#just simple acapella cover

[tinytennisskirt]

Small Victories

Summary: based on a request, Stanford tennis player! reader and Art strike up a new friendship as they're both pretty lonely at Stanford. It's platonic and fun, but reader is taken out of the tennis season after a serious injury ruins her leg. Recovery is hard, but Art is there the entire way insisting you get back to tennis- and as you slowly heal, he slowly falls harder and harder. It becomes undeniable that you two belong together when you finally get back on the court and win your first game post-injury... when things left unsaid can't stay unsaid.

Warning: mentions of broken bones and blood. Mention of sex. Kissing. A little angst, and a tiny bit of miscommunication if you squint. Slowburn friends to lovers. A good amount of fluff and fun. 13k words- brace yourselves.

It was your first day at Stanford after spending your first night in your dorm room. You had some free time so you’d been spending it unboxing and putting away more of your clothes and things. You covered the ugly boring walls with simple patchwork tapestry, and carefully hung your star-shaped string lights. You set up your computer at the provided desk, moving it to the corner where it was level with the table you’d set up your microwave and kettle on. You made the bed, organized your rackets, and you would have never been this clean if you were at home, but you were a little too bored and you were racking up the nerve to go and speak to people. Meeting new people. 

It’s not like you were socially inept at all, but the anticipation was killer. Being so far away from everyone you knew, having this pressure to make friends here or being around wouldn’t be all that worthwhile. Yes, you loved tennis. Yes, you were so glad to be at Stanford. But could you enjoy it without any friends? No. When you decided your room was done, you logged onto your computer to look over the campus website to see if maybe there were any events tonight. 

You found a few as you scrolled. They had a painting class led by an instructor, not your thing. They had an acapella group info night, which could be fun, but you couldn’t carry a tune in a bucket. You scrolled down to the sports section. Football team info night, lacrosse recruitment, and you saw it, perfectly dated for today at eight, a tennis mixer for all tennis students in the far corner garden on campus, just a ten-minute walk. You shut your computer off and immediately started going through your clothes.

You ended up in your favourite jeans and a light purple tank top, pairing it with some casual Converse you’d had for two years, a nice belt, some pretty earrings, and the most dainty necklace you had. You did your makeup in the mirror, getting your eyeliner right in one try which was an absolute wonder, and finished everything off with a pairing of blotted lipstick and lip balm. You looked over everything in the mirror, fixing the curl of your hair just a bit before you packed the simple things into a small bag and headed out the door. 

The garden was cute, it was a little corner boxed in with hedges, full of picnic tables and lawn chairs. You looked up and down the edges lined with pretty pink, orange, yellow, and purple flowers. The 90s music from a radio in the corner was fairly loud, but more dull than the conversation between who you assumed were your peers. A wave of excitement hit as you looked up and around these people, not exactly watching as you stepped backward, foot hitting the side of someone else’s and tripping just slightly in the same direction. Thank god you caught your balance, because without it you might have ended up on the person behind you’s lap. 

“You okay?” He asked, hands up, ready to catch if he needed. You turned, fixing yourself, trying to hide your embarrassment. This was an amazing start, you thought to yourself, chuckling nervously. His eyes were soft and genuine, and he was asking. 

“Oh, yeah, just not looking where I was walking,” You smiled. “I’m so sorry.” 

He smiled back, “No, you’re good, don’t worry about it. I sit with my feet too far out anyway.” He said, getting up out of the chair he was sitting in with his drink. You noted just how nice his voice sounded, you’d never heard anyone with his tone. “My name is Art… Donaldson.” He extended his free hand to you and you were a little surprised but glad. 

“Y/N,” You answered, unable to control the grin that came from meeting someone already, even if you nearly tripped into him. You eyed him up and down a moment. He was taller than you, thin, with blonde curls and a big smile. Bigger than one you would have gotten from anyone else you spoke to if you had ended up speaking to anyone else that night. “You’re in the tennis program?” You asked. 

“Yeah,” He grinned. “And you too, I assume.” 

“Mhm,” You nodded back. “First year. Nervous.” You admit, feeling like maybe he’d get it. And he did, no doubt. 

Art ruffled his hair, “Oh yeah. I’m on residency, so it’s not much different from my previous school, but I don’t know anyone, so it’s a little weird. I had to check the campus website for anything to do to get out and meet people.” He spoke a lot with his hands, you noted along with the fact you had done the exact same thing. He was also just speaking to speak, you noticed as you nodded along, smiling. He was nervous too. “Are you on residency?” He asked, ending his little spiel. You’d let him talk just to hear him talk, finding his voice unique and a little bit pretty. And he was nice. 

“I am, I spent the whole day organizing and decorating my room,” You chuckled, stepping aside to grab yourself a can of iced tea, and cracking it open. Art watched as you did, studying the dainty rings on your fingers, the way the one strand of hair fell in your face when you tripped and you hadn’t yet thought to move it. “Things are a lot harder to do without a staple gun.” You told him.

He sipped his own drink, “Mmm, right? Took me seven attempts to hang up my poster today with that stupid blue clay stuff.” 

“Oh, that stuff is nasty.” He liked how you crinkled your nose. “I bought this glue-brand double-sided tape. It’s a game-changer, but so sticky.” And the embarrassment from nearly tripping eased away as the conversation enhanced itself. He was sweet and funny and kind and truly seemed like he was hearing what you said. Art was truthfully just glad he found anyone to talk to after Patrick left last night and as the conversation moved over the regular small talk, he found he didn’t really want to talk to anyone else. 

The night went on and people were leaving now and then, but you and Art sat on the bench in the very corner of the corner garden unphased, just talking about your histories with tennis. Soon you knew all of his best victories and he knew yours and he also knew you liked music more than most things, tennis included, him making mental note of what songs to listen to when he went back to his dorm room. He felt a lot less alone in Patrick’s absence than he’d expected and you were so interesting. He also knew you were a big fan of iced coffee, had a lucky tennis racket, and had a love for star-shaped things. Just as you knew his best game was his doubles at the Junior US Open with his best friend who you’d heard a lot about now, just as you heard about his past at Mark Rebatello’s Tennis Academy, how his favourite thing to do in tennis is serve, and his favourite post-game meal is chicken wings. Your conversation naturally covered all the simple things and when the night truly had to come to an end, he gladly walked you back to your dorm. 

“It’s been really nice meeting you,” He admitted, rubbing the back of his neck as you approached your door. Part of him knew he could probably tell you everything and anything about himself and you’d listen and that’s what he liked about you. “Glad someone spoke to me.” 

“Well, I tripped, so we’re just lucky, I suppose.”

He twisted his mouth to the side, “I guess so, but who’s to say I didn’t do it on purpose?” He questioned with a teasing smile. 

You laughed quietly, “It’s been nice meeting you too. I’ll see you around the court?” 

“Probably,” He replied, shoving his hands into his pockets as you leaned against the door. “I look forward to it.” A grin slowly crept up his face, unable to hide itself. He was not in a particular lack, but gaining you was something he wouldn’t regret and he knew it. “I’ll see you around.” 

You couldn’t help but grin right back- his smile was so wide it was hard to ignore. “Goodnight, Art.” 

“Goodnight, Y/N.” 

You saw him again the next day, more than enthused to see a familiar face around. You had your hair up in a ponytail, sporting a white skort and black tank top and he was in blue gym shorts and a sports t-shirt that was just a tad lighter than his shorts. 

“Hey you,” You smiled as you approached. He turned, more than happy to see you as well. 

“Hey,” he replied, setting his things down on the nearest bench. You beamed, doing the same. “How are you?” 

“I’m good, how are you?” You asked, hopping up and starting to stretch. He had his hands shoved in his pockets. “Co-op doubles today, you want to be my partner?” He asked. You were nodding yes before he even finished the sentence. 

It was that day that Art realized just how good you were at tennis and how distracting it was playing doubles when all he wanted to do was watch you play. It was almost hypnotizing to see you do your thing and he was honestly a little proud he’d made your acquaintance before you demolished the other team so he wouldn’t have had to look like a suck up approaching you afterward. 

You jumped and high fived him when you two won the scrimmage and Art knew he picked the perfect tennis partner for sure. As for you, he impressed you vastly past your expectations. He was amazing at serving so no wonder it was his favourite. 

“That was crazy,” Art huffed, breathing out. “That was amazing.” 

“Your serves are crazy,” you gushed, turning to him. “You’re amazing, that was amazing that serve at the end completely threw them.” 

Art shook his head, “As if you didn’t completely end the game with that last swing, that was incredible.” He gestured openly, then let his arms fall to his sides. “You want to go again?” 

Technically you were supposed to switch partners, but Art just didn’t want to take that chance. He had you as a partner and he would have to swap it out? No thanks. 

Your smile turned itself into a smirk, you had other thoughts. “Maybe after.” You said and jogged over to the boy you’d just gone up against and asked him to play with you and Art knew what you were doing. You wanted to play against him. 

It turned out to be a problem because now Art had a full view of how you played and it really was hypnotic. You obviously had a well-learned method for every swing and situation and you knew exactly what was in your section and what was in your partner’s. Art was grinning, watching you play and honestly hardly paying much attention to the fact that he himself was in the game. He missed a few balls just because he was watching your swing. You were good, you were really good, and that fact being distracting was not very useful to a scrimmage. 

When the game ended and you had a bit of a water break, you jogged over, “What was that?” You laughed. 

Art shrugged, chuckling. “You’re really good.” He took a long drink from his water bottle, knowing the reason he gave you wasn’t very detailed but it was honest. 

You and Art were partners for most co-op doubles that week, hanging out almost every day after or before. You two were fast friends- him enjoying how passionate you were when you talked and shared the things you liked and the way you went about tennis, you enjoying having a great partner for scrimmages and the things he talked about. Having a familiar face around all the time was the ease you needed to fully get yourself situated at Stanford. It was fun to have someone that you wanted to see every day who happened to want to see you just the same. You two were friends quicker than anyone you’d ever known, like something just clicked and fit into place- he was fun and a little bit wild when he wasn’t shy, and he loved music just as much as you did, it turned out, which was surprising. 

You’d sit in his car for hours just talking with music in the background. “Okay, so McDonalds fries versus Arby’s.” You said, picking through the McDonald’s fries you two bought on the way back to campus. Art put the car in park and you were leaned against the car door, sitting facing him. “Don’t say Arby’s, I’m begging you.” 

He smiled and shrugged a little sheepishly, “They’re thicker.” He reasoned. 

“Uh-huh, I see how it is,” you said, rolling your eyes at him. He hid his face in his hands. “McDonald's are so classic.” 

He raised his head, “True-“ he spoke with too many in his mouth and you smiled. “- But Arby’s are curly. Which means more.” 

“Okay so you’re settled on the fact that it��s more food,” you laughed, popping a small one in your mouth. “Here I was going off of taste.” 

“You can’t go off taste alone because quality is so important,” he said, gesturing with his hands. “McDonalds fries are good but the quality is shit.” 

“You’re right but you can ignore that-“ 

“I have to ignore that while you ignore thicket and curlier?” He laughed. “No-“ he couldn’t get through his words laughing, “We are done here.” 

“What-“ you laughed. “No, come on.” 

He gestured wide, hand on your upper arm, sliding down to rest on your forearm, “You’ve just proven you can’t debate, it’s pointless-“ he couldn’t stop laughing, and from that point on neither could you. It was contagious and spread throughout the car like the air conditioning that circulated. It was good laughter, sweet, and unending because whenever one of you tried to stop, even looking at the other would cause you both to burst out laughing again. It was a cycle that made your ribs ache, your heart beat harder in your chest and your breath impossible to catch. The laughter only ended when you were both in too much pain to continue. 

Art rubbed his eyes, leaning against the car's center console, catching his breath. He missed Patrick but not so much when you were around. He was glad he had you and that was one of the only thoughts in his head as he looked at you, catching your breath as well. Your smile was gorgeous was the afterthought but there was no afterthought to that thought itself, just that you were and it was. You moved your hair from your face and he thought again about the fry conversation and he nearly laughed again, but he tried hard not to.

The truth was Art did have thoughts like that often. You saw him every day, you were funny and talented, and Art loved how much you cared about everyone around you. How could he not, even for a moment, think more of you than what you two were? But he didn’t notice how often he had those thoughts because they were forgotten so easily, buried under something subconsciously. 

You looked back at him, the atmosphere shifting once again. Art watched you glance at the time, “I have to get to bed, I’m so sorry,” He loved how you apologized for nothing. He’d tried to correct it at first but it was just something you couldn’t help. “I have that game tomorrow, the one I’ve been talking about, are you coming?” 

“Yeah, I wouldn’t miss it,” he grinned, pulling the car back into drive to bring you closer to your residency building so you wouldn’t have to walk. “Starts at ten?” 

“I have to be there at ten, game at eleven.” You nodded. 

“Sounds good,” He nodded back, a slight smile pulling at his lip. “I’ll see you there.”

“I guess you will. Or might. I need you there in case I need to make a run for it, I’m terrified to play that Roxy girl, she’s supposed to be so hardcore.” You pressed your hands to your face. “Thank you for hanging out, for a moment I forgot just how scared I am of tomorrow.” Your smile turned to a grin and Art’s followed. He was unable to control his smile around you. 

He shook his head, “You’ll be great. You’ll kick her ass.” 

“She’s Russian,” you replied. “She’s going to do more than kick mine.” 

Art shook his head again, “No. Can’t think that way or else she will for sure. You kick hers, no other way.”

You took a deep breath, grin dulling back to a simple smile. “Thank you. I’ll need all the luck I can get though,” You opened his car door to get out. 

“Okay, well, good luck if I don’t see you before the game, leprechauns, four-leaf clovers, break a leg, etcetera.” 

You laughed and after saying goodnight, your laugh still echoed around his head. It did so until he went to sleep that night. But he didn’t think anything of it, there was no reason to. 

The game the next day really did terrify you. This girl you were up against was hardcore, you spent the morning watching her games trying to figure her out but all you got was that she stepped twice before swinging left, no matter what as well as she was an amazing player. She had long sleek blonde hair that she tied up in a braided ponytail and icy eyes that seemed to stare into your soul when you saw her tennis poster. You wondered if her eyes followed you around as you got dressed into your pink skort and lilac purple tank top combo. Looking nice on the court helped a lot with your confidence.

You tied your hair up in two French braids to keep it away from your face and tried to take deep breaths as you grabbed your things and headed over to the Stanford court. It was a busy day, apparently, as a small crowd of people were waiting to get into the benches and you walked by them and into the building where you met your coach. 

“You ready?” She asked and you really wanted to say no, the nerves getting to your stomach. The first big game of the season meant something. This is the beginning of what you were working for. Part of you was so ready for this all to begin, other casual games with small audiences were easy, but there was a Russian girl out there ready to demolish you. You took another deep breath. 

“Yeah.” And you took your things to the court and unzipped your bag that you’d packed in a haste this morning out of pure nerves and no real rush to see that somehow, in some extreme mishap, that your lucky racket wasn’t there. You turned to your coach, who knew that when you laid all your rackets out on the sidelines that you were missing the lucky one. 

And Art in the stands looked over, knowing the exact same thing. He turned to Patrick, who was visiting as of this morning, “She doesn’t have her purple racket.” He said as if Patrick knew what that meant. Art had spent the morning filling Patrick in on who you were and Patrick listened with a knowing smirk, but didn’t say anything about what he truly thought. “Patrick, she can’t play this without her lucky racket.” He urged as if it made a difference. The game was set to start in five minutes. 

“Lucky racket?” Patrick understood. When he was younger he himself had the same thing, he knew the sentiment and the effect it could have on a game. That’s why Art, knowing Patrick, knew you were the same way.

“Fuck,” Art said, looking around to see if there was a clear path out of the bleachers, but there wasn’t. He looked back at you, talking to your coach with your hand over your mouth. He got up and stepped over a few people but was stopped by an usher. 

“Game is starting in five-“ the burly man said. 

“I know, I need to get out,” he urged. 

“Sit. Down. Please.” The usher replied. 

Art shook his head, “No, you don’t understand, this is vital to the game about to be played, that’s my friend out there-“ 

“Sir, if you leave before the first half, you won’t be getting back in.” He said. And that was that. Art couldn’t even make a run for it because this usher would make sure he couldn’t get the racket back to you. 

“Fuck,” Art muttered, having to sit back next to Patrick knowing this wouldn’t be good. It put him on edge from the stands he couldn’t imagine the anxiety you were feeling if it was already bad and you didn’t have your racket. He rubbed his face, looking at Patrick, who knew exactly what you were feeling even not knowing you yet. “This is bad.” 

You had to use your practice racket. Which was fine if you were anyone else, it worked just the same, but the feeling of confidence was hard to attain. You hit the court as the announcer called out you were to serve. You took what felt like the deepest breath, filling your lungs as you faced your blindingly blonde opponent. You let the breath go slowly, trying to convince yourself that this was fine. And you served. 

The rally was good, you both had each other moving, but she was up in points within the first ten minutes. You weren’t doing badly, you were just behind. Art and Patrick were watching from the stands at how intense things were, Art worried the entire time. 

You caught up and surpassed her points around the middle, but soon enough she bounced right back surpassing you again. You were getting increasingly more scared that this was exactly what you expected from a game without the purple racket. You took a deep breath and hit the ball as hard as you could upon serve, it going awkwardly sideways and immediately out. You tried not to swear too loudly. Art and Patrick did it for you in unison, Patrick was just as invested as Art. 

When they called the halfway point, you were below her points-wise. Art couldn’t pay less attention to the way you walked off the court with your hand to your head because he was running, or trying to, through the sea of people who were going for washroom breaks and getting food from the stands outside. He tried to push through but more people kept coming and the stress of it alone had his heart beating. That was nothing on the beat of his heart as he finally pushed through and he started sprinting across the campus grounds trying to get to your residency as fast as he could. 

He didn’t think he’d ever run so fast in his life but this was the only way he knew how to help. This was how you would save your game. He ran through the residency doors and up the stairs to the second floor and grabbed your key from behind the fire alarm trigger, unlocking your door. He knew you wouldn’t mind after this- he looked around seeing the racket leaning in the corner and he grabbed it, locking your door again and jumping the stairs, sprinting back. 

It took a lot longer than he thought. He tried a shortcut that was stupidly a dead end and he checked his watch before launching back into his sprint and he had two minutes before you were back on. He was so fucked. This time he just about shoved people as he returned to the crowd. 

He could hear the game resume and people did hurry to get back to their seats which helped a little- Art was still pushing to make it back to you, to get the racket to you before the second half truly started. He knew if he just got it out there onto the court you could switch it out between serves and that would be good enough and he was nearly through the crowd, cheers in his ears, people whooping and yelling, getting into the game and all of a sudden it was a simultaneous gasp. Art was confused for about a split second before he heard the scream in the silence of a crowd that held their breath. 

Art pushed through the crowd and the sight he saw when he laid eyes on you on the ground was something reminiscent of some horror movie. The detail was too much but visible to him, from far away, was bone. And you were screaming, it was you. 

He bolted over but not before the others did, surrounding you immediately locking him out and he looked over as your tennis partner ran to the edge of the court to vomit. The crowd was mumbling but other than that it was silence versus screams and cries and it was you. Art hated that it was you. 

He couldn’t do anything, he wasn’t any help, 911 was already called and you were crying and screaming, and thank god the huddle shielded the crowd from the blood that pooled on the court. 

Art did the only thing he knew to do and that was collect your things. It didn’t matter what it looked like he was doing, he packed up your rackets and your water bottle, numbing himself to the situation so he could at least do this for you as your screams rang out in the crowd of people still seeming to hold their breaths. He couldn’t get to you if he tried. Sirens in the distance meant it was time to get the fuck out of the way and he moved over as the paramedics worked quickly to tend to you to get you on the ambulance, doing what they could to stop the bleeding. 

Art ran faster than he did to get your racket, even with your rackets on him. It was a good thing Patrick had gotten himself out of the crowd, meeting Art at the fence doors to get him to his car. He’d only known you a month or two, but you were still a person he cared a lot about and he knew your entire family was miles and miles away. You’d be alone in this and knowing you, and talking to you every day, he knew you were afraid of doctors and hated hospitals more than anything. He couldn’t let it be something you had to brave alone.  He threw your rackets in the trunk as Patrick got into the passenger seat and Art tossed him the keys to start the car before he got into the driver's seat. 

