Puerto Rico’s female population of childbearing age had undergone “the operation,” often without being properly educated on its effects.

Irizarry made Identity Crisis,their first full-color art zine,during a South Bay DIY Zine Collective workshop. Personal and family histories intersect across fragmented pictures of succulents and Southwestern landscapes in a half-prose, half-verse journey through Irizarry’s identity. In just a few pages, Irizarry wrestles with intergenerational trauma and their own post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD). Irizarry speaks directly to their oppressors, defiant and resolute: “I live in spite of you.”

Shit I Made When I Was Sad (a.k.a. sad zine)(2018)

Excerpt from Shit I Made When I Was Sad a.k.a. sad zine, 2018. Courtesy of Malin Rantzer and Anna Persmark.

Excerpt from Shit I Made When I Was Sad a.k.a. sad zine, 2018. Courtesy of Malin Rantzer and Anna Persmark.

It started when Swedish friends Malin Rantzer and Anna Persmark were showing each other drawings and writing in journals they’d made while they were feeling low. “I noticed that some of the stuff we’d drawn resembled the other’s drawing,” Malin remembered, “and I think at that point we realized we should make a zine about being sad.” Rantzer turned to social media and put out a “swenglish/svengelska” (Swedish-English) call for submissions.

The then–Sweden-based duo (Persmark has since relocated to Portland, Oregon) made sad zine by cutting out and taping or pasting their artworks onto new pages, then scanning them and folding them into a booklet. Persmark sees zine-making as one of the most intimate ways of sharing her feelings; she goes out in person to share copies with her community.

“Even if all the submitters did not know each other,” Malin explained, “they were all friends’ friends or friends’ friends’ friends, and maybe that also can contribute to an atmosphere where it is safe to be vulnerable.” While making the individual works helped them heal, Persmack noted that the process of compiling the zine proved to be revelatory: “Sadness is both intensely personal and universal,” she said.

Sula Collective Issue 3: Mental Health (2015)

Oyinda Yemi-Omowum, An Emotional Response to Colours, 2015. Excerpt from Sula Collective Issue 3: Mental Health, 2015. Courtesy of Sula Collective.

Sula Collective calls itself an online “[maga]zine for and by people of colour.” Initially an exclusively online zine—different from a blog in name and ethos—it reflected its Gen-Y creators and their new ideas of what a zine could be. It’s one of the more visible new zines, among many, with the purpose of turning an online network into an IRL community. Ever since they founded it in 2015, co-creators Kassandra Piñero and Sophia Yuet See knew they wanted to dedicate an issue to mental health.

Sula Collective Issue 3: Mental Health sheds light on how teenagers of color navigate their parents’ more conservative understanding of mental health issues. “We wanted to discuss the things we kept hidden from our parents or couldn’t talk about with friends,” Piñero and Yuet See explained.

The issue was published in November 2015 and serves as a record of how today’s young artists are taking intersectional approaches to dealing with mental health issues. For example, Oyinda, a then–16-year-old Nigerian girl living in London, submitted a color-coded collage of self-portraits and textures called An Emotional Response to Colours. The literary submissions are paired with original artworks, sourced from Sula Collective’ssubmissions inbox, which range from digital art to watercolors. When asked about what makes zines a unique medium, Piñero and Yuet See answered, simply, “control.”

Shrinks: A Retrospective (2018)

Excerpt from Karla Keffer, Shrinks: A Retrospective, 2018. Courtesy of the artist.

Excerpt from Karla Keffer, Shrinks: A Retrospective, 2018. Courtesy of the artist.

Shrinks is part of Karla Keffer’s zine series “The Real Ramona,” where she discusses being diagnosed with and treated for PTSD after almost 30 years in therapy. The Mississippi-based artist found a sense of direction for her work, and Shrinks in particular, through learning about the Satanic Panic of the 1980s.

This phenomenon (which gave daytime television hosts the ratings of their dreams) involved psychologists across America fueling a nationwide hysteria by diagnosing patients with satanic ritual abuse (SRA) and sending them off to tough-love camps.

“Shrinks are human and fallible,” Keffer explained. “I had put a great deal of trust in their infallibility.” In Shrinks, Keffer created profiles of every therapist she’s ever had—like Julie the gaslighter and Jill the racist. Survivors of abuse are often—and paradoxically—burdened with the task of seeing through the abuse and saving themselves. “One of the things I found difficult was sorting out what had happened with each therapist—like, did she/he really say that outlandish thing?” Keffer recalled.

So much of zine-making is about reclaiming—reclaiming the freedom of expression, reclaiming space, reclaiming the past. And, as Keffer put it, “you’ve made your own book, which is not something you experience when you’re writing short stories and sending them to lit mags.” If any one thing can define zines as a medium, it’s the unbridled control it gives artists.

from Artsy News

[letdecemberburninflames]

Bucky Barnes x Reader | Part 12

Summary: You and your best friend have been property of Hydra since you were children. You disappeared during WWII and were never seen again.

James Buchanan Barnes is struggling. He can’t tell the difference between memory and dreams. The counselor tells him you aren’t real. He’d do anything to prove her wrong.

Parts: Introduction  Part 1  Part 2  Part 3  Part 4  Part 5  Part 6  Part 7  Part 8  Part 9  Part 10  Part 11

Fic Type: Bucky Barnes x Reader Series

Warnings: language

Author’s Note: I’m proud to announce the final installment of Project Elemental. I would like to thank all my followers and readers for sticking through my inconsistent updating, typos, grammar mistakes, and plot holes. Love you guys!

PS: This series will be available on Wattpad soon. (I’ll post a link when I make a masterlist.)

PPS: I need a cover for the Wattpad edition of this book, please message me if you can help. 

***six months later***

Both Y/N and F/N began to adjust to living in outside of a Hydra compound. They spent most of their time outside, a luxury they hadn’t been granted since they were children. Most of their waking hours were spent learning and relearning things. Time hadn’t stopped, and they were frantically trying to catch up on the years they missed while in isolation.

Steve and F/N began to get to know each other better, this time as adults. Bucky, Y/N, and the other Avengers secretly had bets on how long it would take for them to become a couple. Meanwhile, Bucky and Y/N quickly became just as close as they were years ago, and their bond was strengthened by shared trauma.

Speaking of shared trauma, government-mandated therapy sessions quickly became enforced. Mainly by Tony, as he didn’t want his multi-billion dollar building torched to ashes because someone had a nightmare. Having four very dangerous, very old, ex-Hydra super soldiers in your house is enough to make anyone wary of natural (and unnatural) disasters.

It was a warm summer day, and no one really wanted to be stuck in a shrink’s office, but the threat of Tony changing the wifi password was too great. And so there they were, four highly dangerous humans crammed on a fake leather couch sitting in front of a very pretentious woman.

Bucky sat on the far left, head propped up on his hand as the shrink rambled on about introductions and this thing and that and psychoanalysis. Y/N was nestled next to him, and her hand was intertwined with his. On the other side of Rhyan, Steve Rogers sat ramrod straight, actually paying attention to what the counselor was saying. F/N was last, and she was laying on her back, bored to death. Her head was in Steve’s lap, and her legs were dangling over the armrest. All four were agitated at having to sit (or lay) in one place for so long.

“So, Mr. Barnes, the girls were real after all?”

Bucky gripped an armrest of the leather couch. “Yes.” He hated that therapist so much. He had been avoiding her for quite a while, but somehow Tony had wrestled him back into her stupid ass office.

“About as real as that PhD you’ve got there.” Y/N gestured to the piece of paper on the wall. “Though I’m seriously questioning its validity… So feel free to keep thinking we’re an elaborate illusion.” She said dryly.

Bucky and F/N both snorted, while Steve rolled his eyes.

“As I’m sure you know, Mr. Stark has scheduled this session to help you all adapt to life in the twenty-first century, as well as learning how to interact with one another and with others.”

“You mean couples therapy.” Steve said candidly.

“How come we’re in couples therapy when Tony is the one who can’t pull his shit together with Pepper?” F/N asked.

Rhyan reached up and pecked Bucky on the cheek. “Darling, I think we need to schedule an appointment for our friends…”

F/N, who was quite smitten with technology, was already scrolling through the smartphone Tony had provided her. “Let’s see… Oh! There’s a lady in Queens who specializes in couples therapy! I’ll text Pepper…”

“Hey, what’s for dinner tonight?” Steve asked.

The therapist tried to interrupt. “So how is your exploration of pop culture changing your perspective on-”

“Natasha wants us to try something called sushi.” Y/N replied, ignoring the shrink.

Bucky grunted. “I hate sushi. Give me a cooked fish any day.”

Y/N frowned. “I think it’s always good to try something new.”

“Yes!” The therapist smiled tersely. “And how are you feeling about so many changes-”

“Not when it’s raw fish.” Bucky crossed his arm.

“Try it again, maybe you’ll like it.” F/N pointed out.

“I have.” Bucky made a face. “And it was just as shitty the second time.”

Steve shrugged. “Third time’s the charm!”

“NOT WHEN IT COMES TO RAW FISH JUST GIVE ME A FUCKING HAMBURGER.”

The therapist put her head in her hands. “Mr. Stark doesn’t pay me enough for this.”

A/N: Special thanks to those in my tag list for putting up with my constant bullshit A/N’s, as well as all your support and comments! You are wonderful human beings!

PS: I need a cover for the Wattpad edition of this series! Please message me if you have ideas!

Tag List: @mismatch-the-socks  @mutineeradept  @prxttybirdz  @koizorahana @sammykat2hb  @marvel-is-my-life2099  @filia-sapientiae @tiffanypooh  @anise-d-castle6  @this-is-happening  @some-person-somewhere  @thegingerthatwaited  @fightmeandmy100fandoms @sexysamsungl  @dawsonfyre  @docharleythegeekqueen  @rileyloves5  @wellwwhynot  @cameronskywalker  @starstruckgardenstudentzonk  @tomarisela 

[littleoldrachel]

Fifth chapter is up! Read it here on ao3, or here on ff.net, or under the cut.

***Shoutout to a real life angel @mysticalightwood for sending me the loveliest message about this lil thing and making a rubbish day so much better <3***

100 Ways to Say I Love You

Summary: In which actions speak louder than words, Sirius and Remus sort of fall in to a relationship, and even though neither of them have said those three all-important words, they both know it anyway.Or: 100 Ways to Say I Love You by Sirius Black and Remus Lupin.

Previous |  chapter 5/100 - “I’ll walk you home.” | Next

Based on this post by p0ck3tf0x

Tw for mentions of anxiety, mentions of depression, some real intense self-hate, a blink and you'll miss it reference to past self harm, ANGST.

Remus plops himself down in to an armchair, hissing slightly as his muscles shriek in protest. Alice grimaces sympathetically from where she’s curled in her own squishy chair, and Lily drops in to the final seat with a sigh.

She raises her mug of almond-milk hot chocolate, and clinks it against the others’. “The three spoonies ride again!” Alice lets out a little whoop, jingling her silver ‘I’m epileptic!’ bracelet, and Remus smiles behind his cup, unable to match their enthusiasm, because his stomach is killing him. (His whole body is tender and fiery just beneath his skin, but the cramps are fierce and relentless. He surreptitiously cradles his hot mug against his belly; the heat that seeps through his shirt helps a little, but not enough. The chatter and buzz of the café are doing nothing to help his headache either, and he wants nothing more than to crawl in to his bed with a hot water bottle and stay there for the foreseeable future).

“How are y’all?” Lily asks, taking a huge bite of her Danish, and groaning around the mouthful. “This is fucking delicious.”

Alice shrugs a little. “Not terrible, الحمد الله. Haven’t tranced in like, a month?”

“That’s great,” murmurs Remus. “Did you get your meds adjusted?”

“Yeah, they’re better now, I’m less sleepy all the time. The weight gain’s a pain, but,” she pulls a face. “Every time I complain about it in front of my parents, I’m told that I should be grateful that they can even treat it, blah blah blah.”

Lily scoffs. “Spoken like a true Able.”

Alice makes a noise of agreement in her throat. “Anyway. How about you, Lils?”

Lily pulls a face, cramming the last of the pastry in to her mouth. “Had a bit of a flare last week. Also, J made his own ice cream – what a nerd, can you believe he makes his own? – and obviously, I couldn’t resist, and my UC did not appreciate that at all. But this week: so far, so good.”

“It’s only Monday,” Remus points out.

“And I am trying very hard to be positive. What’s gotten in to you, Mr Grumpy Guts?” Lily retorts.

Remus flushes a little guiltily (selfish, selfish, selfish). “Sorry… I’ve had this stomach ache for like four days, and everything hurts. I just – sorry.”

“Oh no, habibi, don’t do that,” Alice shakes her head, and Remus is momentarily distracted by the way her pink, glittery hijab sparkles under the warm, café lighting. “You’re absolutely allowed to be grumpy. Anyone would be.”

Lily nods in agreement. “We don’t have to apologise for our illnesses making us moody here, remember?” She stretches out a hand to Remus, and he smiles back at her, squeezing his fingers. “There’s something else the matter though,” she says, and her eyes narrow as she scrutinises him. “You look awful. And not in an I-can’t-stand-up-straight-and-shower-because-everything-hurts sort of way.”

“Gee, thanks.”

“She’s right,” chimes in Alice, and somewhere, beneath the pain in his gut, Remus feels the stirrings of panic, and even further below that, the churning shame-rejection-disappointment-sadness that he’s been suppressing for the last few days. “Uh oh, what’s that face?” She shuffles a little closer to him, laying a protective hand on his forearm. Remus takes a deep breath, staring down at his hot chocolate, and it trembles a little in his hands.

“I did something really fucking stupid.”

There’s a silence, and then Lily says – her voice low and urgent – “Remus, are we talking I’m hurting myself again kind of stupid, or I’m not taking my meds or – “

“No!” Remus says quickly, hating himself that these are even things that they have to worry about. “Nothing like that.” He feels Lily relax, and Alice lets out a barely-audible sigh, and the ball of self-loathing that wraps around his heart tightens a little more. “I… uh...” he runs a hand down his face, and whispers through his fingers, “I sort of kissed Sirius?”

“What?” Alice yelps, and Lily jolts, going rigid once more. “I have so many questions. When? Where? Sort of? What??”

Remus can’t meet their eyes, as he lowers his shaky hands, and begins twisting them anxiously, pinching at the skin on his wrist. “At the party thing. Last week.”

There’s another pause as they digest this. “Sort of?” Alice repeats. “What does that even mean?”

He lets out a sigh, feeling the guilt-shame-self-hatred writhing low in his belly, and a sharp pain twists through his stomach. (He deserved that, he deserves that and worse for fucking everything up. Sirius hasn’t texted or called in five days since it happened, and the thought of seeing him again makes him feel dizzy and nauseous with nerves… though there’s a smaller part of him that isn’t sure why he’s making this such a Big Deal – it’s not like he hasn’t kissed Sirius before; Sirius is affectionate, and they’ve been friends for long enough that this shouldn’t be causing such turmoil).

“We were kind of just… sitting next to each other, and then he squeezed my hand, and just… didn’t let go? And then I kissed his hand?” He goes to hide his face once more, but Alice catches his arm and holds it fast.

“You kissed his hand? What is this, the 1600s?”

Remus is burning – the pain in his stomach is a boiling, bubbling mess, the pain throughout his body sets his skin on fire, and now, the flush rises over his cheeks – hot, hot, hot with embarrassment.

“Lils, you’re being weirdly quiet,” Alice continues. “Any input?”

Lily has sat back in her chair, and is studying Remus, though not harshly. “This explains a lot,” she says eventually, and Remus’ already roiling stomach lurches.

“What do you mean?” he asks, a little too desperate and raw. “Has he said anything?”

“No,” Lily says carefully. “But he doesn’t have to. He’s been in a kind of… daze? J and I thought it was because of the new job – anxiety, you know? But this explains it.”

“Shit,” Remus murmurs. “Shit, shit, shit.” He draws his legs to his chest, curling up as small as his aching body will allow. (He wants to drop off the face of the planet, or sink in to a deep, dark hole, or fade entirely from existence-)

“Stop spiralling,” Lily says sharply. “It’s not a bad sort of daze. That’s why it didn’t add up. He’s… happy, I think?”

Remus looks at her disbelievingly. “Please don’t lie to me to make me feel better. Not about this-“

“Look,” Alice cuts in. “What did he say when you did it?”