“Fuck, this is so bad,” Art said, pulling away a little faster than he should have. “This is so bad.” 

He ended up waiting ten hours at the hospital. You needed surgery to fix your leg and nobody in your family could make it over in ten hours. It would take a flight to get to you. Patrick stayed about four hours with Art, trying to keep him occupied so he didn’t lose his mind in the waiting room, but Art wasn’t very talkative, just worried. You had easily become one of his best friends. 

He ate hospital food and he slept in his chair against the wall. The nurses knew he was there for you and came to update him until one of the nurses told him to come back the next morning because by then you’d probably be stable and awake properly without the pain meds keeping you asleep. He hated that, he slept in his car.

Patrick came back the next morning, tapping on Art’s window at close to 11:30 in the morning. Art woke with a bit of a start, his hair messed up, his clothes from the days before still on. Patrick held up a bag from Art’s dorm room where he’d stay. You wouldn’t think Patrick to think of something like it, but he brought Art a change of clothes which he took gratefully and changed into in the hospital bathroom before going back up to see you. 

Patrick gladly waited in the hallway when he went in. You were awake but you were staring blankly at a wall- it didn’t seem like you even realized he had entered. You’d gotten used to not minding the nurses and doctors that came in and out. Art approached slowly out of understanding and observed how hard you crying so silently. He thought he saw a tear but as he observed, it was a steady stream.

“Hey…” he said quietly. 

You turned your head at the sound of his voice and Art swore when you met his eyes he had never seen eyes sadder than yours. It shook him a little to see pain so obvious in someone’s eyes. “Art-“ you sobbed, putting your head in your hands, unable to say anything else. He rushed forward, dropping his backpack at your bedside to give some sense of comfort. He didn’t know what to do, so he crouched next to you and his hands rested on your forearm, careful not to touch the bruising no doubt from the fall. He didn’t say anything else for a long while and neither did you, you just cried as Art crouched next to you, his hands gently grazing over your skin where they could. Soft, back and forth, just delicately. 

It was the first act anyone had ever taken to make you feel okay, truly okay. You’d been intimidated and overwhelmed by the hospital lights, the sterile metals, and sounds and processes. 

It was also the first true act of many that was something closer than what it should have been for you and Art. It was just you and him in that hospital room, empty aside from the machines, drips, a bed, and chairs, but the silence was so full that it occupied every corner that wasn’t already taken. 

You did eventually speak, but that silence was so needed. It was a conversation about what had happened and you explained it all and how it felt, but Art informed you that you were ahead of her in points before it happened. He didn’t tell you he didn’t see it happen- he didn’t tell you anything about where he’d gone at the halfway point of the game. 

Art slept in the corner chair later that night when you slept. Patrick eventually left after waiting for so long. When you needed your privacy Art got his meals from downstairs, heading back to the dorm and coming back the next morning every day for two weeks. He came by whenever he could to see you, the conversation was good and kept you distracted. You talked about everything and nothing just to pass the time in your lonely, empty room. Art brought you your iPod and a few other things from your dorm to keep you occupied when he wasn’t there.

Art was the greatest comfort until your parents finally got on a plane and flew out to see you, urging to somehow get you home but you didn’t want to go. You couldn’t anyway, and you were so glad. Your mom was surprised by the flowers you’d received from the Russian girl from the big game, who did come to visit you and was surprisingly very sweet, unlike her teeth-bared photo from her Facebook. But other than that, Art visited almost every day right after your parents did. They stayed at a nearby hotel as you were in the hospital recovering. 

Patrick stayed nearby for Art who was fine, other than a little busy most days when he went to visit. Today Patrick came in with Art. 

“Hey,” you grinned, sitting up just a bit when the two boys came in with McDonald’s. “Oh my god, you didn’t.” 

“But we did,” Art said, kicking your tray over to your bed and putting the food down on it. “Patrick’s idea actually, which I hate- but he wanted to get Arby’s and I told him no.” 

You smiled at him slyly, knowingly, but your attention turned to Patrick. “Hey! I’ve heard so much about you, this is crazy. I heard you were at the game.”

He grinned and you noted the dimple he had when he smiled. It was nice. “Yeah. Aside from the whole bone-out-the-leg thing, you were pretty good. I’ve heard a lot about you too.”

“Well, yeah,” you nodded, gesturing to your leg. You were fun, Patrick knew Art liked you but it was finally coming to be something clear in his mind as to why. You had high spirits. But both boys had no idea how hard you sobbed the moment they left. “Thank you for bringing me food, hospital soup and chicken are somehow both dry.” You said, opening the bag. 

Art looked at Patrick for some sort of approval which he got with a look Patrick exchanged. “You’re welcome,” Art spun on his heel. He looked at the way your hair fell over your face as you peeked in, how pretty it looked the way it curved inward to frame your face. The hospital had hindered your will to do your makeup but you still somehow looked just as gorgeous, if not more. His fleeting thought lingered this time as he gathered the right words to say. “So how is your leg feeling today?” 

“Fucked,” you replied, handing the boys their fries and burgers. “Hurts like hell and I’m still on the super strong stuff.” 

“Well you couldn’t tell,” Patrick said, pulling up a chair. 

“I think if I asked, they’d give me the good stuff.” You nodded. “But it makes me so tired, it’s awful.” You bit into your burger. 

Art pulled a chair closer to you and sat in it, “So all this was just for some drugs, hm?” He teased. “And attention.” 

“Oh yeah,” You agreed with a laugh between bites. Patrick chuckled and Art grinned, “All I had to do was fuck up my knee, have a surgery and a half, and ruin my tennis career.” Both boy’s smiles fell almost immediately, watching your tongue press to your cheek. The silence was loud, but you just continued eating. Art opened his mouth to speak but nothing came to mind. It could be true, you could very well never play tennis again, or with proper rehabilitation, you could be back to playing eventually. He didn’t know, he didn’t know what to say. You sighed, your voice monotone, “It’s fine. Most people who can’t play anymore start coaching. I just have to get better at teaching it.” 

“No, you can’t just say you’re going to coach, you still have so much work to do. You could get back into it when you get better,” Art said, hating how willing you were to succumb to just… teaching. “You’re only starting.” 

“True,” Patrick said, agreeing. “Would be badass if you got back on the court.” 

You twisted your mouth to the side, not finding it very easy to even speak on the topic, even if you brought it up yourself. You didn’t want to cry, not right now, you usually waited until you knew Art was down the hall so you had a minute to cry before the nurses came to check on you. “I don’t know…” 

Art looked at you with an expression that bordered on unkind- not toward you, but toward what you were saying. He’d played tennis with you- you were amazing and to not even believe that it could even get better was almost disgusting to him. You had so much potential, so much talent, “You do know.” He insisted. “There’s no way you want this to be career-ending, so don’t let it.”  

Patrick, despite the seriousness of the situation, smiled watching Art all passionate about something. It had been a while since he’d seen Art so riled up about something even if it didn’t affect him directly. Patrick smiled because he was seeing something he knew Art himself didn’t see. He leaned against his hand propped up by the arm of the chair. And you knew Art was right, but not enough to see past the cast on your leg, not enough to see past the months of rehab, not enough to see the court again. As much as you wanted it, it wasn’t in the foreseeable future, so you let it feel impossible. 

Your parents went back home a month or so in with the promise of returning, but it was getting expensive to stay, so they’d go return to their jobs. It was back to being Art and now recently, Patrick, whom you’d grown to be quite fond of. He brought out a side to Art that was not funnier, per se, but broadened his means to be. Patrick sometimes came to see you when Art had class so he wasn’t just sitting around Art’s dorm. Art would swing by after to join the card games and be told to be quiet by the nurses. It always ended up with you laughing so hard your ribs hurt more than your knee, even for a second. It was the only pain that was welcome in the hospital room. 

It was evening and you were sitting on your hospital bed, just thinking over everything. It wasn’t rare for you to cry at random periods throughout the day, it was a little too normal, if you were honest. All of this was so hard- continuing school from a hospital room because of all the risks was awful. But tomorrow you’d be seeing a physical therapist and that would decide if you were ready for rehabilitation. You wiped your eyes from the tears that fell just thinking about whether or not you’d be fit to walk on your leg again, which would determine if you could run if you could play. 

That’s when Art knocked on the door. He poked his head, looking around, but ultimately looking at you. You had the lamps that your parents had purchased for the room to be less overwhelmingly white in the top right and bottom left corners of the room, making for dim, comfortable lighting. Art swore he forgot how to greet you when his eyes met your tear-filled ones. The way your eyelashes looked when wet was almost hypnotizing, something that wiped all of the words from his vocabulary and out of sight almost completely. “Um-” He cleared his throat, “Hi,” He started, a weird pit in his throat. “You okay?” 

“Not sure,” You confessed, wiping your tears off your cheeks. He had seen you cry too many times now, it was getting a little embarrassing. “How are you?” Art smiled just a little at the fact you asked while crying. He hated to answer that question when you were upset. 

He pulled up his regular chair, but oddly it didn’t feel close enough. The feeling of it had been creeping up with every one of his visits, every time you were alone. But it got pushed aside. “I’m fine. Class was boring and tennis sucks without you, as usual.” He said, taking a seat. “The girl I’m paired with keeps hitting on me between rounds.” 

You wiped more tears away, smiling just a little though your stomach felt just a little odd at the mention, “Really?” 

“It’s bad.” He laughed, “She twirls her hair and everything.” 

“And that didn’t immediately work on you?” You fake-gasped. Art was just glad you were smiling. “You didn’t get married on the spot?” 

He chuckled, looking at his hands, “I don’t think it’s so easy. I don’t think I even know her name.” 

“You don’t know Melanie?” 

“Is that her name?” 

“No idea,” You laughed, really laughed, and it was a gorgeous sound. “In case you didn’t notice, I’m mostly bedridden and confined to this room.” 

He covered his face, rubbing his eyes, “That’s enough.” He groaned through a laugh, leaning against his hand, just looking at you. 

“I say it’s hardly anything, imagine how fun I could be if I wasn’t broken,” You huffed. “But Melanie, whatever her name is, she’s like… she’s really pretty.” You noted. ‘Melanie’ had all your opposite features, it should be noted. She was pretty just the same, but she was your opposite. 

“Mmm, not my type,” Art replied, scooting his chair just a little closer to the edge of your bed. 

“So you have a type? What, Kat Zimmerman-like?” 

Art groaned again, “I can’t believe Patrick told you that, that’s insane that you’d bring that up right now, I hate that.” He stressed the important syllables and covered his face again. You giggled, unable to keep it in. “No, not Kat Zimmerman, jesus christ.” 

“So then what’s your type?” You asked, just curious. You weren’t sure what drove you to curiosity but you didn’t question it. 

He shook his head, “I don’t think I have one. I know who I’m not into though and she’s exactly that.” Art said. Once again, to be noticed, the opposite of you was not his type. “She’s nice but we don’t talk much aside from when she compliments my playing and my hair and my arms and… all that.” 

You felt a little twinge. It was so awful to be on the inside while life went on outside, you thought to yourself. That was only half the twinge and the only half of the twinge you could understand. The other half was something close to jealousy that went completely unnoticed, but not unfelt. “She does that?” You struggled to sound genuine and that was the only thing you questioned about any of it. 

“Yeah, I hate it. What about you? You have a type?” 

You thought for a second, “I’m the same, I think. I know sports guys… jocks- are not it.” And Art nodded. Something about it felt weird to hear. He qualified as a sports guy, right? He tried to shrug it off, but he internalized it.

The night went on and you talked about things you hadn’t before and it was all romantic context. Past relationships, elementary school crushes. It was something that was needed out in the open and it made for an occupying conversation though it was a little hard to get through when there were constant little fleeting thoughts in Art’s mind that were thoughts about how jealous he was of these boys who had gotten to kiss you, touch you, and have your romantic attention. However, the thoughts were so fleeting they flew by without being read or registered, but they were there even unnoticed. You were his best friend and nothing more and that was that. 

When the doctors okayed you for rehabilitation you were so overjoyed you cried again. It was okay this time, it felt good to cry. All of these months in pain could be undone if you could just get into this and succeed. There was no guarantee it would work, there wouldn’t be at any point a guarantee and you knew that it would be a long, frustrating process, but it felt like it would be worth it. You remembered what Art told you about not wanting that career path to end and not letting this be the end of anything. This injury, in the long run, would not be able to take you from what you loved. Ever. Because you wouldn’t let it. You called to tell Art and you could hear Patrick whoop and cheer in the background. And you had your first session in your hospital room later that week and the now-wilting flowers Art and Patrick had brought you was amazing for motivation. 

Your healing journey was up and down as expected but no matter if you could finish your session or not, Art came by to tell you how great you were doing and Patrick to reassure you that you were a badass. You even let them stay for a session and the physiotherapist told them to ‘shut up’ because they were cheering for you the second you started. You just laughed. 

Patrick, for amusement, liked to sit back when you and Art were talking. He was no master, he was not a very scientific guy but your body language when engaging with each other was crazy obvious. You’d always sit super close no matter what, you leaned toward each other when you laughed, your eye contact was completely loaded with unsaid words and when you spoke it was 89% flirting. Patrick understood Art- you were gorgeous and you were strong and that itself was hot. You were funny and took jabs but you were honestly one of the most caring people Patrick had ever met. So yeah, he understood why Art liked you so much. 

You got better every day, easing onto your crutches at this point, able to somewhat move on your own. Patrick visited that day and he had his intentions. “You heard about that girl who won’t stop hitting on Art between games?” He chuckled, dealing the cards for crazy eights. He watched for your reaction. 

You pressed your tongue to your cheek, “Mmm, he mentioned.” You said, picking up your cards. “She’s still at it?” 

“Worse,” Patrick said. “Asked him out yesterday.” 

You looked up at Patrick with telling eyes and Patrick could have gone off of that alone, but he didn’t yet. He noticed your hands bending the edge of a card as you thought it over. The idea of him and that girl was something you could easily envision. He’d been her partner for over a year now and he had to know her name, they had to have been talking for her to just ask him out. Your jealousy was a fleeting thought that did burn close to the surface. “What did he say?” 

“He said he’d think about it,” Patrick said, eyeing your response to that one. It wasn’t true, Art had turned her down at least twice now. The girl was pretty, but oddly persistent.

“Hm,” You nodded, putting down three cards right off the bat. “He said she wasn’t his type.” 

Patrick shrugged, playing his card, “He’s pretty diverse I think. Me personally-” He placed a hand on his chest, “- Dark hair, dark eyes. I’m not limiting myself to it, but I think I have a type.” 

“That’s very you, I feel,” You said, narrowing your eyes at him. “Are you an ass guy too?” 

“Oh yeah,” He grinned a wide grin. You just smiled and shook your head at him. “What about you? You have a type?” He asked, trying not to make it obvious he was playing wingman here. 

You picked up a card, “I don’t think so. Maybe tall, not too much muscle but not like bone-breaking thin.” You said. “And a good amount of hair. I can’t imagine being with someone with a buzzcut. I don’t know, I don’t think much about who I could want, more of what I don’t want.” 

Patrick pretended like that body criteria wasn’t exactly Art. He smiled just a little, “And what’s that?” 

“Okay, easy. No mommy issues,” You put down another card, “No weird patchy facial hair, nobody who doesn’t know the difference between too, two, and to, and no guys in sports.” 

Patrick leaned in just a bit. “No guys in sports? You don’t date guys who play sports?” He clarified, a little bit of hope slipping out the window for his wingman act. All of everything could be wrong, could be pointless. 

You shook your head, “I say that but I mean football, mostly. Jocks. I had a bad experience with two different football players. Broke my little heart,” You chuckled. “I’ve ruled out jocks.” 

“But you’d date a guy in t-” he almost said tennis. He wouldn’t have been a good wingman to give away something like that. “You’d date a guy who plays something else?” 

“If he’s normal about it,” You nodded. “I can’t be outloved by a sport. My ex, I swear he’d fuck a football if it had a hole.” You placed down two more cards, “Last card.” 

The game finished with your win and Patrick was fairly satisfied with his work, though he intended to ask you a few more things and was cut short from his recon when Art swung in the room with a can of iced tea for you and Coca-Cola for him and Patrick. “How are you?” You asked him, taking the iced tea gratefully. 

“I’m good, you?” Art sat at the end of your bed by your feet, putting a hand on your shin (on your good leg) just casually. Patrick noticed it, but it didn’t seem to phase you. He’d seen it the other day when you rested your head on Art’s shoulder, he’d seen it when Art moved your hair over your ear as you were reading a magazine they’d brought. It was painful how obvious this was- he didn’t have to ask anything else. He almost laughed out loud as he thought about it. He made a mental note to talk to Art about it. 

He went back to the dorm early that day, leaving just you and Art. “Hm,” You hummed, pulling your hair to one side. Art snapped out of the trance he was in, hoping you hadn’t noticed that he was staring. It was something about the way you looked in purple, it was like it made your skin glow. That and your eyelashes as they fluttered when you looked around the room, that and the way your lower lip rested between your teeth as you checked over your textbook quickly making sure you were done with your schoolwork for the day. Art blinked all the thoughts away, but they clung on to your square-necklined purple t-shirt. Something about the way you looked in purple. 

Art rubbed the back of his neck, taking his eyes off of you, but looking back a moment later. Your lip between your teeth had his full attention, his own lips parting just a little at the sight. And then there was your hair draping over your face now and Art wanted so badly to move it like he had before. At this thought, as it crossed his mind it stopped dead centre in his brain. Like a shift, but a shift from his own burying and blatant ignorance of any feelings to being completely in the know. You were here, and you were perfect and you weren’t even doing anything, and Art knew he liked you as more than a friend at that very moment. 

But that was the issue. He was supposed to be your friend. 

And that troubled him the next week or so. He was fine seeing you, being one of your close friends wasn’t an act, it was true to him with the addition that maybe he liked you but he always told himself ‘just a little bit’, he liked you a little. If it was full blown then it would be a crisis and the truth was that it was absolutely and completely full blown and there was nothing he could say to himself that would change that. He thought about you when he wasn’t with you, when he woke up, and when he went to bed. He thought about you when he saw something you liked, he thought about you in every spare moment he could get. It was so bad he couldn’t even tell Patrick- as if Patrick didn’t know and constantly teased him about it. 

You were getting better and better and it was a surprising recovery, doctors said. Your mobility was far ahead of schedule and set to stay that way. Any setbacks from this point would be minor and you were making progress almost miraculously. And you were so glad to hear it every time they’d say it. Your parents came back around the day you took a real step alone and you wouldn’t forget your mom’s shriek of complete happiness. Your knee would work again. 

Just Art brought you flowers that day, not him and Patrick. 

But things stayed the same. You could leave and come back in for therapy and you were more than glad to be out of the hospital, though you’d gotten a bit used to it. Everything was falling into place, Art was there pretty much every step -literal and physical- of the way. He was amazing support and made things feel so much easier. When Patrick came around it was fun to have two people who’d add into the motivation. You got better and better and soon enough you swore you could walk just fine aside from your slight limp. That day you walked across the room when Art turned his back, he was surprised, to say the least.

When you could go out with a wheelchair and crutch the boys took you to the court. It was your first time on it since the incident. Your eyes fell on the spot where it happened. Patrick followed your eyes, grimacing just a bit. You’d forgotten Art didn’t see it- you still had no idea where he’d gone at the halfway point of the game. “I can almost feel it,” You said, a look of disgust on your face. “I think the gasp from the crowd was the worst part.” 

“It was loud,” Patrick said.

Art looked at where they were looking. “But you almost have full use of your knee again. Who knows, you could be back out here in a few months.” He shrugged. You turned on your crutch, away from the spot, and looked at Art. “Okay, don’t give me that look, you know you just need to try.” 

“I know,” You nodded slowly. “I just don’t know to what extent. I don’t think I could follow through with Stanford.” 

“Why not?” 

“It’s so top-notch,” You answered. Patrick kicked around on the court, grabbing one of Art’s balls and rackets and dribbling it around. “The people here are here for a reason and it’s to go pro.” 

Art stepped closer to you, “But you don’t think that’s you?” 