Remus swallows and looks down. “Nothing… it was just silence and then I ran and I’ve ruined everything.” He buries his face in his knees, because he doesn’t have the courage to face either of them right now, and he especially doesn’t deserve their kindness.

“How have you ruined everything?” asks Lily calmly, and Remus snaps his head up incredulously.

“Are you kidding? Now he knows that I – that I – “

“Yes?” Alice says gently, when he tapers off.

“That I – hngh, never mind,” Remus can feel a lump in his throat, and the words are trapped beneath it, unable to escape. The burning sensations throughout his body have reached the backs of his eyes, but he refuses to cry – he will not cry. (This is why this is a Big Deal – this is what makes it different to any other time that Sirius has kissed him).

“Noooo, don’t do that.” Lily grabs his hand back, and strokes the back of it with her thumb reassuringly. “Go on.”

Remus wrenches his gaze to her face, and then feels an icy bucket of dread-horror-panic tip over him because she knew. The tears spill over his cheeks before he can stop them. “You knew,” he mumbles, “shit, shit, shit, is it that obvious?”

“Is what obvious?” persists Alice, taking his other hand.

“That I like Sirius!” Remus bursts out, and then shrinks in his seat as a couple of heads turn in his direction.

“Oh, praise the Lord!” Lily whispers, a smile splitting across her face.

“You finally admitted it!” Alice says, radiant with how wide she’s beaming.

Remus feels – overwhelmed. He’s horrified that this secret that he’s kept so close to his heart for so long was apparently blindingly obvious, he’s terrified by the implications of everyone knowing, he’s still a mess of guilt, shame, and embarrassment. The odd sense of relief at sharing this burden juxtaposes painfully with his utter panic that he’s shared this burden. It’s been his secret (or apparently not a secret, but still), and only his, for as long as he can remember – for weeks, months, years even, and a secret that’s outlasted every other crush he’s had on men, women, people just as kind, brave, smart, funny, gorgeous as Sirius.

(Except that there’s nobody quite like Sirius – not many people are capable of making Remus feel so good about himself just by being around them, not many people give him the confidence to feel like he can accomplish anything he puts his mind to – not many people make him feel like enough, just as he is. But Sirius does).

He doesn’t know what to do with this tidal wave of conflicting emotions, and he tries to suck in a shaky breath, to combat the tears that are trickling down his cheeks, but it’s like he’s lost all control.

“Shh shh shh, you’re alright,” Lily’s gentle voice cuts through his meltdown, and he’s startled to find that she’s moved directly in front of him, and is pulling him in to an embrace. He buries his face in to her shoulder – disoriented, but agonisingly aware that he needs to get a grip – and forces in a few calming breaths like his therapist has taught him. As Lily releases him, her face tense with concern, Alice presses a tissue in to fists that he didn’t realise were clenched.

“S-sorry,” he whispers, wiping his eyes on his sleeve, whilst still struggling with the whole even-breathing thing.

“We didn’t mean to push you,” Alice says, and Remus shakes his head a little too violently; it twinges sharply at the movement.

“It’s just been – a shitty week, and I’m loopy with the pain and – everything – I – argh,” Remus scrubs at his eyes, smearing the tears on his cheeks, and presses until he’s seeing stars. (Sirius is a star, his mind supplies unhelpfully, and he snaps his eyes open again). “I’m a fucking mess.”

“Yes,” says Lily, easing herself back in to her chair. “But we love you more than life itself. Now, we need to talk about this.”

“Whyyy?” Remus whines, hiding his face again, “I’m fine just burying my head in the sand and pretending it never happened.”

“I think we just saw that’s not true,” Alice says quietly.

“Agreed,” says Lily, “so. What’s so bad about Sirius knowing that you have Feelings for him?”

“Because nothing can ever happen and so it will make our friendship super weird – it’s already making our friendship weird, and-“

“Why can nothing ever happen?”

“Because he’s – everything,” Remus waves his hand, unable to explain quite what Sirius is – but knowing that Lily and Alice will understand anyway, because they adore Sirius just as much as he does. “And I’m-“ he gestures vaguely at himself, “this.”

Alice slaps his arm – gently, obviously, because she’s thoughtful and good and Remus loves her so much – and says sharply, “careful now. It sounded a lot like you were about to be down on yourself.”

Remus sighs, “I just mean that compared to him –“ Lily raises her eyebrows and Remus changes track sharply. “My life’s not going anywhere, and sometimes it feels like I have nothing going for me, and I know that’s not true, and I’m working on it, but I can’t help it, and – I just – Sirius deserves everything.”

When he finally looks up, he’s not entirely unsurprised to see Alice and Lily staring at him. What is surprising is the near unbearable sadness in their eyes.

Lily’s voice is heavy and a little tired, “one day, Remus, I swear to God, you will see yourself the way we all see you.”

“You deserve everything too,” Alice adds, the corners of her mouth tugging down uncharacteristically.

“Can we not?” Remus loves his friends – unquestionably, unshakeably; they are the best part of him, and he is frequently overwhelmed by the thought that these incredible, wonderful beings love him too. But sometimes it’s not a good overwhelming, and right now, he’s uncomfortable enough as it is, and any more of their unbounding affection, and he’s going to start crying again.

Lily makes a slightly frustrated noise, but lets it go, and Alice purses her lips a little. “Okay. So, ��worst case scenario:’ Sirius knows that you have a crazy big crush on him. What’s the worst that could happen?”

Remus frowns, because Alice and Lily are two of the smartest, fiercest women he knows, but they’re asking the most inane questions. “He gets weirded out, our friendship is ruined, it splits the group and everyone sides with Sirius.”

“Habibi, never.” Alice looks aghast. “If you really think that we would all abandon you over something like this, then we’re failing you as friends.”

“You are just as important to us as Sirius,” Lily says firmly, and Remus screws his eyes shut. (He’s screwing this up, just like he’s screwed up his friendship with Sirius. He doesn’t want to talk about his shitty self-worth, he doesn’t want to have to explain to them all the reasons why Sirius will absolutely never reciprocate his feelings; all he wants is to curl up in bed with a hot-water bottle and feel sorry for himself).

He’s vaguely aware that Lily and Alice are silently communicating whilst his eyes are shut – probably in BSL, James paid for everybody to have classes the moment Peter joined their group – and he’s resigning himself to yet another pep talk about how loved he is, but –

“Okay, what if this is a classic example of your anxiety working everything up, and he doesn’t actually know, and everything stays the same?”

Remus opens his eyes in surprise. “That’d be the best solution,” he says, like it’s obvious, because that would be ideal, right? That’s what he wants, isn’t it?

There’s a pause, and Alice and Lily exchange another Look, and Remus realises he’s missing something significant. He sort of wants to ask what it is, but his stomach is hurting worse and worse by the second, this conversation is draining more and more of his energy – not a good sign considering he has work later.

“I promise we’ll drop this if you promise us that you’ll talk to him,” Lily says finally.

“Soon,” adds Alice.

The thought of hashing all this out with Sirius makes Remus’ anxiety spike, and his head spins a little even as he finds himself nodding in agreement. It seems to satisfy his friends for the time being though, because the conversation shifts to their jobs – Lily and Alice take lead of the conversation, whilst Remus leans back in the armchair, focusing on breathing through his nerves and massaging his stomach through the pain. (Neither do much to ease his suffering).

He loses track of time – it’s only Alice nudging him and reminding him that he needs to get going for work that forces him to his feet.

“Thank you for putting up with me,” he says, pulling his arms around himself, and his heart warm a little as the two of them scoff.

“We love you so much, sweetheart,” Lily murmurs before he leaves, and he nods, pecking her cheek, before turning to Alice.

“Don’t lose hope. Things will work out, إن شاء الله,” she presses a kiss to his other cheek, holds him tight in her embrace for a moment longer than necessary.

(His friends are the best things in his life; he will never stop being grateful to them, and he can only pray that this thing with Sirius isn’t about to fuck it all up, because it will tear him apart if it does).

It’s not a long shift – only four or so hours, but Tom tries to convince him twice to go home in that time – and every time he catches sight of his reflection in the pint glasses, he has to resist a shudder, because he’s all blotchy and clammy and a fucking mess. He has a minor moment of panic when his brain is too foggy to comprehend a customer’s order, but Tom rescues him (“if you won’t go home, lad, then you’re gonna at least take a fuckin’ break,” and Remus spends the entire fifteen minutes in the breakroom curled in a ball on the floor).

Closing finally – finally – arrives, the last of the regulars slope off, and Remus begins wiping down the tables and bar top, moving slowly to accommodate his aching everything. The soft music – usually obscured by the noise and bustle of the pub – drifts over the empty room, and he’s so fucking tired.

“Can I get a drink?”

“We’re closed,” says Remus automatically, before he tenses as he recognises the voice. Sirius is leaning across the bar with his playful smirk, and he looks – fantastic, of course he does. (And Remus is pale and sweating with how much pain he’s in, and the bags under his eyes are now taking up most of his face, he looks – dreadful, of course he does).

“Hey,” says Sirius, his smirk fading in to something a little more cautious, and his gaze flickers over Remus concernedly.

“Hi,” Remus says, because, in spite of Alice and Lily’s best efforts to prepare him for this moment, he doesn’t have a fucking clue what to do now that he’s actually face-to-face with Sirius.

Sirius clears his throat, clearly just as aware of the awkwardness as Remus. “How’ve you been? S’been a while.”

Remus grips the underside of the bar for support, feeling a little weak with panic. He knows Sirius is anxious too – he’s picking at his cuff with one hand, and he keeps adjusting his stance from one leg to another, and Remus doesn’t know what to say.

“Oh… uh, I mean, you know, busy…” he winces at his own excuses, looks down at the glasses he’s wiping dry, desperate for some sort of distraction. “How have you been?” He chances a glance back up at Sirius.

He’s frowning, studying Remus – taking in the way his hands are shaking slightly with the effort of putting the glasses away, at the way he’s cradling his stomach with his arm. He takes a breath, and meets Remus’ eyes squarely. “Not that great. Anxious as heck. Missed you,” he chuckles self-consciously.

Remus’ throat is dry and his stomach is churning, but if Sirius can be brave enough to be honest, then fuck it, so can he. He swallows, “I missed you too.”

“Then why didn’t you text? Or call, or something?” Sirius blurts, and the way his eyes widen shows that he didn’t mean to say that out loud. Remus sees Sirius’ fingers clench around his thigh – a sure-fire sign that he is Anxious -  and his fingers itch with the urge to reach out and take it, to help in some way. But he can’t. He doesn’t have that right.

He can’t hold Sirius’ gaze any longer. He looks away, breathing through his own anxiety, and forces himself to be honest. “I think – I – uh, I made things weird between us, didn’t I?” His chest tightens painfully as he admits it out loud, hate-guilt-shame tearing through him.

“What makes you say that?” Sirius’ voice is careful and measured, and Remus wants to scream, because Sirius is actually going to make him say it – he can’t he can’t he can’t –

He can’t do it. Lying to Sirius makes him feel like the scum of the Earth – he is the scum of the Earth for even considering it, but what choice does he have? Lily and Alice were wrong – he doesn’t deserve Sirius, nobody deserves Sirius; Sirius is too good and amazing and wonderful, and Remus could never give him the life he deserves.

(This is for the best).

(Right?)

He keeps his voice as light as possible, forces a smile to his lips, which probably looks a little too-brittle, but he can always blame it on his fibro. What’s one more lie between them? “Not sure really… it’s not like we haven’t kissed before – I just, on the hand, it’s a bit weird, right?”

(His heart is doing something wrong and painful – a different kind of pain to the pain shooting up and down his body, but no less real. This pain is buried deep, a sort of tearing in his chest, like someone is actually trying to rip his heart out and squeeze the bloody tatters out through his ribcage).

(This is how his heart breaks).

There’s a pause. It’s tense and wrong and overwhelmingly bad. And then –

Sirius laughs, only it’s wrong, there’s something wrong – Sirius’ laugh should be delighted and joyful and loud and this, this is none of those things; it’s forced and uncomfortable and a little awkward, and Remus’ heart aches a little, because he doesn’t know how to fix this. He’s fucked up, he’s ruined everything, he’s in so much fucking pain and he’s fucking exhausted and he can’t – he just can’t.

The sob rises in his throat, even as Sirius is choosing his reply. “A little, I guess. But that’s no reason to go all AWOL on me, okay?”

Remus ducks his head to hide the tears forming on his lashes, and nods. “Sorry – I won’t do it again.”

“Please don’t.” Sirius’ voice is too soft and tender and full of something that Remus can’t place – the sincerity though nearly breaks his resolve to not tell Sirius everything, and he bites down his lip hard enough to taste copper to stop himself from spilling it all.

He nods again, not trusting his voice, and takes a few deep breaths, licking at his lips where they’re oozing blood.

“Are you nearly done here?” Sirius asks, and the change of subject is both relieving and distressing.

“Gotta finish with the sweeping,” Remus mumbles to the floor, and the thought of that much movement makes him want to give in to the tears completely and just sob on the floor.

Sirius claps his hands. “Go sit. I’ll sweep.”

He’s already marching towards the cleaning cupboard by the time Remus is stumbling for a reply. “No – I can – you shouldn’t-“

Sirius is back, broom and dustpan in hand, and he presses his spare palm against Remus cheek gently. “Remus. You look like shit. You’re obviously in pain. Please, for the love of God, humour me and go sit down.”

Remus wants to argue. He really intends to, except he finds himself wandering in a zombie-like state towards the soft sofa seats, and watching through half-open eyes as Sirius makes short work of the sweeping. (Another reason he doesn’t deserve Sirius).

A shadow falls in front of his face, and then there are warm hands in his, helping him to his feet. He staggers a little, and an arm slides around his waist, supporting him until he’s steadier. “I’ll walk you home,” Sirius says quietly, and it’s not a question, but Remus still nods his assent, too tired to argue with him.

The walk back (and Remus insists on a walk, because he absolutely cannot spare the cash for a taxi, and Sirius had already done too much for him this evening) is a sign of how strong their friendship is – it’s quietly pleasant, comfortable, in spite of the recent tension, everything is exactly as it should be. And yet, something has changed between them, Remus is sure of it – there’s something different behind Sirius’ eyes, something more in his smile, and Remus desperately wishes he could place exactly what it is, if only he weren’t so bloody tired. Sirius keeps up a stream of only-slightly-nervous-chatter, and Remus lets it wash over him, too focused on his own pain and self-loathing and guilt to really focus on what he’s saying. (Ironically, the thought of his self-absorption only adds to his self-loathing and guilt, and he knows vaguely that this is going to spiral, that he is Not Okay).

(He misses the way Sirius’ smile is a little sad, his eyes a little disappointed, as they say their good nights in front of Remus’ apartment block. He has no way of knowing that the second he disappears through the door, Sirius is on the phone to James – “Prongs, I thought you said he felt the same, I don’t understand, I thought – I hoped –“. He’s busy crashing fully-clothed in to bed, the guilt and the pain and the shame digging their claws tightly in to his body, and pulling him away from a restful sleep).

[everlarkbirthdaydrabbles]

Our absolutely amazing pal and fellow smutketeer @peetabreadgirl has a birthday on February 23rd. @xerxia31 and I were wondering if you'd be willing to accept a submission from us in her honoUr?

Happy Birthday @peetabreadgirl! By special request, Here’s a birthday drabble crafted just for you!

Biggest Fan

AN – Happy Birthday PBG! This is part 1 of 2 because your birthday is too special to cram all into one day!

Mesdames et messieurs, votre attention s’il vous plaît. Les passagers de la vol Air Canada 8637 arrivent à la gare vingt-quatre.

Peeta Mellark bobs up on the balls of his feet, eager to see around the crowd of tired commuters coming in on the flight from Montreal to Quebec city. Just a few more minutes and he’ll finally lay eyes on the infamous KatsEye, the best beta in the Avengers fandom.

And his best friend. Possibly the love of his life, but hey, he figures he probably should lay eyes on her in real life before he declares his undying devotion.

The crowd is thinning a bit now as the business crowd moves toward the airport doors, a sea of suits and muttered French. He checks his phone. Her text had said she was near the back of the plane. Surely she’ll be out soon.

KatI’m wearing an orange sweater.