“Not anymore,” You replied, meeting his eyes. “Recovery is amazing but the risk is so high… I’m not even sure I can run yet, let alone sprint and lean side to side on this leg. I want to, I wanted to, but going pro after something like this just doesn’t happen. If I can play again at all, it won’t be good.” You explained. Art nodded through, listening with eyes that held sympathy and a little speck of sadness. “It’s okay, I just… It’s going to take me forever to get over it.” 

He shook his head, “You still don’t need to get over it yet. There’s still so much t-”

“I know. I just can’t see it ever happening.” You said. Art pressed his lips into a straight line and he spun on his heel. Comfort wasn’t what you needed- it was a racket. Art lunged and snatched up the one Patrick was toying with and handed it to you. “What?” 

Patrick caught on quickly. “Hit the ball.” Art said. “In any form.” 

“Art…” You shook your head. 

Patrick threw it anyway and even with the crutch, you instinctively stuck out your racket the way you knew how and hit the ball back to him, your aim still on point. “That was good! What the fuck,” Patrick chuckled. Even he couldn’t hit the ball with that much precision. Art laughed, clapping once- and you had your mouth a little open at the tennis reflexes that hadn’t gone anywhere after all this time. You looked at both of them in minor shock and awe and Art just smiled. He wouldn’t let you give up. He couldn’t. You spent the rest of the evening hitting balls where you stood, feeling a lot better about things. 

Recovery continued, but so did tennis. In your spare time you were on the court, practicing your serves, hitting the ball, everything to do with arms and eventually when the therapist had you on the treadmill walking, jogging, he cleared you to do it with supervision. That was one of the biggest things you’d heard in a while. Art was out in the hall when you’d heard it and you left the doctor mid-sentence just to go tell him, Art surprised at the speed which you approached him at, being used to you only ever walking. “I can jog!” You said, enthusiasm and passion in your eyes and the familiar fire he knew from when you would play tennis with him. 

Your soft hands grabbed his forearms in excitement and Art was a little bit more than aware of it, but the news was amazing. “That’s amazing, that’s crazy, you can jog?” 

“I can jog!” You squealed a little as your mom who was in the room with you swung her head into the hallway. 

“When he said could he didn’t mean away from him, Y/N, get back in here please!” She called, but she wasn’t pulling the full mom card, she was smiling ear to ear just as you were. “And hi Art.” She said, waving to him. Being your main visitors meant they were acquainted. Art went to coffee with your parents while you were in therapy the week prior, he wondered if they had mentioned it. He hadn’t. Art just waved back. 

Soon it was you, Patrick, and Art on the court and your crutches were propped against the bench. You were still a little slow but you’d gotten good at playing where you stood, relying on reach alone and it was quite impressive. You worked on side-stepping instead of lunging and leaning and it helped a lot with having to move around when you needed. It was a lot of laughter but also took a lot of practice and focus to get right. Sometimes you could go for a while, other times not so long, but the rehab had done wonders. This time when you said you were done, Art served the ball and you did lunge for it- both boys afraid, cringing as they watched you rush and lean forward in what seemed like slow motion. But you hit the ball and it flew right at Patrick’s chest and came back into standing position like it was nothing. 

“Oh my god,” You gasped. “I’m so sorry.” Patrick put a hand to his chest but both boys looked at you in wonderment, eyes wide, mouths a little open. To tell the truth they both thought you were done for again as you lunged but you were fine, no complaints, no second thoughts- but a second gasp. You realized the move you’d pulled and the second you realized, both boys started blurting out praise and pride and disbelief and you joined in on it. That was tennis. You’d done everything a tennis player needed to do and it was completed with the simplest lunge. Small victories every day. 

Art was more than proud. Seeing you back on the court was amazing. He’d take you there alone most days when Patrick didn’t feel like it. This particular day you were both a bit disracted, but the reason why was something you both couldn’t place. Art gave up before you today and you both stood by the edge of the bleachers against the metal bar.

You took a sip of your water, “Are we going back out or are we done?” You asked. Art set down his bottle just past you, reaching around. He looked at you and for the moment he had nothing else in his mind but you. Not tennis, not anything, you. 

“You’re incredible, you know that?” He said. You smiled immediately, leaning more against the bar next to you. But it just so happened to be closer to him. And you didn’t mind it, it wasn’t anything new but it was definitely close. Very close. You were close and you were smiling at what he said. He blinked a few times, observing your eyelashes, “Your recovery… I mean. It’s a miracle you’re back here.”

You nodded, that perfect smile on your face. You knew how close you were to him, but you didn’t think much of it. You were more focused on his words. Art was always sweet, you enjoyed that about him. “I’d probably be sitting somewhere with a book on how to coach tennis if you didn’t push me this far. You, you are incredible. I am just grateful.” 

He laughed, “Me? I might have pushed but you snapped the bone in your leg but you’re out here on the court again because you’ve been at it everyday.” He said, sincerity coating every one of his words. “It’s all you.” 

“It’s not all me-”

“With help and support, yes. But if you didn’t want to be here, you wouldn’t be. You want this, getting here to this point was all you.” He swayed just a little closer, not even on his own account just because being close felt right. He wanted you to feel that it was the truth. You looked up at him and he could see his words meant something as your eyes reflected him in the golden light of the early evening. He’d never seen just how gorgeous your eyes are in this light… And you were thinking the very same thing as your lower lip found itself between your teeth.

You and Art shared a thought before stepping back and it was the reminder that you were best friends. Just friends. Good friends. And nothing more. It was the first time it had crossed your mind, but the hundredth time on Art’s. Neither of you would risk it. 

The practice continued carefully. You had rest days. You’d been lunging on both legs at this point and your game was coming back around. You were off at a meeting with the Stanford tennis coach about returning properly in the fall, having the meeting so that you could make some exceptions. Art and Patrick sat in his dorm room, Art upside down on his bed, feet up on the wall, and Patrick in Art’s computer chair, spinning. The conversation had been about what to have for lunch when Patrick sparked something else up. “Are we meeting Y/N after her meeting?” He asked. 

Art tilted his head back, “Not sure. I could call her when it’s over if you want. Why?” 

“What do you mean why?” Patrick said, throwing the hacky sack he was fiddling with at Art’s head, hitting him in the face and chuckling. Art sat up, whipping the bean bag right back at him. “Oh come on-” He groaned. “I know you want to see her.” 

“I saw her earlier,” Art deflected, recognizing Patrick’s tone. 

“Yeah and?” 

“So you want to see her?” 

“Sure.” Patrick shrugged. Art shrugged back, pulling on a sweater, whenever Patrick was over, he turned the AC in the room way up. Wasn’t relevant, but the silence while Art was putting on his sweater was near unbearable. Art had the sweater half over his head when Patrick stuck his leg out and kicked him over. “I know you like her!” 

“Huh?” Art said, sitting up and fixing the sweater. Patrick pushed him right back over. 

“You like her! Y/N!” He said. He couldn’t take it anymore, the obviousness, how clear it was that you two liked each other. It was getting to be sickening. “I know you, I know you like her and you can’t tell me you don’t because I’ve waited this long for you to-” he shoved Art over again when Art came back up laughing- Patrick couldn’t help but laugh too, “-tell me!” 

There was no purpose in a lie. “Yeah, I guess so,” Art admit, bracing himself to be shoved again and instead, punching Patrick right in the stomach as revenge. Patrick sat back in his chair in pain. “But Patrick, she’s my best friend. And your friend. It’s tricky.” 

“I don’t think it’s that tricky, I mean, she likes you too and it’s obvious,” Patrick said through his stomach pain. 

Art laughed again, “She does not. I’m not her type. We’re just friends.” 

“You are entirely her type, her criteria is tall and normal build and that’s exactly you!” He gestured widely to Art. 

“She did not say that to me when I asked. She told me she doesn’t date guys in sports.” 

“She has two football exes, of course she doesn’t date jocks.” 

“She said sports.” 

“She meant jocks.” Patrick straightened out. “She likes you, Art. She pretty much admit it to me, you can’t tell me otherwise.” 

Art just blinked. Patrick wasn’t right- there was no way. He’d had it in his head that he wasn’t even thought of when it came to anything like that with you. But Patrick was usually right, no matter how much Art hated it. “No, she’s-” he groaned, putting his head in his hands and bending to put his head between his knees. “She’s one of my best friends this would fuck everything up.” 

Patrick shook his head, “It would be fine, you-”

Art groaned again, “And I tell her I like her and then what?” He brought his head up again. “She thinks I’ve just been here to fuck her? To get on her good side, to be with her through this just to get to her? I only started liking her, really liking her after the incident but I have no way to prove that! What would she think if all of a sudden I tell her and she actually doesn’t feel the way I do? This is so bad, Patrick.” 

Patrick just laughed at him, but Art was now able to think about these things aloud. So he was loud. “I promise you she likes you. She’s flirting with you all the time, she’s touchy, she cares a lot about you- more than me, I can attest. She wants you. And as for the injury part- Art, it’s been over a fucking year. She’s not going to think you’re playing the long game.” Art just sighed, but Patrick shoved him over again. “Don’t be a pussy!” 

“I’m not a-” he rolled his eyes and shoved Patrick right back, “-pussy. I just- she’s gorgeous and she’s friendly and she’s kind and caring and amazing and I don’t want to risk losing that just because I have some fucking ninth grade crush on her, you know?” 

He nodded back, “But it’s not. I’ve seen you with your ninth grade crush and you were a lot more horny about it. You like her. She likes you. I don’t care if you tell her now, but I don’t want you thinking she doesn’t want you too. She does, it’s painfully obvious. And I’ll admit she’s hot as fuck, so I’d hate to see you miss the opportunity!” Patrick explained, hands wildly gesturing. “Plus the tension is fucking awful to be around, I don’t know how you do it.” 

Neither did he. With it out in the air Art might have gushed a bit about you. Patrick had never seen him this way- he had so much to say about you and he ended up not calling you, just talking about you for what felt like forever to Patrick. But he didn’t mind. 

You continued to get better and better and it was amazing. You felt amazing about your progress. You got up in the morning and your knee only hurt if you hit it off something. And that was normal for most people, so you took pride in it. You hurried over to Art’s dorm in a tank top and shorts, your hair in two braids. It was early morning, you knew that, but you knocked on the door anyway. Art, woken, opened the door and squinted in the light from the hall. He was gorgeous, you thought. His hair wild and messy from bed and his shirt hiked up a little too high from sleep, leaving his waist and mid-line exposed. “Hey.” He said, opening the door for you to come in, fixing his shirt. 

“Hi,” you said, trying not to grin too wide. You couldn’t wait, you couldn’t. “I got cleared for a real game!” You squealed and you covered your mouth. You’d only found out late last night so you decided to wait until morning, but it really couldn’t wait. Art took a deep breath in but before he could say anything you were talking again. “It’s a small game. It’s local, it’s a tiny game but it’s a real one and it’s singles. I thought you’d want to know!”

“I- I do want to know, that’s amazing, oh my god!” He was almost as excited as you without the squealing and bouncing around. You were cute when you were excited. “A game is a game, it’s incredible, it’s- you- I-” He stopped himself. The excitement nearly got the best of him. But you were grinning ear to ear over tennis and that was all he cared about. “When is the game?” 

“It’s next Sunday,” You giggled. “You’ll come?” 

“Is that a question?” 

“Well, yeah,” You said, your hands on his forearms like they usually were when you were passionate. Almost like you were scared the passion would sweep you away if you didn’t hold onto something. He loved it. 

“No, I’ll be there. And on the sidelines if you let me.” 

“You’re absolutely not sitting in the stands again.” You said, chuckling. He grinned. 

And when the day of the game rolled around, your mother braided your hair in two french braids for you. She had ironed your entire outfit, even your socks. It was her nerves. But the most nervous one in the room at all times was you. You couldn’t eat, you had a hard time falling asleep, but you got up in the morning refreshed and heart pounding at the impending game. It meant a lot of action but you’d worked for this. It was a small local game at a local court with a few bleachers. It was hardly anything, you reminded yourself. This was your second chance just beginning. You slipped on your dark purple skort and your purple tank top and you made sure you had your lucky racket this time. 

Your mom drove you to the court much earlier than needed because you were so on edge and you sat in the hall between changerooms under the bleachers, just doing your breathing to maintain yourself. You were more than glad when Patrick and Art showed up. They didn’t ask if you were ready, they knew it. They just asked where you wanted to go for lunch after the game and debated over if a hot dog counted as a sandwich until your Stanford coach walked in. 

“You’re ready?” She asked, grin on her face. You blinked. 

“What are you…” This was a local game, not Stanford. You looked at Art and Patrick who were bad at hiding their smiles. 

Your coach nodded, “You’ve got this one.” She said. “Now hop to it, they’re waiting.” You looked back at Art and Patrick and they ushered you toward the door. It sounded a bit like a badly-engineered fan at first, going down the hall. Your stomach was already in knots. 

They came completely undone as your coach opened the door and the roar of the crowd was near-deafening. You blinked in the daylight, half-shocked by how loud it was before you realized that it was the sound of people. And as your eyes adjusted, you realized that the tennis court bleachers were absolutely packed full of people and they were loud, cheering. It was a local game, you expected families of the players but no, there must have been hundreds of people in the stands. On the side with no stands there were people lining the fences and you could see people beyond people. You turned, taking it all in as they were calling your name, calling your praise. You covered your mouth seeing your peers from Stanford in the front row, including the girl who had been hitting on Art. You recognized all of them and more. 

You looked at Art and Patrick who were behind you, unable to control their grins at this point and elbowing each other just a bit. Art was only looking at you. You felt so overwhelmed with gratitude, it rose in your stomach like the drop of a rollercoaster. “How did this- How- there’s so many,” You managed to say. 

Patrick beamed, dimples on display, “They’re here for you, if you couldn’t tell.” 

Art tugged one of your braids. “Patrick and I might have… posted about it on facebook. But it wasn’t an invite, just the general information of what had happened and that this was your first real game, so technically it was all you.” He smirked, but it couldn’t stay a smirk, just a really big smile. It matched yours. 

“It was not me,” You sighed exasperated, but more than happy. Scared. But happy. 

“If you didn’t want to be here, you wouldn’t be,” He repeated to you. His thumb grazed your cheek when he let go of your braid. You wanted to hug him, you wanted to jump for joy and scream your head off at how amazing this all was. But you got called to serve. 

The screams didn’t die down for any part of the game. You served and the game began and the girl across from you did not feel bad for you and that was clear. She was harsh and hardcore and violent with her swings but you hit almost all of them right back at her at a force and accuracy she couldn’t handle. Art and Patrick on the sidelines were into the game, cheering, calling out remarks on your moves. The moves they’d helped you get back. You were more than grateful with every point you scored. The crowd cheered for both you and your opponent but it was your name you heard screamed out in the crowd. 

It got a bit intense at times, you fell behind for a while but came back, then went back down again, then came back up. The halfway point you spent thanking your best friends profusely while they urged you to rest and have water. You got back on the court after that, swinging, hitting, forehand, backhand, pulling a few moves that required the use of the leg you’d broken and though the crowd held their breath, they were more than impressed. Patrick watched Art stop cheering and clapping for a second, noting the way he was so honed in on you, Patrick was sure a bomb could go off behind Art and he wouldn’t notice. Art was proud, that was what he felt. Proud to know you, proud to be your friend, proud to feel the way he did about you because he knew that you were amazing and resilient and so fucking strong. He had never met anyone like you. 

You locked eyes with him before your opponent served and he swore he felt something shift, really shift. When this game ended he had to tell you how he felt. He couldn’t go without it, he had to tell you. 

The last quarter got increasingly more intense. You fell once at a move that required the leg you’d broken. The crowd gasped and Art lunged to help you up but you did it yourself. And you got right back up. The fall hurt, but no more than it would have a regular person. That was something that drove your confidence way up. You couldn’t even hear the score anymore. You just knew that you were there and you were playing and you couldn’t have been happier, even if you lost. But the buzzer went off and the game was done and it was almost like you went deaf. The cheers stopped, though they really didn’t, in fact they roared louder than ever before and the crowd launched itself into standing, their hands over their heads, mouths open wide absolutely wild. 

You knew you’d won. But it wasn’t that important. You had one thought- find Art. 

And he wasn’t hard to find. He was there on the sidelines or rather one of the many people who surrounded you when you won. Your other friends, your parents, your coach, Patrick, the staff of the game, and apparently a few nurses who came to see their patient play. But it was Art you reached for. You grabbed his forearms, bracing yourself, your eyebrows furrowing, “I won?” You questioned over the noise, over the hands that congratulated you. 

 Art, biggest grin on his face, “You won.” He answered. And he didn’t have a second to himself before you reached up, cupping his face and kissing him hard. There was nothing else to do in the presence of the win but kiss him. And he kissed you back just as hard. It felt like all the noise and all of the world was sucked away for a moment when his hands fell on your waist, pulling you closer. 

It was a small game with big victories. 

The kiss only lasted a few seconds but it was strong, and the feeling of him lingered on your lips when you parted. Nobody was surprised that you kissed. Not your mom, not the nurses, they’d known. You looked at Art and tried not to smile but it was over the second he grinned. You couldn’t help but grin right back as Patrick came in for a crushing hug. 

“That was fucking incredible!” He told you. Your cheeks began to hurt from smiling as you hugged everyone over your win. Thing eventually died down after a while, people happily funnelling out, congratulating you. But at the end of things it was just you and Art. Patrick had headed out to bring the car around. 

You twisted your mouth to the side, “I can’t believe how many people turned up.” You sighed, content. 

“You have that pull.” Art shrugged. “You are probably my biggest tennis inspiration now.”

“Mhm? You want to be me when you grow up?” You teased, stepping closer. Art smirked, but once again he couldn’t maintain it, he just smiled down at you. “I’m your biggest inspiration…”

He wasn’t afraid to put his arms around your waist. “Maybe, maybe not. But you are amazing. And so fucking good at tennis, I’m scared for your real comeback.” He said. You laughed and it was gorgeous. The front part of your braid fell out and around your face. “You’re going to kick my ass.” 

Your smile was brighter than the mid-day sun. “You bet.” 

Your heart fluttered when he tucked your hair behind your ear again. You both heard the car horn as Patrick beeped from outside the court. “Can I kiss you?” Art asked, pushing your hair behind your ear. You nodded. And this time it was his hand on your jaw, his lips pressing against yours with all of his feeling. It was a kiss untouched by the rush of adrenaline and it was sweet. And it was slow. His lips grazing over yours between kisses, his breath minty from the gum he had just spit out two minutes ago. He held you close and the kiss was full of words yet to be said. You both couldn’t ignore anything anymore. It had been a long time coming. Patrick honked again, but it took you another second before you both pulled away with small smiles. Your hands gently holding his forearms, bracing yourself. 

[acutiewithagun]

Melodic embarrassment

The turtles went out on a surprise patrol and Splinter had gone to some... event? He was very secretive about it so you paid it no mind, he was full of weird secrets you probably didn't want to know.

But this meant you were in the subway station they called the Lair. You had come over for game night, but that wouldn't be happening so you started cleaning up the board games.

The words of your favorite song start flooding out of your mouth as you start piling the boardgame boxes. You stop as you hoist the boxes up and look around, remembering the turtles won't be back for a while.

You smiled and allowed yourself to start singing again as you carried the pile to the games closet. You open the door and start placing the boxes on their respective shelves. Just as you finish you hear a crashing sound and snap your head to the sound. As you did so you accidentally slammed the door with a wince.

Leo was laying on the floor, as the others were giving you their own special brand of guilty expressions. You sigh and blush realizing they probably heard you as you sang.

"You guys were supposed to be gone for a while. What are you doing back so suddenly?" Leo quickly stood up and waltzed over to you. "It was a false alarm, so we decided to come back to our favorite friend." You gave him a look of unamusement at the answer as the other brother came out of their hiding places. "What about April?"

Donnie waved his hand dismissively. "Scoff, she is more like our sister at this point. But I have an inquiry, were you singing earlier?" The blush of embarrassment reappeared on your face as you turned away. "No, I was playing an acapella artist that does covers I like." That seemed like a reasonable excuse at the time.

"Oh who? I would love to listen to their voice again, it was great!" You paused, not having an answer and opened the closet again. "Eh, I think the original artist is better. What games do you guys want to play?"

Leo and Donnie quickly got in an argument over what game they wanted to play first as Raph left to get snacks. Mikey hovered at your shoulder. "Are you sure, I thought they were pretty good. It was like listening to an angel." That caused your cheeks to blush more as you grabbed a set of cards. "Ah ha! It was you! Nobody would blush in embarrassment at a comment like that if it didn't apply to them."

You pushed his face away as you made your way over to the beanbags. You crossed your arms as you flipped down on one, watching the aftermath of Leo's and Donnie's argument. Mikey had a mischievous smile as he sat next to you on the floor.

"Hey, we are gonna play uno!" You yelled over at them as Raph entered the room with a plethora of snack bags. "Great, deal Raph in too." He carefully set the bags down as Leo and Donnie begrudgingly joined the group.

That's when Mikey struck his evil scheme. "Would you mind signing for us while we play? I really enjoyed your voice!" Donnie raised one of his drawn on eyebrows in curiosity as Leo picked up on what his orange brother was doing. "Yeah, I only heard bits of it before I fell through the portal. Please sing more for us." Then both insistent turtles started doing puppy eyes at you as you dealt the cards, a vibrant blush covering your face.

Raph came to your rescue and smacked both guys in the back of the head as you started passing out the finished piles. "They don't need to do anything, leave 'em alone you two." The defeated turtle pouted as the game started.

Halfway through the game after many petty arguments and playful cheating you said something that stopped everyone in their tracks. "I can sing for you guys when we go to sleep."

That started a new goal: win the game and choose the song you would sing. You just laughed at their little display of competitiveness as you happily played a simple game with your friends.

[7grandmel]

Todays rip: 17/04/2024

Super Wonderful World

Season 2 Featured on: The Voice's Highest Quality Video Game Rips

Ripped by Marrow

(Curious about the abnormal audio embed? Read more here)

It's kind of ridiculous that I've taken this long to actually write something about Marrow that isn't so directly tied to his passing, isn't it? Like, yes, Telling Fish Tales is an absolutely beautiful rip, it is still likely my favorite of all of Marrow's output, don't get me wrong...but there was more to the guy than just his death, you know? The tributes have all been beautiful, to be sure, I love 8​-​bit Fish With Dreams in particular, but I want to discuss Marrow's own rips more as well as those. Because while I might not have known Marrow, and can't claim to know anything about him as a person, I know he was just a genuinely good, sincere, funny ripper, and Super Wonderful World is just a damn fun rip.

I've been wanting to cover something from Super Mario Sunshine on here for a very long time - it has almost as much of a notable presence on the channel as its older brother on the Nintendo 64, particularly in the early days. Super Mario 64's Slider theme is unbeatable, of course, WA-HOO DISCO and its brethren can't be toppled, but there's a case to be made that Super Mario Sunshine's iconic acapella-driven Secret Course theme is a more fun listen in terms of rips. There's just something inherently funny about remixing voice samples, even in an acapella context - there's tons of rips of Secret Course in particular because of this, that all play with those deews and doos to great effect.

Super Wonderful World is no exception to that, and the joke of it is made apparent just a few seconds into your listen, arranging Louis Armstrong's lovely What a Wonderful World with those aforementioned acapella sounds, yet...for some reason, it is still likely the one Secret Course rip that has stuck with me the longest. I'm not even sure if its due to any one reason I can pinpoint other than just "Marrow Magic": maybe its my attachment to What a Wonderful World from hearing it at a young age in the original Madagascar, or maybe its the sheer juxtaposition of such a silly sound being used to play such genuine beautiful jazz...OR maybe its the fucking hilarious visuals on the video that you need to be scrolling up to look at now that I've pointed it out. Spaghet. No matter what it is, it clicks - though I think that second point in particular is where the trick lies. Sort of like A Mambo Moment, a lot like My Dr. Eggman Can't Be This Evil!, the contrast in tone between the two tunes is the kind of thing that you'd only get from SiIvaGunner, or at least the only place where you'd get it done in such a genuine, high-quality way. This isn't just some midiswap, this has every bit and piece from What a Wonderful World, every part of its backing and every additional instrument playing throughout, recreated with such finesse - all to push a bit that, as the rip visuals emphasize, is mostly just meant to be funny.

There's an effort made in Super Wonderful World to make the bit not just funny, but very pleasant and listenable as well, is what I'm getting at. The SiIvaGunner ethos, distilled so perfectly in just one simple rip, distilled into a rip that for me has stayed endlessly replayable since its release, striking that perfect balance of novel and pleasant. And sure, there's a part of me that still wishes to dig further, to know lots more about Marrow than I do, to investigate and snoop about and maybe even find out what the Spaghet image is even about...but its also, in some way, just as pleasant to listen to his tunes in bliss, enjoying his work for what it is, not hung up on wishing I'd known more.

I wasn't Marrow's friend, but what he left behind still means a lot to me. And so, continue to celebrate it I shall - more than a long-gone name to be mentioned in SiIvaGunner event recaps, Marrow was downright fantastic at what he did - and I hope we'll all continue to remember and cherish that about him.

[spotsupstuff]

HOW are you so good at finding voice claims..give me ur power

JLKSDJSKLGJKCMK I LISTEN TO SHIT TON OF MUSIC I SUPPOSE? the more varied the better! from all over the world and as far into the years as possible and then the usual stuff like watching some videos, remembering shows that i used to like...

the Main thing i try to do when looking for voice claims is have an idea of what the characters main theme is. Disdain is an interesting case cuz i've gone thru three voices for her before settling on The One!

the key ideas with Disdain are: ghosts, england, tragedy, drowned victim, that specific ghostly blue/green which all come originally from This one. the song came first, character later

made Disdain a design and listened to this song while intensely looking at her face. figured out that this voice is too soft and too... royal, i suppose

so i focused at the song itself. it carries the specific Disdain™ vibes that i wish to respect and heed. the song is the foundation so i went on spotify and looked through the different covers of it. the Second version i landed on was this one

not bad but mmm.... lets look through some more versions. so i came to the Acapella Onion one

it was a comparison game between the two for a bit, staring into Disdain's face for like ten more minutes and then went with the Onion one because i like that it's more Brisk. a part of Disdain's thing is that she is very decisive. she wants Yes or No to her yes or no questions, she rarely uses words like "maybe" or "probably". when she Says something, she says it with Conviction. it's like a verbal karate chop to the throat. a karate chop is a fast, brisk thing, so the Onion version fits much better because of that

another reason why it's better is that it's less fancy, it's just voice and white noise, the way of speaking is more stripped/direct. interesting thing about Disdain's clothes design is that it's rather simple- her dress looks like a peasant one rather than something more worthy for a God. googling "england folk dress", you're gonna see some detailed glorious things, i could've taken inspiration There, but chose not to

so my voice claim choosing includes consideration of the personality, main theme of the design/character's story and the finalized design itself

i showed this new voice claim vid to my partner Just Now basically and he told me "you know, i feel like i would accept any voice that you would put on them" and like yeah, voice claims aren't really much of a rigid thing, you can be rather free with them. whether they fit to the character's face or not is a -so so gesture- way of going about it

so i quickly put together Zephyr's old (MALINDA) and updated (Zdenka Tichotová) voice claim

said he liked the old claim better! the thing is though that he doesn't really know Zephyr as a person

Zephyr didn't originate from a song like Disdain did. Zephyr originated from a historical religiously important person and bravery itself. she has a freer range of places to choose from compared to Disdain's tunnel vision of My Jolly Sailor Bold covers

originally i chose Malinda because Zephyr is supposed to be a mix of French and Irish inspired and the singer covers and knows a lot about Irish tunes. the protion of song chosen Feels like freedom, from singing in Irish to just belting out a single tone straight from the heart. it sounds like defiance. that's what Zephyr is about

the thing is that i listened to some more Malinda stuff later, trying to imagine Zephyr singing it and well... Malinda is originally an American person. the curse of successful Americans rears its head again in the form of superficiality/faked Booming emotions and annoying pride (not sayin that every American has this but... the successful ones especially are so so likely to fall to it) and my Gods Zephyr can't have something like that stapled to her. she's supposed to be genuine and simple

so i went searching for something that is more anchored in humanity/the earth. when i want something like That i usually head either to my childhood or my czechoslovak spotify playlist jgslkgjklsd

Zdenka Tichotová has worked with Nedvedovci in folk-gospel band Spirituál Kvintent in the 70s and 80s. Nedvedovci often sung and wrote songs mourning not enough love in the world. or about freedom of the people here back when we had Lords here but also for example about freedom from the censorship of the Soviets. they are incredibly grounded and covered in the humane and miss Tichotová was bound to follow along with them

THAT's what i wanted for Zephyr more than anything. the fact that one could argue miss Tichotová's voice is "imperfect", not smooth, has traces of age in it makes it *even* better. because it sounds genuine. it's not some studio's idea of mechanical perfect, the One Good Take that then goes through editing and autotune and what not, it's Real and Honest

so that is also what i consider when choosing voice claims for my guys- some history of the voice, what the character symbolizes...

hope this helps at least a lil!!!

[rosewind2007]

The party was so loud. It was being held at The Big House, which actually has capitals everywhere—even when people speak they somehow pronounce the capital letters. It (The House) belonged to the whole community, and was used for all the large social gatherings. I had been told by everyone that I didn’t need to attend this one; but if all my clients were going to be there, I couldn’t not go.

I walked from room to room. The loudness was different in the different rooms; one room had a group of people with small drums made of animal skins; another had people singing acapella (apparently this is the style of singing and not a food type); another room had poetry. Everywhere there were people making music and sounds; using interfaces and visual display surfaces playing media. There were party-goers recording other people at the party, and showing those recordings on displays. Everywhere there were people talking and laughing and singing and drumming and dancing and touching and communicating in every way you can imagine; and then more. For a construct designed to constantly data mine all these streams of input were compelling. I didn’t want or need to gather any of this, but it was almost irresistible. I wanted to run away, out of The Big House and far away into the cold, clear, silent night. But if I did that now I knew my clients, my friends, would come after me.

There was one room I hadn’t tried yet. On my plans it was marked as out of use. Someone else had been messing with the building schematics, hacking them. I could tell, even though whoever it was had taken care to cover their tracks, sweeping over their metaphorical footprints. All this made me curious. I found the door, in a corridor full of the same hubbub as the rest of The House. The door had a lock, but it was so simple I hardly even noticed hacking it. There was a low clunk and I turned the handle and slipped into the room, closing the door behind me.

It was warm, but not the sweaty moist warmth of the other rooms; this felt comfortable. There was a fire crackling in the hearth, with a good pile of wood and tree seed pods set around it, whose (the seed pods’) resin gave a pleasant aroma to the air. I wondered briefly if the volatiles in the smoke were a mild narcotic.

I took all this in instantly, and the sofa. And the complete silence; except for the sound of the fire, and someone softly breathing. And the emptiness of the local feed, and the complete absence of any bleed through from the rest of the house. Nothing except a gentle wave of curiosity from the figure sat on the sofa. Sat pretending I hadn’t just crashed in here. A figure which hadn't even twitched or turned its head when I entered; sitting there still and calm. I’d say ‘sitting still as a SecUnit’, but SecUnits don’t generally sit—I’m the only one that does. Sits, that is.

But it, or rather he, wasn’t quite still; humans and augmented humans often react physically in ways they find very hard or impossible to control; and this one’s heart rate had jumped slightly. The way his always does when he sees me walk into a room; for fuck’s sake, I only held him against the wall by his neck the once. It’s not as if I made a habit of it.

“Hello, SecUnit.” Gurathin didn’t even try to pretend he was pleased to see me.

“It’s loud.”

“Yes, that’s why I prefer to sit in here.”

“Alone.” I don’t even know why I felt the need to say that. He was sitting in a locked room, he knew.

“You are very welcome to join me. Please sit down; I have a blanket too, which you might like.” He was gesturing at a pile next to the sofa. He also, very tentatively pushed a file at me in the otherwise empty local feed area. It was funny though, the local feed area was empty, but not cold and lonely. It felt warm too, somehow. It would have been stupidly rude not to sit down after that. The file was about the blanket, it was of a type I’d seen before but had not had an opportunity to investigate. It was a traditional item, and its primary benefit wasn’t warmth (though they were soft and warm) but weight. They helped people sleep, something I didn’t do (obviously) and also relax (which people tell me I need to do). I sat down, as far from Gurathin as was polite and possible, and pulled the blanket over me.

The blanket felt heavy and warm (and somehow safe) over my lap and legs. The fire was crackling and the pattern of the flames danced across the walls. I looked down at the rug my, now our, feet rested on and noticed Gurathin’s augmented foot looked sort of vulnerable. His other (human) foot was all wrapped up warm in a slipper sock. I don’t like people looking at my feet, and I don’t know if Gurathin feels the same way about his foot, so I just indicated in the feed that I’d be fine with him tucking it under the blanket. I did this before I realized how weird this sounds—he didn’t seem to think it was weird.

So then we were there. Both on the sofa, neither of us saying anything or doing anything. The shared feed was silent. The blanket lay across me, and Gurathin’s foot.

It sounds really awkward, but perhaps the weirdest thing was that it wasn’t. I’m not sure how long we sat like that, but after some time it struck me that I had a new piece of media (which I’d heard was really good) and I’d like to watch it. I could just watch it alone, Gurathin wouldn’t even know. But I was in what was clearly “his” room, and—it seemed rude not to at least mention it. He was surprised, but pleased. Only then we hit a snag. Gurathin had set this room up to prevent him being thwarted in his desire to be alone. And now he wanted, we wanted, to share the media and watch it together.

I think he realised first what the obvious solution was, but he somehow felt even more, well, diffident about suggesting it. His physical augments were visible at his foot, on his face, in his eye and also very clearly his right hand. His hand, which was just laying there on the sofa. Before I changed my mind, or he said something stupid, I just grabbed it with my own and initiated a link. It was like having a shared local feed, but rather more…intimate.

I ignored all his immediate physical responses, I know humans are just like that. He calmed down fairly quickly, and then we could watch the media. Together. Like when ART and I first watched media together I realized I was getting context I don’t usually get. It was novel, and strange but not unpleasant. I think Gurathin was feeling something similar.

Which was why, when Ratthi barged in we both apparently looked so guilty.

Because @gauzyfruitcake did this amazing picture and I wanted to explain how the HELL they could end up like this…

[cowboytuba]

🎶✨when u get this, put 5 songs u actually listen to, publish. then, if you're comfortable, send this ask/tag 10 of your followers (positivity is cool) 🎶✨

Got tagged by both the cool artist @mostlikelydead and the cool streamer @leahplease, so instead of just going with just 5, I'll do 5 regular songs and 5 songs from other media that all live in my brain.

5 normal songs (Like the purpose is only be a song)

Had Enough by Breaking Benjamin - Ok I gotta admit that young Tuba liked to listen to edgy music and imagine situations. However, this has sentimental value as Phobia was the first CD I ever had which papa Tuba gave to me way back when.

Wenn sie tanzt by Wise Guys - Way back when, Tuba studied german back in school and on valentines we translated a song from them, "Willst Du Mit Mir Gehen" and I was taken by the energy. Years later, I eventually got the album and this became a favorite. There's also a radio edit with additional instruments but the acapella works better for me. God I should take up my german studies again.

War by OutKast - Another first for young Tuba. Phobia was the first cd given to me, but Speakerboxxx/The Love Below was the first album I purchased myself and an introduction to music as an ability to make a political statement, a new concept to young tuba whose biggest worry was thinking about school and mama Tuba worrying about me running into discrimination in a majority hispanic district. Needless to say, it only grew on me as I became more aware of the world and started venturing out further and student size grew and grew and I became a minority in the student pool.

Seasons by DragonForce - Ok this one is much more simple. I was getting into Rock and loved how the song sounded when I was younger and still love it now. Some sick solos.

The Devil Went Down to Georgia by Charlie Daniels Band - A toe taper that I can just belt out when driving anywhere to help pass the time and feel real good doing it. Though unfortunately still trapped by the common idea that country is only made by and for right wing leaners and bible thumpers which Charlie Daniels definitely leans. Guitar Hero III cover was cool too.

5 songs made for other media

Madness 4 by Cheshyre for Madness Combat 4- while listening to music I was probably too young to be listening too, I was also on the internet browsing sites like Newgrounds before I should've and happened across the Madness Combat series which was an interesting creative partnership between musician Cheshyre and animator Krinkles where both music and animation are created in tandem and beat for beat. One of the first produced this way after their partnership cemented and the beat lives in me. Still makes really good electronic music too.

Nightmare Fiction II By Daisuke Ishiwatari for Blazblue - While most now associate Daisuke with Guilty Gear since Strive really blew up in common knowledge, he also did a lot of work for Blazblue's soundtrack with themes I may like better than Guilty Gear's. Nightmare Fiction II follows an occurrence in Blazblue where older songs were remade to give a fresh take on years old tracks. Of course the old ones are still available, but for the most part, the II version is better with Nightmare Fiction standing especially. One can feel the hatred and animosity in the track, giving way to a tense, yet still hateful, clarity in the middle of the track. and the Solo.... Man we're never getting another Blazblue.

Living Failures by Nobuyoshi Suzuki for Bloodborne - Where do I begin? The emotions are high for the entire track and leads into one of the best second phase themes in From History. The choir, the French Horns, the immediate plunge into a fucking drive of strings, horns, and choir that only builds and builds ever higher. Legit brings tears to my eyes with how beautiful it is.

Heynong Man by Chris Christodoulou for Deadbolt - A familiar name to Risk of Rain soundtrack lovers as Deadbolt was the devs previous game before RoR. A chunky bass and saw of a lead drives the song forward on and on from one groovy bit to the next. Just nice listening on a walk as it gives a strong beat to walk with and the energy to just take it all in, music and whatever you're walking through.

Altars of Apostasy (incl. "Halls of Sacrilegious Remains") by Heaven Pierce Her for Ultrakill - Hakita, goddamn Hakita. He is a different beast entirely when it comes to game dev, design, and music. Inspired by Black Metal, this track maxes out at 7 fucking guitars playing at once at the densest section. It is a goddamn beast of track well deserving of being with the layer of Heresy. Even the reference to Glory, a different Ultrakill track, is thrown in as it helps give a lighter moment to an otherwise dark as hell track. and after a huge leadup, wind down, and lead up once more is the second section, Halls of Sacrilegious Remains, inspired by a beta tester using Castle Vein for a hype moment. This lead Hakita to holding off reusing Hideous Masses until the end of the level where the rematch with Gabriel is hyped up before a gauntlet is thrown at the player to a black metal rendition of Castle Vein. When I think of the highest hope I could ever have when making music, it's to eventually inspire the same feelings in someone that I feel listening to this track

Let's see, uhhh, @eunique, you got music you wanna gush about?

[nutteu]

the almost under your skin

-

[AO3]

There was something morbidly funny about avoiding bananas so vehemently, in hiding the tremble of his fingers, in covering himself in as many layers as possible in the summer. There was something devastatingly quiet in breathing in the air of repressed memory and fear that never quite made it into the surface, forever trapped under his epidermis. [Sykkuno-centric; because sometimes we ignore warning labels; published 2021-10-14; word count: 13,090]

-

It started out innocent enough, so easy. Sometimes it was laughably simple, to pull on the loose string of a stitch and watch as the tangle of yarn unravel.

One moment Sykkuno was wearing the same shirt five times in a week. Because he had three shirts with the same color, with the same pattern; because he had a washing machine. His friends had jokingly complained about it. Change your shirt, do you really like that one, did you shower, and he would laugh in high-ringing laughter that fit in with the rest of them. He liked his shirts, and then he didn’t.

The next moment, Sykkuno was wearing a thick sweater, with another shirt underneath, and another undershirt beneath it. Sweat was beading down his neck, and there might be something melancholic in being baked alive and listening to sweet acapella songs in the early evening. He didn’t really know, never bothered to check. There weren’t many things he looked into these days. He wondered when he became so stagnant, so stranded.

“You’re going to die from heatstroke,” Toast said in a low voice, and put a finger on the bead of sweat. It jolted Sykkuno into action, and the man frowned. He removed his finger. “Just shed off the sweater. We don’t have air con out in the open.”

“You’re exaggerating,” he said, and forced out a laugh because there had to be something said and done, lest someone looked past his bravado. “I’m fine. The breeze is enough. It’s going to be cold soon.”

“You’re soaked in sweat,” Toast deadpanned.