When he looks up again, he sees her coming through the gate. Her aviator glasses are perched on her head and her hair is tied up in a side braid that spills over her shoulder onto the gorgeous coral sweater she’s wearing. It causes her olive skin to glow even though he can tell she’s not wearing a stitch of makeup.

His artistic sensibilities practically giggle at the idea that she’d consider the shade to be orange. It’s softer, more muted; kind of like a sunset at the end of a sultry summer’s day.

Regardless, it’s his new favourite colour.

When he notices her scowling as she scans the crowd for him, he uses his free hand to hold up the little sign he made: KATNISS EVERDEEN. It’s her real name, what her friends and family back in Texas call her. Frankly, it’s what what everyone who isn’t an Avengers fan calls her, but in his mind, she’s always Kat.

Her frown vanishes when she spots his sign and she moves toward him, offering a nervous smile. “Cap? Is that you?“ Her southern drawl lilting over his pseudonym delights him.

“Hi Kat.” He offers her a smile that he knows will never convey just how happy he is to see her. “Welcome to Canada.” Her cheeks pinken.

Damn. He knew she was pretty, but that little one centimetre by one centimetre picture on her Google Docs avatar wasn’t big enough to tell him the whole truth. His Kat is beautiful. More than that, really. She’s fucking radiant.

He reaches out to hug her and realizes halfway there that he’s a strange man in a strange place and a hug might not be a welcome gesture. Instead his arm dangles awkwardly in mid air. “Can I, uh, take your bag?”

She clutches the strap of her carry-on and insists that she’s got it.

“Oh. Um, I wasn’t sure if you’d have warm gear, so my sister-in-law loaned me her Canada Goose coat.” He passes over the bright red parka with the fur trimmed hood and she accepts it solemnly with a whispered “Thanks.”

“They’re down-filled,” he explains, “Those coats, I mean. It should keep you nice and warm when we’re at le Carnaval tomorrow.”

Katniss strokes the fur on the parka’s hood and just nods.

They settle into an awkward silence and he does his best to hold his disappointment at bay. He’s never met a woman who has captured his attention quite the way Kat has. His day is not complete until they’ve hashed out the latest fandom drama and she’s stolen all of this extra words or scolded him for using the passive voice. But, they’re of one mind more often than not. He trusts her exclusively with the inner-workings of his imagination. He offers her his soul, naked and raw on the page, and she heals it, clothes it and sends it out to the world. How is it that now that they’re face to face, they can’t even string ten words together to make a sentence?

The luggage carousel jerks into gear and they move toward it in unison. A tired sigh slips through Katniss’s lips. She’s been travelling since sun-up and changed planes three times just to get there. The journey made Peeta’s eight-hour drive from Toronto today, including the harrowing trip through the tunnel in Montreal, seem like a stroll in the park.

Before long, her suitcase comes into view and when she moves to pick it up, Peeta snatches it off the conveyer belt and tugs out the handle. He resists the urge to apologize.

“Your hands are full already. Let’s go find the car,” and he drags the rolling bag behind him. As they stroll toward the parkade that is connected to the airport, Peeta alternates between trying navigate the crowd and admiring Katniss’s profile. He thinks it may have been sculpted by fairies. Her cheekbones are high and delicate; her nose, straight and slightly turned up, and her jaw slopes gently downward into a chin that’s just soft enough to prevent it from being labelled as pointed. When his thoughts start to trend toward how his lips would cruise along that jaw to the hollow of her throat, he reverts his attention forward.

“You should probably put the coat on,” he recommends at the door and when it opens, allowing in a gust of winter air, Katniss shivers and drops her bag, quickly tucking herself into the coat. Once she’s bundled up, they pass through the sliding glass doors and continue on their way.

“It’s over here on the left,” he directs, wishing he’d thought to take her hand as they left the terminal. He fumbles in his pocket for the key fob, finally managing to unlock the trunk of his father’s crossover.

“A BMW,” Katniss observes, her eyes wide.

“My dad’s,” he explains, hefting her suitcase into the trunk beside his dufflebag. “It’s better on gas than my Jeep.”

The trunk door lowers automatically and Peeta follows Katniss around to the passenger’s side, reaching around her to hold the door. Her expression is the picture of surprise, but she says nothing and slides into her seat. He closes the door behind her and circles back around to the driver’s side. When he presses the button to start the car, he notices Katniss stroking the leather of her seat and admiring the stitching on the leader dash.

“A big step up from my shitty Corolla,” she mutters.

He grins at her as he backs the car out of its spot and aims it for the exit. “My folks bought me my Jeep in high school. It’s kind of a beast now, but it still gets me around, so I’m not ready to part with the old girl.”

Katniss’s lips press together and he wonders what’s going through her mind. “You work for your father,” she recalls. “I’m sure you told me that.”

Peeta nods, piloting the car onto the Autoroute that will take them into the old city and the two-bedroom apartment they’d booked. “We own a chain of bakeries throughout southern Ontario. Dad runs the head office. I work there. My brother Rye is in charge of operations at the biggest bakery, the one in Toronto. My other brother, Bran, has human resources.”

Katniss’s eyes flick over to him. “I thought you were a baker, not an executive.”

He laughs. “I am. I bake all day. I’m in charge of the company’s concept kitchen.” He slows the vehicle as they move further into busy downtown traffic on their way to the old city. “I’ve been experimenting with cheese buns lately. I’ve got this recipe with a hint of rosemary that…” He looks over at Katniss to find her observing him strangely. “What?”

“I’ve never seen anyone get so excited about bread.” Her teeth sink into her bottom lip as she tries not to laugh. Her head falls back against the headrest. “Okay, so I’ve been travelling for the last 10 hours. Tell me what’s been going on in our little corner of the Internet.”

He’s grateful for an easy topic to fill the thirty minute drive with. They chat about the fandom all of the time, it’s familiar. “Remarkably, our absence has not been noted,” he says with a laugh. “Let me think. Um, mega-buckylover published the prologue of a new wip.

“Blackwidowdoesnotfollowback just posted a new chapter of that college au she’s working on. Something about Cap and Peggy and a pool table.”

Kat hums beside him. “Next chapter is even hotter,” she confides.

“Right,“ he concedes. “Almost forgot she’s my primary competition for access to the best beta in our fandom.”

She rolls her eyes. “Careful, CaptainAmellarka, or I’ll be forced to steal your U’s again.”

He snorts. “Paws off my superfluous U’s. Oh – Glimmer and Clove are at it again.”

Katniss shakes her head. “They’re going to divide the fandom if they don’t cut it out.”

Glimmer, whose actual handle was @peggywithmoresparkle, and Clove, who used @therealpepperpotts, were in a constant battle over whose fave was the true leader of the fandom. Sick of typing out their names, while they made snarky remarks about their diva-like behaviour, Peeta and Kat had renamed them, Glimmer – because Peggy Carter was too cool to need bling; and Clove – because pepper is a perfectly useful spice and cloves are one only useful about once a year.

Katniss leans forward, captivated, as they start to move into Vieux Quebec where the snow-covered 400-year-old stone walls and cobblestone streets leave every visitor entranced. “My God, it looks like something out of Beauty and the Beast,” she marvels.

“Surprised?”

She snorts. “No more surprised than when I discovered CaptainAmellarka, my favourite fanfic author in the entire fandom, was a Canadian.”

“Hey,” he defends, “They didn’t make Dudley Do-Right an Avenger, so what’s an earnest, well-meaning Canadian boy supposed to do?”

That gets a laugh out of her. “You know, I haven’t seen a single moose or a mountie anywhere.”

“Only in every souvenir shop.” Peeta replies with a grin. He turns up a small side street and parks in front of a three story building built of stone. Quaint blue shutters frame each window and matching boxes sit primly underneath, primed to overflow with flowers in summer. For now, they are filled with twinkle lights and greenery.

“Here we are,” he announces cheerfully, popping out of the car. Together, they approach the house and Peeta raps smartly on the door.

“Oui?” A woman with spiky black hair answers the door. Her makeup is perfect, but her matte red lips are twisted into a frown.

“Madame Johanna?”

“Oui, monsieur.”

“Bonjour madame. Je m’appelle Peeta Mellark. Nous avons loué votre appartement pour la fin de semaine.”