Sykkuno smiled and pretended that the conversation never happened. If he believed it enough, it might be overlooked and they never had to talk about this anymore. He discovered recently that he was a big fan of ‘not-talking-about-it’. When he didn’t say anything for another two minutes, Toast averted his eyes to their group of friends, and he let out a sigh.

Lily’s sweet voice blended in with Corpse’s low timbre, and Sykkuno wished everything could feel like this all the time. The soft breeze that didn’t quite manage to dispel the heat underneath the layers of fabric, the twang of the guitar, the crackle of the campfire they had painstakingly built, the soft hush of conversations that lulled them away from the fact that it was mere seven hours away from Monday.

Brodin took pictures of their outing, and Sykkuno wasn’t fast enough to cover his smile when the man directed the camera at him. He scooted over and showed the picture to him. Sykkuno looked serene, and nothing at all like the low simmer of nausea that consistently resided in his gut.

“You look relieved,” Brodin said, and Sykkuno looked at him through his bangs. Brodin had this knack of seeing things beyond what people put on the table, beyond what they had guarded so closely to their hearts.

Sykkuno swallowed and politely asked him to delete the picture. It felt like a lie, and so, it shouldn’t exist. If he believed that it was a lie, then it wasn’t real.

-

Out of everything his friends had said to him, he remembered vividly what Rae had said. She said, he was too nice. She said, he should be careful, because there were a lot of people with a penchant for abusing people’s kindness, and if he wasn’t careful, then he might find himself in a world of trouble.

He didn’t know how to tell her that she was right. Usually, Sykkuno wasn’t afraid of admitting his mistakes, never shying away from apologies. But this time, he felt the burn of embarrassment over admitting that it was his fault to begin with. That it wouldn’t happen if he was careful, if he had seen it sooner, if he just stopped being nice for a moment.

He was terrified of the fact that he had made a mistake, and that it could never be fixed with simple apologies. It was his fault, and he kept it closely within the calluses on his fingertips.

Sometimes Sykkuno looked at himself in the mirror, looked at his hips, and his neck, and the shape of his face. There were the ghosts of fingers placing bruises on those places, and it wouldn’t happen if he weren’t so nice. So he rubbed on his hips, his neck, his face; rubbed them so harsh his skin was red and bruised by the end of it. But the whisper of the fingers was still there, and he had nowhere to run from his skin.

He was trapped underneath the epidermis—like his mistake, like his fear, like the fingers that gripped him so tightly and never let go.

He wished he was a little bit less nice, and a whole lot stronger. He wished, and before long, he realized that he had stopped picking up people’s things when they dropped it, had walked away from people asking for directions, had turned down a lot of invitations, and looked away when people aimed a smile at him. If he were a little bit less kind, he could stop the touch of the fingers from haunting his nights.

(But he knew that all it did was alienate him from everything else in his world, and left him stranded and alone with the fingers gripping his hips, closing over his neck, cradling his face. It was another mistake he wasn’t willing to say, and he kept it close within his fingertips, along with everything that had happened, and had never happened. Because he refused to believe it, and so, it wasn’t supposed to be real.)

-

His friends didn’t understand why Sykkuno started picking up cigarettes, and he never told them why either. It felt too much like opening a can of worms he wasn’t ready to deal with. So he stewed in his silence, and his friends chalked it up as something that would inevitably happen. A lot of people smoke, there shouldn’t be anything strange if Sykkuno started doing it, too.

If they noticed how his fingers trembled each time he held a cigarette between them, he certainly never heard anything about it.

The thing was, Sykkuno didn’t even have the intention to smoke. He wasn’t curious, nor was he interested in smoking. The acrid taste stayed on his tongue like a cloying nightmare, and he hated how hard it was to properly learn how to suck in the smoke before releasing it in an exhale. He learned quickly, though. He smoked a lot.

He said that it was just a habit he picked up along the way, and his friends reluctantly believed it. They didn’t ask where exactly he picked it up from. His friends smoked, too. But he spent years with them and he never even tried one to humor them. But Sykkuno had always been adamant in keeping his feelings inside a box with a tightly closed lid, and everyone learned to never pry him for something he wasn’t ready for. It took him a while to realize that he was treated like something fragile. He didn’t know what to feel about that back then.

But now, all he felt was fear. That he would be treated like glass, like a ticking time bomb if they ever found out that what Sykkuno didn’t say was that cigarettes felt like safety. That it was the painful drag of unfamiliar substance over a cold night in December, that it was the fumble of badly shaking fingers as he tried to not cough or choke on the smoke. What he didn’t say was that it wasn’t the cigarette as much as it was a chance to run away from a memory he tried so hard to forget.

So he stood next to Peter while their friends chattered away in the diner, pulling out a cigarette and lighting it up with a practiced flick of his fingers. He had a gross amount of practice. Because it was almost August and it had been eight months since December, and he still didn’t know how to run away properly. He was stagnant, stranded, trapped in a night when he made the biggest mistake of his life; a shame he could never erase.

Peter never asked, though. Sometimes he offered the lighter, and sometimes he offered his cigarettes when Sykkuno forgot to bring his own. There were moments when he looked at Sykkuno as if he wanted to say something, as if he knew about something. But those moments went away as quickly as the smoke that dispersed in the early autumn night.

The closest thing to truth that Sykkuno had ever said was that one time they went to Peter’s place, and he leaned on the railing of the balcony, taking a drag of nicotine into his lungs with Peter standing close next to him.

“I hate smoking,” he said, and Peter nodded. Maybe they all had just tried to be nice and let Sykkuno go on with his façade. “I hate remembering even more, though.”

Peter paused, and looked at him. There was a question waiting at the tip of his tongue, but Sykkuno didn’t look away from the night view of the city, and so the question never met the cold air of the night. They stayed in heavy silence.

Peter stopped smoking after that.

-

The thing was, in a way, Sykkuno had let it happen.

See, it didn’t happen in the blink of an eye. It happened in slow motion, and God, how he felt stupid for not seeing the looming danger on the horizon. The thing about humans was that they never realized their blind spots, and most of the time, they didn’t have anyone around to point it out either. So Sykkuno was blinded by a sweet smile and easy conversation, and awkwardness that slowly seeped out of his veins. He had felt comfortable, he had talked out of his own volition, and he was the one who sat there, long enough for his mistakes to catch up on him.

His t-shirt was thin, because he had left his jacket in Toast’s car. Because clubs were supposed to be packed to the brim with people, and not even the cold air of December could penetrate the thickness of sexual tension and frustration that people brought into the establishment. This time, the bouncer didn’t refuse Sykkuno entrance for wearing a t-shirt while his friends were dressed to the nine. He probably couldn’t be bothered, or maybe he just wanted to get it over with, because the cold air was biting and he had been standing there for too long to manage the people trying to get into the club.

Either way, Sykkuno was grateful that he didn’t have to borrow his friends’ clothes anymore. Perhaps, he should have. His friends liked dressing him up in intricate layers that fit to a certain stylish standard that he could never see the point and appeal of, could never understand the formula of putting on several different things into a complete attire.

But Sykkuno's t-shirt was thin, and he wasn’t shivering because the air in the club was dense and stuffed. He said, he didn’t really like drinking, because he didn’t particularly like bitter alcohol. The man had laughed, and Sykkuno remembered he had been mesmerized by it. When he looked back at it, he almost cried from laughing too much.

Because the nicest and the worst thing that the man had done for him that night, was ordering him a Dirty Banana.

It was sweet, and palatable on his tongue, and he smiled as the man paid for his drink. Oh, God, he was so handsome, and Sykkuno couldn’t look away from him. It wasn’t the kind of attractiveness that Sykkuno was familiar with, but he welcomed it nonetheless. He made another mistake of not looking at his drink when it was served.

But it was Dirty Banana, and it was sweet, and he laughed at the flirtatious joke the man had thrown his way. There was a slice of banana on the rim of the glass, and the man had taken that, pushed it into his mouth with tantalizing slowness that made Sykkuno's throat dry. Oh, God, he was so handsome, and Sykkuno was so, so stupid.

When the world spun around, he staggered to the packed bathroom. He saw Brodin, thought of calling out to him, because Brodin would always be willing to take Sykkuno home early. But his gut was churning, and the sight of people pressing against each other had become so blurry, and he had to lean on the wall to support himself.

And then there were fingers, pressing into the side of his hips, an arm around his waist, and Sykkuno leaned heavily on the hard chest behind him. He said, he wasn’t feeling good. He said, maybe he should go home. But his words fell on deaf ears, and Sykkuno wished that he had screamed instead. Because his world had zeroed in on a handsome face and charming smile and easy conversation, and it made the stench of his mistakes all that sharper on his nose. Because his world wouldn’t listen, so perhaps somebody else would.

But nobody could hear him here, in the empty alleyway where the cold brick wall dug into his back, and the cold air of December night made shivers break out all over his skin. Nobody could hear his softly whispered ‘no’, not even himself.

Then there was a leg shoved between his, and his body was unbelievably hot and weak. Like a liquid, like the worst of time to make a mistake. There were fingers, cradling his face gently, whispers of how pretty he was, how perfect, how he’d make Sykkuno feel so good, how he was a fucking dumb bitch for trusting a stranger in a club. His t-shirt was thin and it easily made way for strong hands pressing bruises on his hips, on his neck, a thumb pressing against his lips, and Sykkuno gagged from fear and shame.

He didn’t think that something so horrible could feel so gentle. Because he was kissed as if he was a lover, he was touched as if he was someone beloved, he was called with a sweet voice as if this wasn’t forced and he was instead in the embrace of someone he wanted. But Sykkuno had wanted him, hadn’t he? There wasn’t any world out there that didn’t spell out that this wasn’t his fault, from the beginning to the end.

And so Sykkuno swallowed back his scream, his shame, the churning nausea of his stupidity. This was his fault anyway, so why didn’t he just accept the retribution? He deserved this for not listening to his friends, for being too nice, for a t-shirt that was too thin, for a tongue that couldn’t handle bitter things, for laughing at goddamned distasteful jokes and a slice of banana.

“That’s right, darling,” the man whispered, and ran a hand through Sykkuno's hair so softly, like this wasn’t a wretched version of an embrace. “You want this.”

No one heard the ‘no’ he uttered; not the man, not even Sykkuno himself.

He wondered, if his friends were to find out. Would they be angry? Sad, on his behalf? Disappointed at his mistakes, be ashamed because he wasn’t strong enough to defend himself? Would they try to fix him, or try to forget that it happened altogether? Because Sykkuno didn’t feel broken. He just felt fractured, and there was no one to blame for that but himself.

The night was bustling, and Sykkuno had hickeys all over his neck, and he felt so sick that he wanted to throw up. The fingers on his hips were the only thing that wasn’t gentle, and he relished in the reminder that this was unwanted; stewed over the roiling pain that this was his fault.

But then those fingers were gone, and there were screaming and the sound of flesh hitting flesh, and Sykkuno was hauled into another set of arms as he stumbled through the alleyway and into the bustling streets. There were people there, but he could no longer scream, and he knew that no one would take a second look at him. He wondered briefly, that if he were to scream back in the club, would this still happen? It was too soon for him to be hit with another bleak possibility.

He was seated in a circle of people. They all looked ragged and carefree, and they laughed at Sykkuno. He felt like crying. He didn’t know where he was, and he still felt the taste of banana in his throat, and God, was there even a universe out there where he wasn’t an idiot?

But they laughed, and they asked if Sykkuno was dumb, and they pressed cool clothes on his skin, and gave him a bottle of water to chug on. He spilled water all over himself and a girl tsked in irritation. He tried to apologize, but his throat was parched and his tongue felt numb.

He was leaning on a ratty car seat that had been pulled out of its original place, and there was a small campfire that they all huddled together around. He watched the flicker of fire and the crackle of the burner, thinking of life after this night. How could he pick himself up after this? What did people even do in this kind of situation? Did they scream and cry? Did they brush it off and continue as if nothing amiss had happened in their lives? He didn’t know the correct protocol, and the girl with orange hair was right, he was too dumb to think straight.

Someone was shaking him, and he blearily tried to open his eyes. Someone was talking to him, but he couldn’t make out the words. He was too drowsy, the press of wet cloth on his neck calming and offering him a respite from the turmoil inside his mind. His body didn’t feel like it was his own; too numb and uncoordinated to properly move.

There were groans of irritation, and then he was hauled into someone’s arms. They said, they were going to help him. He didn’t know whether he should believe it or not. He didn’t know whether help meant something better or worse. There were a lot of things he didn’t know about tonight. Whatever might happen, he was too powerless to stop it.

But then he woke up in a room where everything was white, and there were three unfamiliar faces staring at him. He didn’t know them, but they seemed to know him. One of them grinned and said that he was down several bucks for the medical treatment, because they didn’t have money to pay for it after paying for the taxi fare. They said he had been sleeping for a day straight, and that some evidence had been collected from his body, in case he wanted to press charges.

Sykkuno was far too disoriented and nauseous to even think properly. All he wanted to do was to go home, curl up on his bed, and die of shame. The nurse gave him his clothes and phone, and told him to wait several hours more to see if there would be any health complications. He listened to him while Tetra, the girl said her name was, helped him drink some water. His throat was sore and dry and he tried to push down the memories surfacing onto his mind.

They were rebels, they said. They weren’t exactly homeless, but they didn’t go back to their families. They hung out with their friends, and sometimes they met someone like Sykkuno. They were ruthless in saying that he was an idiot, but Nicholas, the guy who had spotted him in the alley, said that his friends were just joking, that it wasn’t his fault. Sykkuno had stopped and threw up on the sidewalk upon hearing that.

It was nighttime, and they rubbed his back as he threw up whatever he had in his stomach. When the bitter taste of stomach acid hit his tongue, he was crying. Nicholas whispered something in his ear; something gentle, something Sykkuno couldn’t believe. They didn’t take him home, because he didn’t say he wanted to, and he told Toast that he was alright. He was just meeting some friends. He ignored the phone calls afterward.

When he sat around the circle of Nicholas’ friends, they all laughed at him again, but they also offered to hunt the bastard down and he laughed because he didn’t even know what he wanted. So they gave him a weird vegetable smoothie that tasted horrible, and taught him how to inhale smoke properly from the cigarette that Tetra had offered to him.

He choked and his eyes were watering, and they all laughed. But Nicholas offered him a bottle of water, and they all got into the bus and walked him home. He thought that it was laughable, how these strangers knew what happened to him, and he couldn’t even pick up Toast’s phone calls. Between the ten of them, they only have two phones that they used interchangeably. They gave Sykkuno both numbers and gave him a pack of cigarettes. They said they couldn’t give him nicer things because they were broke. So Sykkuno accepted it and didn’t tell them he wasn’t a smoker. Everybody could be a smoker, and he could start becoming one.

Cigarettes made his throat dry and his mouth felt like something had died in it. But he had been taught how to inhale two times before letting the smoke settle in his lungs, and exhale it through his mouth and nose. He didn’t like the taste, but he liked the feeling of knowing what he was doing, of being steady on his feet after the spectacular shitshow he had set up for himself.

Nicholas said that it wasn’t his fault, and Sykkuno nodded as they walked away from his front door, singing love songs in the wrong tune. He curled up on his couch, and cried until he fell asleep. He never told anyone that it had been his fault—every single thing. He didn’t think he could handle the shame and guilt.

So he didn’t press charges, and the hospital kept the DNA, and he started smoking in December, and he made friends with ten punks who only had two cellphones between them and harsh jokes that they all laughed at as if Sykkuno was a part of it. He thought that he might just be the biggest joke that had stumbled into their lives.

-

They all were huddled up in a diner booth, and Leslie ordered a banana smoothie, and Sykkuno clenched his thigh so harshly. He didn’t say anything, but Brodin put a hand on top of his and held his hand through the chattering. He thought that maybe Brodin knew, somehow; that maybe the odor of his shame was so strong, wafting off of his skin in roiling waves.

He excused himself to the bathroom, and threw up his meager lunch. His mouth felt like it had a cotton ball in it, and he sat on the toilet seat afterwards. His body wasn’t trembling, his fingers were. Sometimes he looked at them and thought of cutting them off. Because what haunted his nights weren’t the gentle whisper of wretched things, weren’t the kisses on his lips and his skin, wasn’t the bleak promise of something worse. It was the fingers, on his hips, digging in until they broke the skin barrier and made a home in the cradle of his bones.

Sykkuno threw out all the bananas in his fridge, avoided the rows of them on the supermarket aisle, and vehemently denied that he was scared. Because it was ridiculous. Out of everything that had happened, he decided to be traumatized by a goddamned banana. It was funny, and he cried about it for two hours until he had to run to the bathroom to throw up.

“You’re not okay,” Brodin said, pressing fingertips on Sykkuno's temple. His voice was low, even if they were away from their friends. “You look like you’re constantly being chased by something.”

He was frozen in place. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t know how to say it out loud. It was something so simple, but it weighed like a stone in his chest. He didn’t know what was worse—being told that it wasn’t his fault, or being looked at with pity. He didn’t think he was ready for either of those.

Logically, he knew that it wasn’t supposed to be his fault. But how could he believe it when he had been the one wearing a thin t-shirt, had been the one sitting there talking and laughing with him, had taken the drink with his own hands, had wanted him in the first place. He was dumb, dumb, dumb. He couldn’t have known beforehand how hard it was to admit that.

So he didn’t, and let Brodin hold his hand as if he was breaking apart. Sykkuno liked to think that he was alright, that he was only fractured. There should be a big difference, right? A fracture wasn’t something to worry about. It would heal over time, and if it didn’t, then he should have been able to handle it. He couldn’t possibly be that useless, could he? If he had endured that mistake he made in December, he could deal with the fracture that he had made with his own hands.

-

He looked in the mirror one day and the words he had said echoed in his mind. Pretty, perfect, dumb. He wondered how exactly he looked like to other people, people like him. If he were taller, bigger, rougher around the edges, would it still happen? If he were stronger, wasn’t so polite and delicate, would he still be approached by him?

His skin was pale and unblemished, but Sykkuno could see the stark bruises that had faded for months. For the most part, the only thing he felt was disgust and shame and guilt. But sometimes, he felt so angry and he didn’t know whether it was directed at himself, that man, or the world. He supposed it was all three of them. He punched the walls in his bathroom until his knuckles bleed, until he was breathless from exertion and tears. He would stare at his messed up hand and went out for a smoke, letting the air bring a new wave of pain over the broken skin. He wished he could be like his hand; if he was wounded it would heal eventually, and there would be no sign left of previous atrocity but scars that could barely be seen.

He didn’t heal. His fracture didn’t close up, and the invisible bruises always felt fresh every single day. Sometimes Sykkuno thought of the cause. Fractures didn’t just come up out of nowhere. But he found out that it was just as hard to admit that something had happened to him, that he had been knocked down and touched with strong fingers. That he had been fractured. It didn’t feel right to cry out about something that was his fault to begin with.

So he called one of the two new numbers he had in his phone, and they all merrily walked him to a hairstylist. The customers and the staff gave them a dirty look for being so loud and ragged, but Sykkuno liked their presence. They said that Sykkuno would look cool with an undercut.

“Like that one model in the magazine!” Cherry had exclaimed, and then laughed when Tetra reminded her that she had stolen said magazine.

Sykkuno came out of the place with ten not-quite-homeless punks, sporting lavender hair and an undercut. He felt fresh, felt new. He felt like his throat was clogging up because he knew this was just an act of running away. Nicholas put an arm around Sykkuno's shoulder and said that he was the Boss man, that he looked dandy as fuck.

He didn’t know what kind of things they had seen, but the moment Sykkuno said that he wanted to get a piercing, there was a look that crossed their faces and for a second he was paralyzed in fear. He felt like they knew exactly what he was doing, could read between the lines, could see the tremble of his fingers even if he hid them in his pockets. But they just jostled him and said that he was becoming a rebel like them, and pointed him out to this tattoo and piercing parlor that they said was nice, but too expensive for them to actually go into.

He had two piercings on his left ear, one on his right, and a small tattoo of lavender on his hips. They said he looked good with it. They said it suited his hair. He didn’t tell that it was because he wanted to see something else on his hips other than the invisible bruises.

His friends were shocked, but they all looked happy enough. Corpse was practically vibrating in his seat as he ranted to Sykkuno about earrings and having matching tattoos together, said that he was so cool and it fit him so well, and would he like some of Corpse’s chains and rings to complete the look?

Toast ran a hand through his hair, and didn’t say anything. Sykkuno let him; let the soothing motion lull him to drowsiness. When he woke up, everyone was gone, and there was nothing left but ladened silence in their wake. Toast had always been close to him, closer than anyone he had ever allowed to. He thought that maybe he could finally say it, if it was Toast. But his piercings felt new and aching, and the studs caught the shine of the overhead lamp, and his tattoo felt like it was burning on his skin. So he kept his mouth shut, until Toast sighed, as if Sykkuno had hurt him.

“Do you really want this?” he asked instead.

“Maybe, I don’t know,” Sykkuno answered, as truthfully as he could. “I feel like I had to.”

Toast’s lips pressed into a thin line. But he didn’t push, just ran his hand through Sykkuno's hair. It still smelled faintly like bleach and hair dye. “You look good,” he finally said, and closed his eyes.

Sykkuno lay there in silence, and stared at the lamp above them until his eyes watered. If he was crying, he told himself it was because of the harsh glare of the light.

-

Sykkuno didn’t wear chains or necklaces with pendants. Instead, he bought a bunch of chokers and put them on and relished in the sight of something else wrapped around his neck. He went back to the tattoo parlor with Nicholas and had a constellation inked alongside his lavender, had smattering of lilies on the other side. They looked like they were cradling his hips, and he pressed on them from beneath layers of fabric. They gave him a sense of safety; that people could still press bruises there but it wouldn’t show from beneath the starkness of his inks.

Rae said she liked this new look on him. That he looked more confident now. That he looked so chick and pretty with his new earrings and choker, and Sykkuno didn’t throw up. It had been more than a year, he wasn’t healing still, but he taught himself how to hear the same words without breaking out in a cold sweat.

Peter didn’t smoke, but he still stood next to Sykkuno in silence when he did. Brodin held his hand when they sat next to each other in cafés and diners and restaurants. Toast still looked at him as if Sykkuno was breaking his heart.

He took everything in stride and told himself that this wasn’t denial.

Cherry and Tetra and Nara taught him how to layer himself in clothes that wouldn’t suffocate him so much in the summer. So Sykkuno was down several thousand bucks from buying a whole set of new outfits for his wardrobe. The girls liked dressing him up, the way his friends did. They left him detailed instructions on how to mix and match the outfits. He remembered the formula, and when it didn’t feel right, he fell back on the assurance that he was clothed in at least three layers of fabrics. They wouldn’t give way so easily, not anymore.

Sykkuno didn’t go to clubs anymore. Whenever his friends invited him, he said that he was hanging out with the punks, and he spent the night pretending that he wasn’t five seconds away from throwing up, that his fingers weren’t trembling so badly that his cigarette fell. Reuben laughed the hardest amongst them all, and he slapped Sykkuno's back so hard, and they all pretended that the cigarette fell because of it.

Once, Cherry laid her head on his lap, and smiled at him. It looked a little bit sad around the edges, but looking away from it would be too rude. Sykkuno wasn’t so nice anymore these days, but he learned to prevent himself from being outrightly harsh and cold. She traced the line of his choker; suede, with a small pendant. “Pretty,” she whispered, and closed her eyes as if everything was alright in the world. Maybe it was, in hers.

Cherry was all giggles and fearless remarks upon her petty crimes. She was this kind of pretty with heavy make-up and an abundance of jewelries and a smile that looked too sweet amongst her ragged companions. She was an airhead that sometimes didn’t get the jokes her friends threw around, but she laughed anyway because she liked them. She was someone who stood at Sykkuno's chest, and twice as brave as he was.

“I was like you, once,” she said. “I cried so much, and I thought, how can I live with my mistakes?”

He looked away. He never talked about it. Not even after a year. He thought that it made him into an even bigger coward. But he curled up in the safety cocoon he had made for himself, all the chokers and piercings and tattoos and smiles that now felt a tad sharper than before. He wasn’t healed, still as fractured as before, but he learned to pretend better.

“It took me a long time to convince myself that I can be free from my shame and guilt,” she continued. “If you want to run away from it, that’s fine too. Maybe when you’ve run enough, you’ll stop and realize that you’re in a new place that you’ve built for yourself. It can be filled with things you’ve changed, things that still contain the memories and nightmares. But you’ll see eventually that it’s okay to stop and be alright.”

He looked at her, and she smiled at him. She reached out to hold his hand, and he gripped it tightly. He whispered, “I don’t know if I can ever run away from him.”

“Well, that’s okay, too,” she said cheerily. “Maybe he runs away from you too. Just because you two exist in the same plane of existence, doesn’t mean that you have to trap yourself with him. You’re here, aren’t you? You’re standing on your own feet, have made decisions for yourself, and you can be okay. If you can’t accept that yet, it’s okay. I’m sure I can remind you every day; I’ll borrow the phone from Nick and text you!”

He laughed and nodded. He couldn’t bring himself to believe everything she said completely, not yet. But he had run so far, and his feet were getting tired, and maybe it was alright to stop once in a while and breathe in the heated air of June.

He didn’t throw up so much from bananas these days. He simply ignored them and looked away when someone ate something that had bananas in it. He still thought that it was hilarious, that he was traumatized by a fruit. It was a sort of hysterical, morbid hilarity. But sometimes, when he was particularly so deep in his head, he could still taste the Dirty Banana on his tongue, could still see the slow drag of tongue over that one slice of banana. He didn’t think he could hate something as much as he did with it.

But it wasn’t the banana, was it? It was everything that preceded it and everything that happened afterwards. But his mind was left in scrambles, and it latched onto the safest and most dangerous thing from that night. If he didn’t drink that beverage, he wouldn’t be pressed up against cold brick walls, getting fingerprints all over his skin to be remembered a year later. If he wasn’t so caught up in the curl of his tongue over the slice of banana, he wouldn’t want him so much. He wouldn’t get—get—

He looked at his reflection in the mirror and the gaunt eyes stared back at him. What was the word? It wasn’t the right word, the one ringing in his ears. He didn’t get—he didn’t. And for some reason, it made everything that much worse. Because worse things had happened to people, things like what he had promised Sykkuno. It didn’t happen to him, and yet here he was. His piercings and tattoos felt like they were mocking him. It didn’t happen, and yet he was still fractured.

Maybe if it happened to him, all of this would feel justified. Everything he did would make so much more sense. Maybe if he had another dosage of trauma to complete that disastrous night, he would be allowed to feel this shaken, this hollow.

But it didn’t happen. It was an almost that ate him away, lingering under his skin and reminding him that it didn’t happen, and yet he was still left in shambles. It made him feel even weaker, that he didn’t get the worst of it, and still felt the need of running away, of changing, of forgetting.

Sykkuno didn’t cry much, now. He used to cry a lot, like Cherry said she did. He guessed that maybe his tears had run dry, and he was forced to deal with his emotional turmoil with vacant eyes and anxiety that weighed his stomach like a stone.

And yet, it was an almost, and Sykkuno had never felt as sick as he did right now. So he cried, clutching the sides of the sink, and thought that no one told him that it was so fucking hard to admit that he was stupid, that he was scared.

-

Sykkuno changed his hair color in the autumn. Nicholas and Cherry were the only ones with him when he came out of the salon with pink hair. For some reason, he never brought his friends when he got his hair done, when he had new piercings or tattoos, when he bought new outfits. He thought that it made him a bad friend, to keep this side of himself only to people whom he had known only for a year. But these people had seen him, had known what happened to him, and it was easier, somehow. It still took him a while to settle with comfort instead of unfairness.

Nicholas was the closest with him amongst the others. Sykkuno figured out that Nick was the one who told the others to never touch his hips; that they should only offer him a drink where he could see it, or the ones they had drank first beforehand; that they shouldn’t eat or drink anything with bananas near him. Sometimes they said something that made him tremble and nauseous, but he learned to swallow it in. He couldn’t keep shying away from words, no matter how much they made him feel the bruises all anew on his skin.

Nick said that he was pretty, and he said it so earnestly that Sykkuno was stunned for a moment. It was so different than when he called him pretty; it had been condescending, obscene. He had tried to run away from that word for a long time, now—had tried to change himself into something that wouldn’t conclude into that word. But Cherry looked at him with such wonder, and she called him pretty, and it was easier to stomach, then.

On Halloween night, he came to the party at Edison’s house dressed as a punk. Nick had lent him his jacket. It was endearing to see the man giving it to Sykkuno with embarrassment all over his face. He said that he had to wash it beforehand, didn’t want Sykkuno to smell his sweat all over it. It now smelled like Nick’s cologne and the stink of cigarettes.

He didn’t drink. He never drank anymore ever since that night, almost two years ago. But he felt pretty drunk still when Toast pulled him into the bathroom and asked why he chose to dress like a punk. He laughed and took a drag of smoke, and said that it was because it felt safe. Like the cigarette, like the tattoos and piercings and chokers and layers of clothes.

There was momentary blankness on Toast’s face, and Sykkuno looked away with a bitter smile. Toast had always been the smartest out of them all, and he knew Sykkuno well. Not well enough to know everything, but enough to read between the lines now that he was presented with clear clues.

They sat inside the empty bathtub, and Sykkuno looked up at Toast, who was sitting on the other end of it. The bathtub was too small for two grown men crowding in it, but it didn’t feel suffocating, somehow, when Toast surged forward and held Sykkuno as if he was the one breaking apart, as if he was the one carrying a fracture for almost two years.

Toast, too, felt safe to him. He trusted him, and he knew that Toast would handle it in ways that wouldn’t make things worse. But Sykkuno was—he was—scared. Oh, God, he was so scared, and he felt undeserving of sympathy and safety; of explaining himself and exposing his mistakes, his shame. He thought that time could make it easier, but it had been going on for long enough, and his fingers still trembled as badly as the first time.

“Don’t—“ he choked out, because he wouldn’t cry. “Don’t say that you’re sorry. It’s never been your fault.”

“I won’t,” Toast promised, but the way he cradled Sykkuno's face and pressed their foreheads together felt like a thousand apologies.

It made him feel so, so much worse, and so, so much better. He felt like he could breathe a little easier, the weight on his chest let up a little, and he wondered if soon, once it was completely removed, truth would pour out of the emptiness it left behind.

They didn’t go back to the party, and Edison let them sleep in the guest room. Sykkuno didn’t shed his clothes, Toast didn’t either. It was as if there was an unspoken pact between them; as if he had uttered an unsaid permission for Toast to see him clearly after nearly two years of hiding, of running away. The closeness didn’t bother him, it never did. His fear manifested in a million other things that caught him off-guard and stranded, scrambling for purchase. It wasn’t the way the media and articles had portrayed it to be, and yet it was. Sometimes there were some lines in-between left undisclosed, hidden from the light of the day, and yet felt so, so real.

It was the first time he had acknowledged it after so long. That it happened, that it existed; that the bruises he felt on his skin felt real, that the words were still ringing in his ears, that the taste of banana and his tongue were still vivid in his mouth.

He closed his eyes and Toast held his hand. He wanted to say, don’t let go, I’m so scared. Oh, God, Toast it was my fault. I was so stupid, I’m so scared, don’t let go. But he didn’t, couldn’t. He was unable to let it out of his throat, the way that word couldn’t make way past his fear. It wasn’t—it wasn’t that. It was less than that, and it was so much worse because it was an almost.

Toast held him closer anyway, and Sykkuno clung onto his shirt until his knuckles turned white. In the morning, he asked if there were things Sykkuno didn’t like. He swallowed and said, “Banana.”

Toast liked bananas. But he never ate it in front of Sykkuno anymore. In a way, it made it easier. In a way, he felt like he was even more fragile than before. Delicate. He tried to believe that he was anything but that, and it was easy enough to do because Toast didn’t treat him like a glass, or a ticking time bomb. He hurled insults and inappropriate jokes at Sykkuno all the same, leveled him with a flat look when he thought that Sykkuno was being particularly dumb, and didn’t hold back at all in knocking him down when they were wrestling around.

But sometimes, Toast was quiet, and he stood next to Sykkuno alongside Peter when he smoked, and he held Sykkuno as if he knew that he was trying so hard to be alright, to run, to hide. He bought chokers and earrings for Sykkuno, and snapped at the others when they commented on how many layers Sykkuno was wearing. It's winter, Tina, what the fuck do you care?

Sykkuno would smile and laugh and let Brodin hold his hand as Toast got into an argument with Tina. He thought of Cherry, of her sad smile, of being alright and stopping to see that he was standing in a place he had built for himself. He didn’t think he could be there, not for many years, but he could allow himself a moment of respite.

It still felt like pretending, like denial, like hiding his mistakes and shame, but he swallowed it down and convinced himself that he could pretend to be one more thing: to be alright.

-

Sykkuno changed his hair to electric blue in February. He took Toast with him this time. The punks had a great time trading insults and banters with him. They were in awe because someone like Sykkuno could have a friend as savage and hilariously tired of everything like Toast; they adored him and demanded why they hadn’t been introduced to him sooner.

“Someone like me?” he had asked jokingly.

“You know,” Tetra said, shrugging. “Soft and delicate and so smart it hurts. Actually, it’s not that surprising. You’re a sadistic bitch underneath all those sweet smiles, aren’t you? No wonder you got boytoy over here.”

“I can hear you,” Toast said through gritted teeth.

Sykkuno paused to contemplate her words. Even after more than two years, after every change he had undergone, there were still some things he couldn’t run away from. He was still undeniably, inevitably, himself. He supposed it should make him feel bad because it meant that he was still the same man who got—got. But… in a way, it also made him feel a little bit relieved, that he was still himself and more.

“Is that a bad thing?” he asked again. “To be all that?”

Tetra laughed and slung an arm around his shoulders. “No, dumb bitch,” she replied. “You’ve never been at fault for being you, for all that. Sometimes the world is just cruel, and there’s that. It’s a simple fact that you should try drilling it into that thick head of yours.”

It would be easy, to put the blame onto others. But Sykkuno had borne the burden for so long that he didn’t know how to do anything else. It was pathetic, and it felt safe for all the wrong reasons. Sykkuno was fractured in all the wrong ways. He didn’t like bananas, he covered every place he had touched with everything else he had chosen for himself, he wasn’t as kind as before. But his fingers still trembled, and he still stared at himself in the mirror and saw the man from two years ago, and he was afraid of being called pretty.

He had been himself and it had been a mistake. But now, no one touched him like that anymore—no one even approached him like that because Sykkuno had never let them. He turned them down flatly, and walked away with Nick’s arm around his shoulders. He was himself, too, now, and Tetra said that it was alright. He had changed, and he was still himself, and it was okay.

It felt pretty anticlimactic, but he would take it regardless.

“I feel like I should cry,” he said with a soft smile. He rarely ever smiled so softly anymore. He looked at himself in the mirror and practiced until his smiles held an edge to it, more guarded and less jovial. He practiced until he could send people scurrying away instead of getting closer when they saw his smile. It made him feel safe, made him feel like he was less likely to be pressed against cold brick walls in an empty alleyway.

“So cry, soft boy,” Tetra said with a bright laugh. “Cry until you’re breathless and curse at everything you’ve ever scorned. Cry until you feel like you don’t want to cry anymore, and then cry some more just because you can. Who the fuck will stop you? I might even join in.”

So Sykkuno cried, in the diner booth they visited, with Toast’s arms around him. He cried until the waitress threw him a concerned look, and cried again until he was all snot and blubbers. Toast didn’t say anything about it, just held Sykkuno close with one arm, and ate his lasagna with the other. Tetra cried with him and he kept laughing between his sobs because she complained about capitalism and the cage of society’s norms that was forced upon them.

The waitress came over with a gentle smile, and placed a banana smoothie on the table. It was on the house, she said. If there was anything else she could get him, just called for her, she said. Her name was Janice, and Sykkuno burst out into a hysterical laughter after she left. Because it was the motherfucking banana, and the world was fucking cruel for placing such a coincidence on him.

He took the smoothie and downed it in one go, and went to the bathroom to throw up. The taste of banana was replaced with the bitter tang of acid, and he looked at himself in the bathroom mirror and saw that he was such a mess. His new hair was bright and soft because they had put so many products to prevent it from getting more damaged, and his choker was sitting tight and pretty on his neck, and his nose was runny and he looked disgusting, so to speak.

But God, he had never felt so fucking pretty than he was in this moment.

He went out and Toast dabbed his face with a napkin. “How do you feel?” he asked.

“Fucking dandy,” he answered, and Nick laughed so hard he keeled over.

Toast grinned, because he liked it when Sykkuno cursed, and held his hand throughout their meanderings.

-

In spring, Sykkuno shed a layer off his clothes, and still felt safe. It was less stifling that way, but he kept his jackets and sweaters all the time. He laid his head on Brodin’s lap and felt like he was a tad softer around the edges when Brodin ran a hand through his hair. He said, “I think I can be okay,” and Brodin nodded.

The punks loved the spring. They brought so many flowers for Sykkuno and made a circle to learn how to make flower crowns from Cherry. Reuben ate a bunch of sunflower petals and pelted the seeds at the rest of them. It was weird and slightly violent, but it made him smile. Nick gave him a bouquet of yellow roses, and told him what it meant. Cherry kissed his cheeks, because Nick was too embarrassed to do it, she said. So, Sykkuno leaned down to kiss Nick’s cheek and felt like it was alright. It still felt safe.

“What kind of cottage-core scenario did you just come from?” Toast asked when Sykkuno came to their outing with a flower crown and a bouquet of yellow roses and lavenders and chrysanthemums in hand. He thought he must have looked ridiculous; with his piercings and tattoo on the side of his neck, with heeled boots and leather jackets, surrounded by flowers.

People stared and Sykkuno held his head high. He said, “They helped around this florist shop, and the owner gave them a lot of flowers.”

“I’m sure Cherry stole some of them,” Toast said. He had known them for a few months, and he already knew how to read each one of them perfectly. Sykkuno felt a sense of pride at that.

“I want some flowers, too,” Corpse said, so Sykkuno gave him some. He looked incessantly happy about it.

When they went home, and Toast walked into Sykkuno's house with him, he threw the flowers around the living room and walked in circles with Toast holding his hand. The man shook his head and went along. This should feel alright. This should feel like a change and a part of himself. This should feel like taking a breath and dropping his pretense for a second.

Toast put a hand on his hips, and Sykkuno's breath hitched, fingers curling around Toast’s shoulders imperceptibly. But they were dancing to a song inside their heads, and he wasn’t being pressed against the cold brick wall, and it was alright. It was still safe.

They danced, and Sykkuno stumbled because despite his changes, he never did stop being so clumsy with his feet. Toast laughed and held him tighter, and it didn’t feel like a searing brand; it didn’t feel like a bruise. It felt like he was being held so he wouldn’t trip and fall. It made him feel delicate, but delicate shouldn’t be accused of being something so bad.

They fell into the bed and Sykkuno was breathless from laughter and a sense of relief. He was barely holding himself together, but he had pretended for more than two years. He was goddamned amazing at it, and he could pretend that he was alright a little bit longer. Maybe if he did it long enough, he could actually be alright.

They didn’t kiss, and Toast didn’t ask, but Sykkuno placed a soft kiss on his cheek, and slept with Toast’s arms around him. The punks might be onto something. Sykkuno fucking loved spring.

-

In October, everything fell apart.

Cherry called him, frantic and on edge. Sykkuno listened with a frown, and then stood up from the couch when he heard that Nick was detained. There was a fight, and the other guy was in bad shape. Brodin drove him to the police station, and he felt like he had just gotten a sucker-punch to the chest when Nick looked down and said in a soft voice, “It was him. He tried to do the same thing, and I punched his face.”

Sykkuno wobbled on his feet. Brodin steadied him and guided him to sit on a bench. Nick said that the police were on him, that he would be questioned and detained after he was patched up because he was caught in the act. This time, the victim was pressing a charge.

Everything came back to him with a vengeance. The sweet smile, the easy conversation, the taste of Dirty Banana, the fingers on his hips and neck and face, the cold brick wall digging into his spine. His head was blank, the stone in his chest felt like it had consumed him whole and he couldn’t breathe, couldn’t breathe, and oh, God, he was so stupid. Oh, God, how did he let himself think that he could ever run away from this?

Brodin rubbed his back as he threw up in the bathroom, wiping the cold sweat on his temple and the traces of vomit on his lips. He trembled, now, all of him. It had been nearly three years, and everything had finally caught up to him.