Her frown deepens and turns into a scowl. “Hein? Non, non, non. Impossible!” Madame Johanna’s hands fly into the air. Peeta feels Katniss take a step back, overwhelmed by their animated hostess. “Mes visiteurs pour cette fin de semaine sont déjà arrivés.”

“Peeta, what’s wrong?”

“There’s some sort of mix-up,” he translates. “She wasn’t expecting us. There’s someone else in the apartment.”

He turns back to the little French fireball guarding the entrance to their rooms and tries to turn on the charm. “Madame, pourriez-vous vérifier encore, s’il vous plaît?”

“Tabernacle!” The door slams in their faces. Peeta turns to Katniss and sees her face etched in concern.

“She’s going to check,” he explains. The door whips open again.

“Vous êtes booké pour la semaine prochaine.”

Booked in for next week? Shit. He’d been so careful when he made the online booking. “Est-ce que-”

“Non,” she interrupts. Their would-be hostess seems to have had enough. “Etes-vous fou? C'est le Carnaval! Vous auriez de la chance si vous trouvez quelque chose dans la ville!”

He is truly fucked. Kat is exhausted and now they have nowhere to stay. Johanna must see the look on his face, because she relents slightly.

“Mon amie, Effie, est la gérante à l'Hôtel vieux Québec. Peut-être elle aura quelque chose. Mais à la dernière minute, ses chambres sont coûteuses.”

Peeta nods grimly. “Merci madame.” The door again slams in their faces. He turns slowly to Katniss, whose eyes are wide and wary. “So,” he starts, running his free hand through his hair. “How do you feel about a little adventure?”

She scowls, but says nothing as he leads them back to his father’s SUV.

He explains the situation to Katniss while simultaneously scrolling through his phone to look up the hotel Madame Johanna recommended. “I’ve heard of the place she mentioned,” he says. “It’s nice, I think. If nothing else, we can be sure the bathroom will be super clean.” He can hear Kat’s little huffs of frustration, but he tries to paint it for her as a good thing, even if he’s worried sick himself. Hundreds of thousands of tourists descend on Québec for Carnaval every year, finding a room anywhere is a longshot at best. Effie’s hotel might be their only chance.

Google says L’Hôtel vieux Québec is only a dozen blocks from Madame Johanna’s apartment, but the drive feels like it takes forever. A tense silence fills the car, and Peeta gets more and more anxious. He’s been looking forward to this trip for months, and already he’s screwed it up.

Thankfully, he needs all of his concentration to navigate the narrow, twisting streets of the old city. And trying to parallel park the Beemer next to the massive snowbanks makes him wish he’d brought his Jeep after all.

By the time they walk the couple of blocks from the street parking spot Peeta found to the hotel, Katniss is visibly shivering, in spite of the thick coat she’s wrapped in. He rushes her down the final few feet, a gentle hand on the small of her back.

The hotel looms above them, red brick and charmingly old like so much of the city, but obviously well-kept. The walkway has been cleared of ice and snow, and the awnings over the large front windows glow red in the setting sun.

When Peeta pulls the door open for Katniss, he can’t help but hold his breath. He really has no idea what he’ll do if this doesn’t pan out. He could take her back to Toronto for the weekend, but the prospect of another eight hours travelling might just make her decide to hop back on a plane for the warmth of Texas instead.

Katniss’s wide-eyed reaction to the lobby relaxes him just a little. In contrast to the exterior, the inside is bright and modern, with lots of stone and natural wood surfaces, and gorgeous local art on the walls. “Why don’t you sit down and warm up a little,” he says, pointing her towards the small lounge just off the lobby. “I’ll get us a couple of rooms.” Or at least, he hopes he will.

The concierge raises a brow askance when Peeta asks for two rooms and admits he has no reservations. “Mais monsieur,” he says. “Certainement vous savez que c'est Carnaval?” Yes, Peeta knows well that it’s Carnaval, and everyone in the city booked a place to stay months ago. He booked the apartment where they were supposed to be staying months ago himself. He still can’t figure out how he managed to mess up the dates when this weekend has been circled in red in his calendar since the moment he suggested it.

“Please,” Peeta says quietly, aware of Katniss sitting just on the other side of the large glass doors, her gaze flitting back and forth between the fireplace and the counter where he stands begging. The whole pathetic story spills out, the hours of travel, the wrong reservations, his desperation to salvage what he can of the weekend. “Madame Johanna,” he says, in a last-ditch effort, “Elle nous a dit que madame Effie pourrait nous aider?”

Recognition lights the attendant’s face. “Un moment, monsieur,” he says, then walks through a  door behind the counter.

When the door swings open again, Peeta does a double-take. The woman approaching him, talking a mile a minute as she does, is nothing like the elegantly modern man with whom he’d been speaking. With her scary white grin, pinkish hair, and spring green suit, she looks like she’s from another planet. He sneaks a peek over at Katniss and can see her hiding a grin behind her hand.

The woman - Madame Effie Trinkett he thinks she says her name is - speaks in such rapidfire French that Peeta has trouble keeping up. His high school French is sufficient for getting by as a tourist, but it’s not strong enough to keep pace with the effervescent whirlwind in front of him, pink curls bobbing. “Un peu plus lentement s'il vous plaît,” he implores. Instead, she switches to heavily accented English.

“My dear friend Johanna telephoned me, told me of your situation tragique, truly star-crossed,” she says, and Peeta struggles not to roll his eyes. “I think we can help you, non? Flavius?” she trills, and the concierge reappears.

Ten minutes - and four hundred and eighty-eight dollars - later, Peeta is clutching a keycard and breathing normally for the first time all day. They have a place to stay. One room, the only room left, but Flavius assured him the room has both a bed and something Effie called a petit divan. He thinks that’s a couch. Peeta is more than happy to sleep there, if it means saving the weekend with Kat. The weekend he’s been dreaming about since, while they were brainstorming winter soldier AU plotlines, he tentatively suggested setting their story in Canada, at le Carnaval d’hiver du Québec, the largest winter festival in the world.

He walks over to Katniss and flashes the keycard. She grins, and his heart soars.

His relief lasts only as long as it takes to climb the stairs to room twelve, their assigned space. The room, while beautiful, opulent really, is tiny. And the couch is little more than an oversized chair.

Peeta can’t look at Katniss, can’t stand to see her disappointment. Or worse, her anger. “I’ll, uh. I’ll go get our bags,” he says, then bolts back out of the room and onto the street.

Stupid, stupid, stupid echos through his head, a litany. He’s so pissed off about the lodging situation, so damned mad that their original plan got fucked up when he’s certain he booked the right weekend that he has half a mind to storm back to Madame Johanna’s.

Peeta pouts the block-and-a-half to his car and the block-and-a-half back. Everything is so completely messed up. Sharing a room was certainly not in their plans. Regardless of how he feels about Katniss, he’s a gentleman. But how’s it going to look to her when she trusted him to make all of the reservations, to deal with all of the people in a language she doesn’t even understand? Of course she’s going to think he’s an idiot, or worse, that he’s lured her here only to take advantage of her. He’s blown his chance with Katniss, and he’s probably also lost himself one of his best friends in the world.

It’s with trepidation that he pushes the room door open. But he finds the room empty, the door to the ensuite shut tightly, the faint sound of water running behind it.

He leaves her suitcase next to the bed, beside her carry on, and tucks his own beside the petit divan - that means loveseat, he remembers, not couch. Of-fucking-course. Now that he’s not running away, he can appreciate how cool, if small, the room really is. Hardwood flooring, exposed brick, and a gas fireplace across from the bed. He flips that on, thinking that Katniss will appreciate the little bit of extra heat.

The fire is crackling merrily when the bathroom door opens and Katniss treads back into the bedroom. Her eyes are swollen and red-rimmed and he feels like the worst kind of heel.

“Kat? What’s wrong?”

She shrugs and then sniffs. “Nothing. Don’t worry about it.” She shoves her hands into the pockets of her jeans. “I’m just tired I think.”

“Of course I’m going to worry about it. Look, I’m so sorry about the screw up at the apartment, alright? I don’t know how it happened. I swear I checked the date three times before I booked. I won’t fit on the loveseat, but I’ll sleep on the floor in front of the fireplace or the bathtub or something. And you can-”

“Cap.” She holds up her hand to stop him. “You paid a fortune for this room, I saw the bill when we came upstairs. I can fit on the loveseat. You shouldn’t have to give up the bed, not for someone you don’t particularly like.”