Toast came over an hour later and bailed Nick out. He said, he’d hire a lawyer if Nick ever needed one. When Sykkuno got close enough, he heard Nick talking to the police. He had been released from the hospital and was on the way to the police station to be questioned. Samples of DNA had been taken from his victim, and Sykkuno thought back of his own samples that he had left at the hospital on that night of December.

Toast took one look at Sykkuno and sent him home with Brodin. He stayed with Nick at the police station. He clutched his jacket close, and felt so, so dumb. He didn’t shed his shoes, didn’t move away from the couch. He felt so vulnerable and exposed, even with his layers of clothes and his tattoos and piercings and choker. He felt like he was back to three years ago, laughing and wanting and it had been his fault all along.

Shame churned in his gut, words he could never bring to let slip past his lips. Words like scared, words like my fault, words like—like—

Toast came to his house a little before midnight. Sykkuno had been isolating himself in the backyard, smoking frantically with fingers that shook so badly he dropped several cigarettes. He sat next to Sykkuno, and didn’t say anything for a long time. He didn’t check to see if Brodin was still there. His head was too noisy and too empty at the same time. He wanted to claw his skin off, to uproot the bruises that feel fresh all over again beneath his tattoos.

Brodin joined them after some time, bringing a cup of tea for each of them. Sykkuno didn’t touch his. Toast spoke for the first time to him that night, then.

“They asked me if you want to testify,” he said carefully, cautiously, and Sykkuno hated how fragile, how delicate it made him feel. He was a glass, a stone away from breaking apart; he was the ticking time bomb, seconds away from exploding and hurtling debris all over his surroundings.

There were fingers, placing a soft touch on his hand, and Sykkuno flinched from it. He bit his lip until he could taste blood and buried his face in his hands. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, “I’m so sorry.”

It should feel like truth, but it felt like a confession of sins instead. It felt like waiting for judgment and retribution. They said that he might feel better if he talked it out. But shame burned on the back of his throat, and the world seemed like it was watching him fall.

There were footsteps walking away, and he thought that they had finally left him after knowing the truth, his mistakes. He deserved this. He had wanted him, he had been the one who stayed and talked and drank that stupid Dirty Banana. It was all on him.

But then, there were fingers prying his hands apart, and Brodin was looking at him as if Sykkuno wasn’t a sinner. He looked at him as if he would be willing to take the burden with him. He said, “Toast thinks that you need some space. He’s waiting inside, for whenever you’re ready.”

“I’m sorry,��� he whispered, and it felt weird that it wasn’t Toast that he told this to, but Brodin felt like an encompassing blanket in a winter when he held Sykkuno's hand and sat in front of him. “It was my fault. It was all my fault. I made a mistake.”

Brodin nodded. “Maybe you did make a mistake. But it wasn’t necessarily your fault.”

“I was the one who stayed and talked to him,” Sykkuno said, and then laughed and laughed and laughed. He sounded like he was on the verge of losing it, on the verge of tears. “I drank that fucking Dirty Banana, and he brought me to the alleyway, and I told him no, I swear, I told him that.”

He was crying, he realized. He was crying so hard that his words were barely audible, and for the first time since it happened, Sykkuno felt like he was broken. There wasn’t any fracture, he was split apart and tattered at the seams. He was so weak—with his thin t-shirt and kindness and pretty smile. He was so weak, for being so charmed and mesmerized. And it had been his fault all along, because he had invited him, didn’t he?

He wasn’t aware that he was saying everything out loud until Brodin’s hands tightened around his. He swallowed and laughed bitterly. “I tried to change myself, to erase the marks he placed on me. I smoke because it was the first sign of safety I had after—after that. I put things in places he had touched me. God, I can’t believe I’m still so afraid of being called pretty, because he had called me that. Had called me pretty, called me perfect and dumb because I trusted him. I said no, and he still touched me. If I had fought, if I had screamed, maybe I wouldn’t get—get—“

He swallowed, and looked down at his shaking knees. When he whispered the world out loud, it felt like a millions different fractures on his fragile glass.

“—assaulted.”

He wiped the tears with the sleeve of his jacket and smiled. “I wasn’t even raped, you know? He didn’t get to do it before Nick found us. I was just assaulted, and I wasn’t raped, and yet I carry around a fracture for three years. I changed myself and I tried to forget and I keep thinking that I can run away from this. But I can’t, and I’m still as weak as I was before. It was my fault, and I don’t know how to live with that.”

Sykkuno understood, then, why Toast looked at him like Sykkuno was breaking his heart. Because when he looked up, Brodin looked the same. He let go of his hand, and sat next to him, and put his head on his shoulder. Sykkuno grasped his knee to stop the shaking. It was futile.

“It wasn’t rape,” he whispered. “It was an almost, and I feel so sick because I shouldn’t have felt like this. It didn’t happen. But why do I feel like I’m breaking apart?”

Brodin held him in silence, and Sykkuno cried until his eyes hurt. “It’s not your fault,” he said after a while. “I know you might not be able to stomach it right now, but it’s the truth and sometimes it’s harder to acknowledge it. That’s alright, too. If you can’t right now, I’ll keep it for when you’re ready.”

He didn’t believe it, couldn’t. Cherry said the same thing, Tetra said that too. But it was so hard to dispel a narrative that he had believed in for so long. It had been so hard, keeping it inside, and Sykkuno felt like he shouldn’t forgive himself so easily because of it.

“Sykkuno,” Brodin called out. He lifted his head a little to sign that he was listening. “Just because someone is shot with an arrow instead of ten, doesn’t mean that their pain is invalid. It doesn’t mean that they aren’t justified to cry and feel hurt because of it. Pain isn’t about a competition where you determine who deserves to feel it more than the others. An arrow can still kill someone; an almost can still break you apart.”

Sykkuno felt sick to the stomach, but he also felt like he wanted to cry and be held for a long time. Brodin shifted to look at him. He said, “Just because it wasn’t rape, doesn’t mean you’re not allowed to feel afraid, to feel anything that you’ve been keeping for the past three years. It’s okay, to say it, to be scared. You’re allowed to.”

He was tired of crying, but there were tears clumping in his eyes and he held onto Brodin so tightly, afraid of being alone in his head again. “Oh, God, Brodin—“ he choked out. “I’m so scared, I’m so scared—I don’t know what to do, I don’t know what I should do. I was so fucking dumb—God—“

There was so much he wanted to say, to tell, but his throat was clogged up and he couldn’t stop crying. Brodin held him, didn’t let go, and for a while it felt alright—to be scared, to finally think that it wasn’t his fault, to be an almost.

He was brought back into the house, and Toast was so silent as he swaddled Sykkuno in a blanket. He gave him a cup of herbal tea that Rae liked to give to him so much. He sipped on it carefully, and felt numb all over. Brodin lay down on the couch, and Toast wiped Sykkuno's face with a wet tissue, brushing over his tear tracks and snots and traces of shame. He took away the empty cup, and took off Sykkuno's boots and socks. He helped him up and guided him to the bedroom.

“We have time,” Toast said, brushing a hand over his now mint-green hair. “You don’t need to say everything. Take it at your own pace, I’ll still be here.”

Sykkuno nodded and held his hand. “Can you- can you stay?”

Toast nodded and took off his jacket, put it on the hanger, and walked over to the bed. He was cautious still with Sykkuno, but he lay down next to him. “I’ll take care of Nick and the allegation. It’s okay if you don’t want to testify, they’re looking for similar victims. They told me the court will be held in more or less two weeks from now.”

“Is Nick okay?” he asked.

“He was threatened to be detained again, because he punched that bastard again as soon as he saw him,” Toast informed, and it brought a small laugh out of Sykkuno. He looked at him, and took a deep breath. When he reached out a hand, it was trembling. “I was so close to committing a crime, you know? I don’t think I’ll regret it.”

“I don’t want you to get into jail,” Sykkuno said, and held the trembling hand tightly in his. They both were shaking, for different reasons. But he found kinship in it, and scooted closer to Toast. “I’ve thought, for the longest of time, that I can pretend to be okay.”

Toast rubbed his thumb gently on the back of Sykkuno's hand, and whispered, “You can be.”

“I don’t know how to believe in that,” he admitted, and felt the prick of tears in his eyes. He was so tired of crying, of everything, of this.

“I’ll remind you,” Toast said. “I’ll remind you of that, everyday. I can help you, if you’ll allow me to.”

“You sound like Cherry,” Sykkuno smiled.

Toast smiled back. “And she’s fucking right in doing so.”

Sykkuno didn’t take off his jacket as he fell asleep. He didn’t feel like he was safe enough to do it, but Toast didn’t mind. He just wrapped his arms around Sykkuno and held him until they fell asleep. He was so scared, God, he felt like he wanted to scream and rip his nails out, but it was alright to be afraid. Brodin’s words echoed in his mind.

He was allowed to be scared, to feel vulnerable and weak and hurting. He had been shot with an arrow, and it might not be ten, but it was alright to acknowledge that it broke him apart all the same. It was alright, even if it was an almost, lingering under his epidermis, the most taunting omen that had chained him down for three years.

He was allowed to be an almost.

-

In November, Sykkuno testified in the court against Bryan Algere. He spoke with stuttered words and occasional pause in-between, but the judge was ever-patient in waiting for him to finish his testimony. The police had gathered three other men and women who had fallen into the same trap. They contacted the hospital Sykkuno had been brought into, and used the sample of DNA that was still stored there. He had a sudden thought that it was hilarious, that this happened now instead of a year later, because they told him that a DNA sample could only last up to four years.

He didn’t look at Bryan the whole proceeding, and he allowed himself that, too. He might not be brave enough right now, but that was okay. He retold the story, and kept words like ‘it was my fault’ and ‘I stayed and talked and I didn’t scream’ under his tongue. He said that he had said no, that he had said it twice. Sometimes, he had to look down and thumb the pack of cigarettes in his pocket because they didn’t allow him to smoke inside the courtroom. He said that it wasn’t a penetrative rape, but he was assaulted nonetheless, and it was one of the hardest things to say in his life.

“I’m a case of almost,” he said, and looked at his trembling fingers instead of anyone in the room. “But it doesn’t mean that it’s not a horrible thing to experience. It doesn’t mean that I’m not scared for the better part of three years of my life, that I don’t fall apart because of it. It was an almost, and it still fractured me.”

He didn’t know what he was trying to say, but it felt like relief, saying it out loud. It felt real, it didn’t feel like a lie. It existed out in the open air, for everyone to hear, and there was nothing that could erase it. It made three years of emotional turmoil and sleepless nights spent crying and throwing up in the bathroom, changing himself and pretending to be something that wasn’t pretty, wasn’t weak, wasn’t someone who would have this happen to him, a little easier to bear.

Because it happened, and no one could take it away from him, and maybe it made it so much harder, but it also meant that he was allowed to feel like he was breaking apart at the seams. It made him feel like he was deserving of help, of being heard. Even if it wasn’t rape, even if it was an almost.

He stayed throughout the whole thing, and Toast held his hand. The whole gang of the punks was sitting on the rows of benches to show support for Nick and Sykkuno, also to give their own testimony of Sykkuno's story. When the judge finally decided that Bryan was guilty of the charges against him, it almost felt like the first taste of air after being held underwater for too long. His chest was burning, and he was heaving for air, but God, it felt fucking good.

Toast held him close to his chest as the punks cheered and hollered, staring coldly at Bryan as he was taken away by the police. Sykkuno was still convinced that Toast would contemplate murder anyway, even if the whole thing had been taken care of legally. It felt new, this vehemence of protectiveness. The punks had taken care of him in their own way, but they were also understanding of Sykkuno's reluctance to talk about this. Toast was unforgiving and uncompromising in his anger.

Cherry kissed his cheek and gave him a jacket with patches and spikes on it. They had been making it for weeks, to give to him because he was their yellow rose, their forever friend. He thought that despite their gruff appearance and their personal view of the world, they were people with innocence still held tightly intact with bleeding fingers and torn nails.

He wore it alongside his three layers of clothing, and tried to teach himself to feel safe again. He still smoked as much as before, but sometimes he allowed his hand to be held by his friends so he’d know that someone else was there for him; that cigarettes weren’t the only indication of safety.

In January, he changed his hair back to black. Cherry put on a plastic flower crown on his head, and twirled around him. “It suits you, the black hair,” she said softly. “But then again, everything you choose with certainty suits you well.”

It took him months before he took off a layer of clothing, and Nick threw him a party for that. A party meant that they were eating pizzas and drinking coke until they barfed, because now Nick had a part-time job and he wasn’t as broke. Toast stopped them from earning a noise complaint by throwing them all out before nine, and cleaned up the mess as Sykkuno thumbed a new tattoo on his wrist. It wasn’t to cover up the bruises, this time. He inked a tiny yellow rose there because it meant something to him.

As spring came around the corner once again, Toast gave him a bouquet of yellow roses with tufts of astilbe around it, and a single red rose in the center. Sykkuno took it and held his hand as their friends chattered. Cherry had finally worked in the florist shop they liked to help around with in spring. Reuben still ate sunflower petals and pelted them with the seeds.

When Sykkuno allowed someone to touch his hips again, Brodin took him by the waist and they danced to a soft love song. He tripped over his feet, but he was held in strong arms. Lily’s voice blended in with Corpse’s and it was familiar, it could be safe, too.

He pierced his lower lip, and when Toast ran a thumb over it, Sykkuno didn’t feel like he would be left with invisible bruises. He just felt like he was breathless, like he could fall at any moment and be caught. He trusted that he would be alright. If not now, then it was alright; his friends would remind him, everyday. Or, at least, his therapist definitely would.

He looked at his reflection in the mirror, and still saw the man who had been so afraid, so frantic in covering up his shame and fear. But he also saw the man who had allowed himself to be helped, to be okay. He practiced smiling again. He kept the smile that made people afraid and wary, but he tried to remember how to smile softly, gently again. If not for himself, then for the people he held dear.

Almost was a word he remembered for years after that night in December, and on some days, he still felt the ghost of bruises on his skin, the press of cold brick walls behind him, and he still woke up feeling disoriented and afraid. But he wasn’t alone, and he had people who understood that almost had made a fracture in him, had knocked him down and held him underwater for so long. Almost could be as dangerous as happened, and he was allowed to acknowledge that, too.

So Sykkuno had changed, and was himself still. He had multiple arrays of outfits that he now knew how to coordinate; he had three piercings on left ear and two on the right; he wore chokers and necklaces because he liked how they look on him; he wore layers of clothing because it felt safe and it was dandy as fuck; he had tattoos all over his body, to cover the invisible bruises and to remind him of good things in life.

When Toast kissed him, it didn’t feel like terror. It felt gentle and too much and not enough, and he was worshipped in a way that made him boneless with affection. He called Sykkuno pretty, that he was perfect, that he was everything Toast could ever want, and they didn’t feel like words that he had to stay away from. When Toast held him close and left his marks all over his skin, Sykkuno pressed on the bruises to remind him that they didn’t always mean a bad thing.

Toast taught him how to file restraining orders, because even if Bryan Algere wouldn’t be getting out of jail anytime soon, it was okay to be prepared. Toast still held grudges, and Sykkuno sometimes caught him making what he had dubbed as ‘murder-face’. He kissed him and said that he wouldn’t want Toast to go into jail when they hadn’t even seen Reuben’s collab with Lily and Corpse yet.

Every spring, Toast gave him the same bouquet of flowers, with the amount of red roses gradually increasing each year. On one spring, Sykkuno gave him a bouquet of pink roses, with twenty-eight red roses in the middle. Flowers were another language that he was getting familiar with, something else that made him feel safe.

It was nearly eight years after almost, and Sykkuno wasn’t quite okay still, but that was alright, too. He was allowed to take it at his own pace, and he was quite happy with it. Because there was someday that existed for him, where he was okay and safe and loved. And right now, it felt pretty damn close, if he was honest.

So if someone asked, if he was okay, how he was feeling, he would think back to years of fear and guilt and shame, and then years of building himself up again and layering himself in things that would come to bring him a sense of safety and happiness and relief; a sense of mercy and chance for himself.

He would think back to Peter’s silent presence, to Brodin’s reassuring arms, to the punks’ rowdy companion, to Toast’s encompassing devotion and assurance, and he would say, “I’m feeling fucking dandy.”

-

[eurovision-revisited]

Eurovision 2005 - Number 59 - Luka Nižetić & Klapa Nostalgija - "Proljece"

Luka Nižetić had been surprising people for sometime. As a boy in Split, his non-musical parents realised he had a musical inclination and sent him to piano lessons. The he had singing lessons from an opera soprano and suddenly he's writing his own songs and winning awards at music festivals.

He's already appeared at Dora once before - in 2003, but it was the year after that, when he released his first album Premijera (Premiere), that his star began to truly shine. Proljece (Spring) is one of the tracks from that album. And phwoar, what an album cover.

This is a song filled with joy. Here's a man who's met the one - he's head over heels, dancing bare foot because he can't contain the restless surge of happiness within - or maybe it's the smell of the grass? This is a song using a lot of tradition. The instrumentation is filled with Adriatic strings and he's backed by Klapa Nostalgija. A Klap is a traditional acapella choir - mostly male voices, although not always - normally found on the Dalmatian coast and islands of Croatia. Here, they back Luka's infectious swoon of a song with a lot of bassy la-la-las that, simple as they are, work to set the scene.

This feels like a rather patriarchal community harmonising their approval but also letting their hair down somewhat. Luka is blessed. Their community is blessed. Everyone's happy!

This was outstandingly popular in Croatia and launched Luka into the wide popular consciousness. The simultaneous tradition and joyfulness struck a chord with the public. Dora had a first round presentation with all the songs being presented and judged. It wasn't a huge hurdle as only two songs were eliminated, yet Luka won that first round.

In semi-final two he won the public televote and was first overall making him one of the favourites to become Croatia's Eurovision representative. But as so often in these things, Luka had peaked too soon. He still finished second in the final televote, but by then, the judges had moved their attention on to other things. They placed him eleventh, putting Luka sixth overall and missing out on the Dora superfinal.

This didn't diminish Luka's sunny disposition. Four more albums followed over the next decade. He did some acting and generally was exceedingly popular. He didn't return to Dora until 2019 however, but then just maybe, we'll meet him again then.

[emmacharlotte32]

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[kitschke]

ok here's my reason to believe rankings:

1. I love Karen how could I not put them first. This was the first version I heard of this song so obviously I'm biased for that reason (and my love of the artist) but I do like the instrumentation and rhythm. it's corny but in a way that works for me. and lush harmony to boot

2. the best of the folky versions imo, bc of her distinctive voice. it adds such emotion to the song that really is missing from most other versions tbh

3. just listened to this one for the first time today and damn they went hard on that arrangement. such a bop, features every 60s pop instrument ever. also this obviously dates the song intensely but it works for me as a fan of very 60s sounding 60s songs. plus ofc Lee's sultry vocals are the cherry on top

4. kind of surprised myself with how high I ranked this one. ofc it's a classic but listening to them all in succession made me appreciate the arrangement of this more. even tho I'm not a Stewarthead I like the organ, and his raspy style brings out its tenderness ironically. it's a little long in the tooth, idk if the acapella section was necessary but it's also pleasant so I can't complain 🤷

5. just a good solid folk song, nothing in particular really catches my ear but I feel it deserves a top 5 spot for being the original and all. thanks tim 👍

6. sigh. I wanted to rank this higher and in fact initially had it above stewart and hardin, but on re-listen I just can't say the arrangement is as good as any of the top 5. I do love them as a group and their voices + harmonies are what got them this spot, but I think I would have liked it better had they stuck to a more simple folk setup. the plodding piano just feels like a children's song and sadly even the twangy guitar feels brings too much cheese (and I am usually a fan of the twang). i'd rather listen to puff tbh

7. this feels like they wanted the big 60s sound like peggy lees version but tried to make it as sentimental as possible. im fine with ol glen and a wistful melody (who doesn't weep to wichita lineman) but just kinda falls flat here to me. yeah yeah there's strings but. shrug. It still is the best to me out of the boring arrangements

8. tbh these next three are all equally forgettable to me so they're all kinda ranked the same in my mind. +1 for harmonies but the arrangement is kinda blah otherwise

9. this is like the youngbloods version but slightly more performative country. so minus 0.5

10. worst of the folk arrangements, sounds the same as tim hardin with the only addition being a fun lil drum on occasion. the drum is nice but that's all I remember. and no harmonies so -8

11. apparently there's audio link limits?? but I'm just not as into 80s soft rock style sorry gals. love ur outfits and poses tho. and I respect the attempt to revitalize this song that everyone in their parent's generation covered it's something I'd do

[kingjasnah]

you know how many covers of all these things that ive done by the killers I've listened to. for you, unnamed dalinar cowboy playlist.