There have been few times in Peeta Mellark’s life when he’s been struck nearly speechless, but this is one of them. “You, you think… what?” he sputters. “Kat, you have no idea. “I’ve been waiting for this day for months! And now you’re finally here. And you’re just so amazing.”

She looks doubtful, confused, the redness of her eyes only enhancing their stunning silver colour. She’s unlike anyone he’s ever met, and that he’s somehow made her believe otherwise guts him.

“It’s true,” he insists. “Although why you haven’t run away screaming back to Texas after all the ways I’ve screwed up is beyond me.”

She shakes her head. “I don’t know why you think you’ve screwed up.”

Maybe it would be easier if he ticks them off for her one by one. “Lemme see. There’s whatever happened with the reservations-”

“That bitch was double-booked! On purpose!” Katniss bursts out. “She totally lied to you and you were incredibly polite. Ick. It was so Canadian of you. I wanted to shoot her in the eye with one of my arrows.”

Wait. She shoots? He wonders at that a bit and then continues. “I couldn’t get us a room with two beds.”

“You got us the last room in the city, paid a fortune for it, and now you’re refusing to sleep in the bed.”

He ignores that one. “Then there was that moment at the airport when I tried to hug you and you clearly didn’t want me to.”

“What if I did want you to!” she bursts out, her eyes shining. Realizing what she’s said, Katniss flushes and stares at her toes. “I’m not good at this people thing, Cap.”

“Peeta,” he corrects gently. “Please, Kat… Katniss, I mean. Call me Peeta.”

“Peeta.” The way her accent lingers over the vowel sounds in his name causes him to slip even deeper into love with her. “When you reached out to hug me I just froze. I didn’t know what to do. I’m sorry.”

For the first time since she stepped off the airplane almost two hours ago, Peeta feels a bit of hope bloom in his heart, as warm and gentle as a Texas spring night. “Could we start again, maybe?”

Katniss laughs a little hysterically and nods, even as she swipes at her eyes before wiping her hands on her jeans.

“Hi Katniss. I’m Peeta. I’m a big goof, clearly-” She chuckles. “But I am so happy you’re here. Thank you for being brave enough to come all the way up here to meet me.”

The smile he receives is more blinding than any dawn, more beautiful than any sunset.“ Hi Peeta,” she answers, and holds out her arms to him. He scoops her up, clasping her tiny frame against his broad chest and spinning her around, just once. A laugh bubbles from within her. She squeezes back and smiles up at him. “I was glad to make the trip. I wanted to get to know you for real.”

It feels so impossibly good to hold Katniss in his arms, Peeta knows he won’t be the first to let go. But eventually, she steps back and he releases her. “So what now?“ she asks, and her stomach growls.

“Sounds like it’s time to find something to eat.” 

Katniss nods, looking lighter than she has all evening. “I haven’t eaten since my layover at O’Hare,” she admits. “But, do you think maybe…” she starts, then shrugs and looks down shyly.

“Anything,” Peeta says. “Tell me, this is your vacation after all.”

“Well I wasn’t kidding about being tired. I left my house at five this morning.” Katniss glances at the clock beside the bed. “That’s nearly fourteen hours ago.”

“Thirteen,” Peeta snickers. “You’re not in the cactus timezone anymore. This is igloo time here.” Katniss rewards his teasing with a smile, a real smile, and it leaves him breathless. He can barely tear his eyes away. “How do you feel about pizza?”

Though he could order cardboard pizza from any one of the hundreds of shops in the old city, Peeta figures food is his chance to really impress Katniss. He leaves her to rest and freshen up while he makes the ten minute drive to La Boîte à Pain, home to the absolute best pizza in the entire province. He already knows what she likes; mushrooms, pepperoni and bacon.

It takes a little longer, but her groan of delight when he hands her the pizza box is worth it. “This smells incredible,” Katniss says from her perch, sitting cross-legged on the bed.

She’s changed clothing, the gorgeous coral sweater and slim jeans have been swapped out for yoga pants, and a t-shirt that clings to her slight curves. She almost looks happy. Peeta starts to move over to the loveseat, but she shakes her head. “Sit up here with me. We’ll have a picnic.”Peeta sets out the paper plates, napkins and bottles of water that came with their pizza before toeing off his shoes to join her. He grins as he watches her paw through the other bag he’s brought back. “What in God’s name is this?” she asks, waving a container. She flips back the styrofoam lid and sniffs cautiously

“That, my American friend, is poutine, practically the official food of la belle province du Quebec.” Peeta hands her a fork, but she doesn’t take it, continuing to stare. “It’s french fries, gravy and cheese curds.”

Her nose wrinkles adorably. “You eat this stuff? It looks like dog food.”

“I don’t just eat it, I love it,” Peeta says, laughing.

“Well there’s no accounting for taste.”

Peeta spears a serving of poutine onto his fork and takes a big bite. The fries are perfectly cooked; the rich, savoury gravy still warm. The salty curds have begun to melt, but they still make a satisfying squeak as he chews.  “This is possibly the best poutine I’ve ever had,” he enthuses.

Katniss takes a healthy bite of her pizza. “It’s all yours, big guy.”

“That’s what she said!”

Katniss groans.

“Seriously Katniss, this is a Canadian tradition. Don’t knock it until you try it.” He waves a dripping forkful under her nose until she relents. The sight of her wrapping those lush peach lips around his fork is so unintentionally erotic that he can’t blink. But then her face screws up in revulsion.

“Oh my God, that’s nasty,” she says, reaching for her water bottle. Peeta laughs hard enough to shake the entire bed. “Y’all really eat that? You’re not just pranking me?”

Peeta tries to affect an affronted expression, but he can’t stop giggling. Katniss laughs too, and they fall into the comfortable banter that they’ve always enjoyed, only now it’s face to face. And it’s incredible. Seeing her expressions - how her face lights up like dawn breaking when she’s excited, the little crease that appears between her eyes when she’s skeptical. The way she chews on her bottom lip when she’s pensive. He’d already been falling in love, but having her here now, live and three-dimensional and real… he’s a goner.

The pizza box lays empty, except for crusts and stray bits of mushroom, and they both lean against the headboard, chatting. But Katniss’s eyes are heavy from her long trip, and Peeta too is feeling the effects of the drive and excitement and stress of the day. “We, ah. We should probably get some sleep if we want to make an early start tomorrow.” Katniss nods, and Peeta thinks she looks just a little reluctant to end their evening. It reminds him off all of the nights they’d spent instant messaging while he’d been lying in bed, so exhausted he’d continually drop his phone on his face, and yet still not want to sign off.

Peeta takes the remnants of their meal out of the room and down the hall to the recycling station. When he returns, Katniss has started making up the petit divan. “Katniss, no,” he says. “You can’t sleep there, you’d be all twisted like a pretzel and I’m not going to be responsible for wrecking your back.” He tries for levity, tries to push back that anxiety about having screwed up so much, but he thinks she hears it anyway by the little line that again appears between her stunning silver eyes. “Please,” he says softly, tugging a pillow from her hands and tossing it onto the floor in front of the fireplace. “Take the bed. Don’t make me beg.”

Something flares in her eyes before she simply nods.

But when Peeta emerges from the bathroom, teeth brushed and curls still damp, Katniss is tucked into bed and all of the bedding is gone from the floor. She meets his confused expression with something that looks like defiance. “Look C- Peeta, it’s ridiculous for either of us to sleep on the floor after what you paid for this room. And this bed is huge.” He’d argue that queen-sized isn’t exactly massive, though she certainly looks tiny nestled in the crisp white sheets. “We can share.”

“Are you sure?” Peeta winces at the words, the girl of his dreams has just invited him to share a bed with her - however platonically - and still he feels compelled to be a gentleman and try to dissuade her. But if there’s anything he’s learned about KatsEye; passionate fangirl, smutketeer and ass-kicking beta extraordinaire, it’s that she never does anything she doesn’t want to. She’s strong and loyal, she’s the peanut butter in their friendship sandwich, the glue that keeps them together.

“Get in, goof,” Katniss grins, throwing back the corner of the comforter.

Though there’s a full twelve inches between them as they lie facing each other in the darkness, Peeta is struck by her immediacy, her presence. The sound of her soft breaths in the hush of the small room is soothing, comforting. It feels like such a luxury, drifting to sleep with Katniss right there, right beside him.

Katniss shifts, then Peeta feels her small, cool hand grasp his own under the sheets, their fingers entwine almost automatically. “I’m so glad you’re here, Katniss,” he whispers sleepily.

“Me too.”

[ridewindingrivers]

Reading old journal entries is such a goddamn mind fuck at times. Other times I sob at the beauty of how happy I felt with every component of my life and how much has changed. I’m going to put this out into the void because it’s helping me to think and remember aspects of life and figure out what the fuck is happening right now (and what I want). Read if you like, it’s a lot to handle, and a very long text post. Sorry, I just needed to time warp and figure out where things went south. You might be upset I put this out there, and it might make your feelings more complicated, but I need this.

Fucking hell, from a post in December 2014, “I really just got to thinking how much I enjoy his company, him as a person; and recognized my yearning for the trail and that I don’t want anyone else by my side except him. Making me laugh, giving me encouragement, teaching my new ways to live outdoors, and sharing the vast wilderness craving with. ... It’s a bonding, friendly, sexing, tender, safe, calming, steady, engaging love. A deeper love.”

That time that Nana caught me snacking in the kitchen and talked to me about how she and Nanu don’t remember too much anymore (this was back in 2014). She sat at the table, put all my rings on, and laughed with me.

The time Dr. R got cancer and we paddled an entire river system together. He is cancer free.

Those times where we buckle down and get shit done. When my ambition is through the roof to the point of being unrealistic and then I’m brought back down to the ground.

Working through hurdles and understanding how to effectively communicate emotions - frustrations, gratitude. Realizing that love can be like that sometimes.

Moving into 2015...

The Duluth trip during spring break - in all its snowy, falling in a ditch, glory.

When I finally came to terms with all the bullshit with my dad. And cried about it at a bar with my best friend. Then drank beers together about it. Thanks L. I remember exactly where we sat, our orientation, and how raw that moment was.

“I crave him and as much as it scares me, it’s so goddamn exciting to have found something so wonderful to share with a very special person.” 

When Dr. Graves approached me at Science on Tap and told me that I have to do what is best for my growth as a scientist and continue to learn from other people.

The Michigan Entomological Society meeting and the Natural History workshops in Maine. <3 There are some good citations in here from the meeting... ooo

<3 <3 <3 <3 <3 HUDSON BAY ADVENTURE <3 <3 <3 <3 <3

The flowers and fabulous welcome home sex.

Coming to realize that what makes me happy is having my own space - we haven’t had our own time or space in what feels like a year. That is a problem. 

The fleas at the friend’s house.

Colorado vacation - visiting RMNP and CSU before GRADUATING and moving out of the UP. The worst decision if I’m bein’ real.

Moving into 2016...

Being crammed in a room together with no way to express ourselves or DO OUR OWN THING. “Ever since we moved here, I feel we have been out of sync. One thing the summer and this past fall has taught us is that had it MADE when we were living at the Longyear apartment.” - still tru; maybe this is where things started to unravel....

The breakdown. The struggle to find employment.

“I’m tired of feeling anxious for the next step. Tired of feeling like “we have to get through this.”

“I feel discarded and tossed to the sharks.”

<3 <3 <3 <3 <3 Meerakat came into our lives  <3 <3 <3 <3 <3

“Feeling crappy about my body.”

“Since we started at this job, we haven’t had time to do much of anything we enjoy and I think that caused us to feeling a little disconnected from who we are as individuals and to some extent - a couple.”

When my coworkers gave me a goodbye card. <3

I was awarded Honorable Mention for the NSF Graduate Research Fellowship Program. 

I tipped the kayak...

Birding, naturalizing out at Otis and the morel feast we had.

“We both have different  ways of dealing with leaving and it’s causing us to clash. I’m having mild doubts but I hope it’s just in my head. I feel bad for pursuing this. I’m trying to be encouraging and show some cool things, but it doesn’t feel like it helps or makes a difference.” Here. Red flag. Past me, why didn’t you listen? Your sense of adventure was going strong.

Planting potatoes, pulling garlic mustard, and going to the Polar Bear with Nanu and Nana.  <3 <3 <3 <3 <3

Feeling like I don’t fit in at home and how I shouldn’t be a part of the family. I thought we built our own little family.

“I don’t feel comfortable in my own skin and it’s affecting our relationship.” Working on this one - it’s time.

The Dune Saloon and all it’s tasty beers and whitefish-ness. 

Floatin’ down the Boise Riva!

“Peak homesickness has struck.” But we drove to Oregon and had a fan-fucking-tastic time.

“I’m so thankful he is here.”

Planning to thru the AT. - Still an ambition. Or at least a long trail. All the long trails!

2017...

When McNair sent me packages to my apartment in Boise. <3 I felt so loved.

My frustrations with the people in the department and their fuckin’ egos.

“Today was: the last day of my first year of graduate school, stressful, annoying, aggravating, distracting.” 

“I would rather do small scale projects if I was more into them. If I thought of them myself.”

Ha, my feminine product usage data. A++!

Frontier Ruckus at the Neurolux for our anniversary.

Our butterfly collection outings in the foothills and mountains.

Biking to Harris Ranch and Lucky Peak.

Sunset Mountain.

“There were lots of butterflies out and I really wanted to chase them and have fun out there, but I felt bad doing that. I feel bad being me sometimes.” -The signs of an unhealthy relationship with your advisor...or inappropriate enthusiasm. 

“I feel like I’m having an identity crisis. I’m in a heavy depression, feel guilty for bringing him out here and away from home, feel guilty because he could be doing something else. I feel so bad all of the time and it fucking sucks. I want him to be happy and then I can be happy. Fuck. I hope all of this pays off in the end...”

Going to Michigan was a disaster.

“I have an uncontrollable desire to use this feeling of unhappiness and discomfort to motivate me to finish sooner. Do my shit and get on with my life.”

The note you wrote me on our three year anniversary that made “my heart tingle.” “I love falling asleep next to you, warm and safe, and I love waking up with you by my side. I cherish everyday with you because I never knew it could be this good. You are my soulmate, you’re my one and only.” What happened to this feeling? All I ever did was love you for you and love only you. I saved every single note you ever wrote to me. They are reminders of your strong, consistent love.

All of the lizards I would see out in the desert.

“I got angry drunk. I never get angry drunk. I legitimately think that being out here and unhappy has and is changing my attitude and body chemistry.”

“I decided to drop out of graduate school. It feels like a weight has been lifted off my shoulders.”

Sawtooths, pronghorn, Bar Garnika, and Box Lake.

“I’m fricken pumped and ready to move back.”

When we drove through a storm that was literally pouring buckets in the Subaru with everything we own. Little Meera did so well.

Backpacking PIRO. Didn’t have the romantic appeal I was going for when I proposed the idea, but still a grand time none the less.

Superior Hiking Trail with Laurel and Coops <3

2018...

“I need to find a sense of self and figure out some kind of purpose. He leaves for camp in two months and I will be here alone. I have become disconnected from me and that makes me sad.” I think this is a result of no alone time to just be in stillness, like we had before.

A note from February, “Let’s continue those traditions together. Let’s do it all together. Let’s keep climbing mountains together, let’s keep walking trails. Let’s keep swimming in lakes, let’s keep skipping rocks. Let’s keep the wonder alive. Let’s do it all together.” - somehow I feel like I have let you down. I want to do all of these things together. “The future is daunting, sometimes the path is unclear. But if we hold on tight, we’ll hold each other together. And that is what gives me strength to face the future. You and me, me and you, US TOGETHER (with little Meera). Emily, I love you with everything I’ve got. We can face whatever comes our way. We are strong, a top tier red belt power couple.” Your words. Does this still mean anything? What happened between then and now? I know your job is tough, I know how much you love freedom. I’m happy you are free now and able to experiment and figure things out. But what about all of these words and memories? Surely that can’t be erased or forgotten because of one month apart or a cute new face to talk to. 

I’m hurt, confused, lonely, surrounded by literally everything that reminds me of you and thinking about forgetting our past HURTS! I don’t want to! I want a future with you. You’re my guy and I support you through everything. Even this decision, which I totally understand. I hope you manage to figure out your thoughts and feelings.

“My head is spinning.”