[pinkpastels113]

"stay in bed" for the prompt thingy, if you're so inclined

also on ao3

Chloe Beale is the gym type of girl. While everyone else would have been thrilled to spend their free hours of the day not doing homework or cardio or even more acapella practices for their upcoming performance, Chloe isn't, and she chooses to spend the loss and disappointment of not expelling her energy in something that she loves by spending more time at the gym.

She runs, does some weights, planks, works on her abs, and then goes around trying to find someone to play ping pong or basketball or some other sport after that with.

Beca hates it. She likes to spend her free time sleeping, and not having her girlfriend warm up the bed for her or having her steady arm around her waist for hours on end in the morning makes her feel grumpy, and needy, and bitchy, and so for at least once a week Beca tries to get Chloe to stay in bed with her for no other reason than simple company.

Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn't.

Today is another such day.

"Chloeee." Beca makes her voice purposely whiney as she flails an arm helplessly over the edge of the mattress. One side of her face is smushed against the pillow that they share, and she presses her nose further into the softness to get a whiff of Chloe's shampoo. "Stay in bed."

"I can't today, Bec. Malorie told me that she is finally free this morning to play some volleyball with me and some friends. She hasn't been able to go for some time because of her research paper."

Beca peeks one eye open to see Chloe tugging on her gym shorts. All that skin, covered. Chloe ought to feel ashamed. "But I am your girlfriend."

"Yeah." Chloe digs in the drawers for a sports bra, tugging on her lip a little with her teeth before deciding on a white one. She looks over her shoulder as she gets dressed. "You can choose to come with me."

"Not if it's in a gym." Beca doesn't miss a beat, flashing a smirk in Chloe's way when she lets out a snort.

The ultimate best way to keep Chloe in the bed with her is to bribe her with sex. Beca knows that it's not the ideal thing to do, but Chloe goes to the gym about four times a week and she just feels like as a half of the relationship that she shares with Chloe, Beca has the right to ask for one of those days to be used instead on physical activities that they can both enjoy on her.

"Tell you what." The intonation of Chloe's words makes Beca's ears perk up. "Once I am done with the volleyball session, we can have as much fun as you want in the women's showers. You don't even have to join in on the volleyball. Just be ready for me when we are done. Deal?"

And sometimes it works, but with some technicalities.

"Do I have to go to the gym with you now?"

Chloe grins, throwing an underwear at Beca with a flourish of her wrist. "Only if you want to get to the showers for me faster."

[myoldiaries]

1989 (TAYLOR’S VERSION) OUT AUGUST 8TH.

insp.

In this brand new polished version of this accoladed album now includes four never heard songs. There is one co-written with Annie Clark, 1/2 of the song the duo has written together (the other being Cruel Summer from the Lover album). Lyrics like “Primadonna Girl! with her feet in glitzy heels and smile to die for her / She's the queen of New York City / She's the queen of hearts / Don't fall for her / She'll write you a song” sung over a pop punk tune have scored this song a place in fan favourites. It reached #2 on iTunesUs chart within 24 hours of release, just behind pop-hit ‘Style’ featuring Harry Styles. This power duo, exes of the past turned collaborating musicians are everything the world would've asked for. Exclusive posters ‘style’ the billboards and the song is streamed in millions. There is also a song featuring Katy Perry, the pop stars reached over to fans via an Instagram Live announcing the digital single and addressing the need to end the girl fight prominent in the industry, a truce after all. Taylor has also included ‘Sweeter Than Fiction’ from infamous movie, One Chance, it now has a guitar solo by Jack Antonoff. The album is also executively produced by him alongside Swift herself. Taylor covers Riptide by Vance Joy and ‘swiftly’ transforms the song into an indie ballad. In her quiet home studio she is at peace and she makes us feel the same. Shake It Off ‘Pink Jazz’ Remix is also included in the album, with a waltzing semi-acapella outro, one of its kind. Swift effortlessly moulds a pop 'new age' song to one that can be played at night bars while lights blink pink-purple and blue. To her the act of modulation of voice and re-stringing a guitar, is simple as water flowing to perhaps a new direction. For her it's always been freedom and her freedom has always been her art.

[sukisdeliveryservice]

confessions gone wrong | vocal unit

✎ pairing — (separately: jihoon, jeonghan, joshua, seokmin, seungkwan) x reader

✎ genre — humour, fluff, pretty much crack yup

✎ warnings — none!

✎ word count — about 9 bullet points per member? maybe a bit less than 300 words each? except for seungkwan which is a bit longer due to my side commentaries lol

✎ synopsis — members of the vocal unit try to confess to you...and fail.

✎ a/n — it’s a little random forgive me. jeonghan’s is a little bit ooc (you’ll know once you read it) but pls remember these writings are based off of an idea of the members and i am in no way saying that these are accurate depictions of them. i’m also trying to get better at writing gn!readers

Woozi

Okay since Woozi is really connected to his music, he’d probably confess via a song he wrote for you. Ideally it would be a simple and sweet confession - he might sing to you, play an instrument while you guys are in a secluded area

Anyways that's not going to happen because he lives with twelve other members and privacy is a LUXURY. Once the other members find out about his planned confession they insist that they must help somehow.

That's how you end up being led into a peaceful park in the evening after finding a note in your bag that told you that Woozi was going to meet you there

You show up and lo and behold Woozi is waiting for you. He’s super shy and nervous but really sweet in taking your hand and guiding you to a bench.

You heart just MELTS when he says that he had a song prepared for you and he cues for the music to start playing.

Only for one of the members (lets say its Mingyu) to play THE WRONG SONG

So while you’re imagining something along the lines of All My Love to start playing as Woozi softly serenades his confession to you, suddenly BOOM BOOM starts blasting from the speakers

Expectation: baby it’s alright :) oh it’s okay (✿◡‿◡)

Reality: SEVENTEEN TEEN TEEN NEOWA NA SAIE COME ON COME ON COME ON

Woozi is LIVID

But that's okay because once he’s done scolding (read: attacking) the members for even bothering to interfere with a special moment, he takes you to the beach nearby and sings acapella while holding your hand the entire time. 💞🥺

Jeonghan

Jeonghan seems like he’d tease you a little first before actually confessing. In fact he might even try to get you to confess first.

He’ll do a lot of things that make your heart flutter - putting an arm around you and holding you close when you sit down, patting your head and calling you cute, letting himself stare at you until you realize and get all blushy ahhh

He’ll do all these things and you’re really getting the hint that he’s about to confess, and then...he doesn’t

Now playing around a little bit is all fun and games but obviously he should just step up and confess as to not keep you waiting. But he doesn’t and that is a bad move lol

It’s come to the point where you’ve had enough of Jeonghan’s teasing and you start to believe that he knows you like him but is messing with you nooo :((

One day after another one of his playful attempts you start to cry because you feel like your feelings were a joke to him and Jeonghan panics because oh no that’s not the reaction he was looking for

You try to walk away because you didn’t want Jeonghan to see you cry but he runs after you and pulls you into a hug while whispering a million apologies.

Once he gets you to look up at him his heart aches because you’re covering your face in embarrassment of your tears 🥺 but he cups your cheeks and uses his thumb to wipe them away saying that it was okay 🤧

Once you’ve calmed down, he keeps his arms wrapped around you and apologizes once more while giving you a genuine confession 🥺🥺

Joshua

Similar to Woozi I think Joshua would plan a confession that was somehow music-related. Like can you imagine this man with his sweet voice and guitar?

Anyways Joshua would plan this really romantic picnic in the park for an afternoon. He’ll play you some songs, you guys would eat the homemade sandwiches he prepared and then he’ll give you his gift while confessing which was a little teddy bear holding a heart aww

Now this plan was foolproof, like y’all wouldn’t have any problems because it was planned out so perfectly. However, Joshua did not consider a potential margin of error when planning his confession: the uncontrollable forces of nature

So you guys are seated on your picnic blanket peacefully under a tree for some shade. Joshua handed you the bear and is probably playing you Sunday Morning or something and y’all got butterflies in your stomach

However you should replace those butterflies with bees because y’all are literally seated under a beehive LOL

You were the first to notice and on instinct you scream since this was supposed to be really romantic but now the love of your life is in danger because there’s literally a bee sitting on the next chord he’s gonna play

You scream and chuck the bear at the poor bee and Joshua also screams but mostly because you’re screaming and he was just attacked by his own confession gift and he was already high on adrenaline from the anticipation

Y’all end up flipping the blanket and all your food pls y’all are nerds for that.

Once you clean up the mess and try to restore the romantic atmosphere Joshua relocates you to a bee-free area and gives you the sweetest confession ever 💓💖💕

Dokeyom

So halfway into writing this i realized that of course many of these confessions are going to be music related because they’re all kpop idols lol my bad

Anyways there was this really old interview where I believe Seokmin said he would sing his girlfriend/crush their favourite song so I’m going off of that information

Seokmin makes the mistake of asking the other members to help with his confession (did he not learn from what Woozi told him?) and basically asks them to find your favourite song because it’s too sus if he asks you

For some reason someone mishears the request and asks you for the song you hate the most? Like tf how do you even mess that up oh well

The song you hate probably isn’t a song that capable of being sung in a romantic way so when Seokmin hears of it for the first time he’s like okay that’s a little offbrand but you know what I really like them and this should be fine

So that’s how you end up awkwardly smiling at Seokmin as he serenades you with some song you just roasted a week ago oh no

He was so sweet about it too and you accepted his confession but now he’s under the impression that you like this song so now he sings it to you all the time LMAO

You wait a while to tell him because you didn’t want to make him feel bad.

When you do tell him the truth he’s so heartbroken but then you serenade him with one of his favourite songs and he just smothers you with kisses and cuddles and everything turns out okay in the end 🤗🥰

Seungkwan

I think he’s another one of the members that wouldn’t mess up his confession but have someone else do it by accident LOL

He’ll probably mention it to the members like once because he just wanted to share how excited he was to let you know about his feelings! bad move bad move bad-

He’ll take you out to your favourite restaurant, then you’ll go on a romantic walk around the city and then he’ll confess to you (with a gift!) once he drops you off at your house (he’s very considerate so in case you don’t feel the same way you can head straight home)

He briefly talks about this plan with the members so they have a rough idea of what he wants to do but not all the details

So you and Seungkwan do everything according to plan and once the night is about to end he realizes he forgot your gift at the dorms! But that’s not much of a problem because he can just go back to pick it up

So you guys stop by the dorms and Seungkwan tells you to wait outside while he gets the gift from his room 🥰🥰🥰

Meanwhile a member (let’s say Hoshi) sees you waiting outside and they’re like ??? why would Seungkwan leave you there lol so they keep you company

And then he remembers that today was the day Seungkwan was going to confess to you but since you’re back at the dorms he thinks that he confessed already and that it went well LMAO

“Oh yn! We're so happy that Seungkwan finally had the courage to do it!”

“Do what?”

“Didn’t he confess to you?”

“...”

And Seungkwan just HAPPENS to return with the gift as soon as he hears the last thing Hoshi said

Cue the Wonwoo: are you alive or dead?

Seungkwan basically drags you out of the dorms (gently!) and gives you a proper confession (he’s a little emotional) but everything turns out fine since you like him back (who wouldn’t?) and you ask if you could spend a bit more time together aww

But you first let him go back to the dorms for some unfinished business rip horanghae fdkjvdkfvj

[watchmegetobsessed]

I Hear A Symphony - Harry Styles

Extra blurb for Floating Through Space!

a/n: this idea came to me out of the blue and i suck at controling myself so i just had to write it! it’s an extra in the universe of FTS, just a little moment for our power couple in their life after the grammys!

the fic again contains an already existing song, credits to the artist, it’s going to be linked in the right place, make sure to listen to it when you see the vid!

pairing: Harry x Famous!Reader

word count: ~2k

masterlist

It’s been two weeks since the first time Harry told you he loved you. Fourteen entire days since the man you’ve been with these past three months told you he loved you, not just with his actions but with his words as well.

It happened so randomly, so out of the blue. You were at his place and following a long and dreading day the two of you decided to have a shower together. He asked if he could wash your hair and you enjoyed the way his fingers massaged your scalp, the intimacy of such a simple yet heartwarming moment ending the day on a wonderful note.

As the water was washing away the soap of your body he leaned down, captured your lips in a simple kiss before the words fell from his lips.

“I love you,” he said, his eyes searching for yours as first you looked down at the floor before your gaze meeting his, lips parted, heart pounding in your chest.

You wanted to say it back, it was on the tip of your tongue, but no word came out your mouth, a slight panic rushing through your senses from his confession. So you pulled him down and kissed him hard, hoping he can feel that you meant to say it, but you weren’t ready to actually form the words just yet.

It’s been eating you away for so long, because the feeling has been there for a long time, probably since the Grammy’s when the two of you sang your heart out in your duet, but your body is plotting against your mind, not letting you say it the way you want to. But you feel like the moment has come and being the dramatic artist that you are, you want it to be big. Because Harry deserves a grandiose romantic gesture.

You’ve been working on your new album for a while now, but needless to say that when you met Harry, you wrote quite a few songs about him that demanded place on your upcoming record, but so far you haven’t shown him any of them and you have a major reason for that.

The very first one you started writing about him turned out to be a massive song. Not because it has a full ballad as the lyrics, it barely have just a few verses. It’s because what started as just a simple melody for the piano soon turned into a monumental symphony with a full symphonic band and you decided to compose the entire melody, to all of the instruments yourself, because it was the only way the song would feel entirely yours. And Harry’s.

Recordings have been going on for weeks just for this one song, because you needed it to be absolutely perfect since it’s been in consideration to be the title of the album. Now the song is done and you are ready to show it to Harry and finally tell him how you really feel about him.

Sitting at your dining table you watch him type out an email to Jeff, eyebrows furrowed as he is still chewing on the last bit of his dinner. His unruly curls are covering his forehead and you smile to yourself as you reach over and push them back, making him glance up at you.

“What’s gotten you so smiley?” he asks, putting his phone away to turn all his attention to you.

“You,” you tell him, tilting your head to the side.

“Me? And why is that?” he smirks, grabbing your hand before you could pull it back and bringing it to his mouth he gently kisses your knuckles.

“What are you doing tomorrow afternoon?” you ask, ignoring his question.

“I’m guessing you are about to tell me,” he smirks, letting go of your hand so he can rest his chin in his palms. “What were you thinking about?”

“Would you like to come to my recording session?” Harry’s eyebrows shoot up from surprise, he surely wasn’t expecting this.

“You want me there?” He knows how you like to keep your works to yourself until you feel comfortable enough to show it to someone outside of your little team. You’ve only shared with him bits and bites of songs, nothing major, so this invitation is clearly a big deal for the both of you.

“Yes. I want… I have something to show you.”

He could tease you about finally showing him something, or crack a joke about being so into him that you wrote a song about him, but he doesn’t do anything of that sort. Instead, he just smiles back at you with so much adoration and love filling his eyes, it could make your chest burst. Leaning closer he kisses your lips softly before pecking the tip of your nose as well.

“Would love to join you.”

You hold onto Harry’s hand for dear life on your way to the studio where you’re going to have your final recording of the song. His song. A whole orchestra is going to be playing for you and while you’ve recorded the song in layers before, today you’re gonna perform it all together for the first time, every instrument playing at the same time as you sing. You really wanted to have a version of this sort, so you know what it’ll sound like when you perform it later with the prerecorded music.

You can tell that Harry is just as excited as you are, but he is keeping it bottled inside, not bugging you about what he is about to hear. He knows it’s going to be about him, you wouldn’t want to show him if it wasn’t.

When you pass by several studios and head to the grand room, the only place that fits the whole orchestra in it at the same time, Harry seems to be growing curious, but still doesn’t question anything, just follows you silently.

“Hello everyone!” you call out upon walking into the room, the majority of the band is already there, greeting you happily, especially when they see who you’re with. “Um, Harry is going to join us for the recording, hope it’s alright,” you announce with a nervous chuckle and you get a few knowing looks. Everyone in the room knows it’s about him, you’ve been an item publicly long enough and it’s not a hard task to put two and two together.

Harry waves around with a few short hellos and how are you’s as he takes a seat at the front of the room, facing the orchestra and essentially, you when you’ll be singing. You sit next to him and before the recording starts, you feel like you owe a few words for him.

“I’ve been working on this song for��� the longest, because it started with just a piano, but then I kept adding more and more until it grew into a whole orchestra,” you admit chuckling and it brings a smirk to his lips as well, his dimples digging into his cheeks. Then you take a deep breath and try to calm your nerves for the next part you’re about to tell him. “Two weeks ago you… told me you loved me and… I’m sorry for never saying it back…”

“I didn’t expect you to,” he speaks up softly. “I didn’t say it to hear you say it back. I know it takes you a lot to figure out your feelings, Y/N.”

“But I have them figured out,” you reply. “I just…” You take a deep breath, feeling yourself getting emotional already. “This song is the first one I wrote about you.”

“The first? So there’s more?” he asks with a small smirk.

“Of course,” you admit chuckling. “But this one… is the most important one. So I want you to hear it.”

Harry nods and doesn’t question you about never finishing your trail of thoughts about your feelings. He just lets you do your thing knowing that it’ll become a whole sooner or later.

Leaning in you kiss him shortly before you stand up and join all the incredible musicians and get ready for the recording. Harry gets a headset so he can hear everything clearly and when everyone is settled, the recording starts. The song kicks out with you singing acapella.

“I used to hear a simple song, that was until you came along. Now in its place is something new, I hear it when I look at you.”

Then the piano starts playing and eventually the violins join softly before you start singing the second verse, making the melody flow perfectly. You keep your eyes off of Harry, but you can feel his intense stare on you as he listens.

“With simple songs, I wanted more, perfection is so quick to bore. You are my beautiful, by far our flaws are who we really are."

The piano and the violins continue playing, getting more and more dynamic with each played note and you feel a shudder run down your spine. The whole song starts to grow as the wind instruments join in, slowly pulling the melody up to its peek that’s about to come soon. And then it happens. Your eyes find Harry’s when you start to sing the next verse, the whole orchestra playing behind you at its fullest.

“I used to hear a simple song, that was until you came along. You took my broken melody and now I hear a symphony…”

The melody continues as you add some vocals, singing your whole heart and soul out, your eyes still set on Harry before suddenly, the instruments cut out and you sing your last line with just the piano playing the last few chords along with you.

“And now I hear a symphony.”

The room grows quiet and your chest is heaving, vision blurry as you couldn’t stop yourself from tearing up. Your emotions washed over you, sweeping you off your feet and now your bare soul is lying in front of Harry’s feet who is still staring at you frozen.

At first you panic at his lack of reaction, but then you see him wipe his eyes and you realize he is crying. Just as you step off the podium and head in his way, he takes his headset off and starts walking in your way and the whole orchestra start cheering and clapping when he envelopes you in his arms, holding you so tight you can barely breathe. You laugh through your tears when he lifts you up and twirls you around in the air before setting you back down and kissing you all over your face, wherever he reaches you. Cupping his face in your hands you pull back a little so you can look into his glistening eyes.

“I love you,” you finally tell him with shaky lips, a weight finally falling off your shoulders and chest now that you’ve said it.

“Oh baby, I love you too,” he smiles, before pulling you in for a kiss that’s soaked by your tears, but by far the sweetest you’ve shared. “I love you so much,” he mumbles against your lips.

“What do you think about the song?” you ask finally pulling away, wiping your tears off your cheeks, not even caring that there is a whole orchestra watching the two of you interact.

“I’m pretty sure this is what they play when you enter Heaven,” he chuckles making you laugh as you smack his chest playfully. “No, but really. It’s brilliant. I’ve never heard anything like this. And having you sing it live for me with the whole orchestra… My mind is blown, baby. It’s going to be hard to top it with anything,” he adds chuckling.

“That was my plan all along,” you admit with a laugh before you pull him down for another kiss.

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