#lemony business

[vfdinthewild]

"VFD Taxi Service"

-spotted on Daniel Handler's instagram

[non-plutonian-druid]

[ID: a three color drawing (black, white, and teal) in the style of Seth’s illustrations from the Lemony Snicket series All The Wrong Questions. Five and Viktor (both about 13) are seated at the counter of a diner, talking. Luther (in his 20s), who is a patron seated next to them, looks concerned about what he is overhearing. Grace stands behind the counted holding a coffee pot and gazing into space. A missing poster for Ben is taped to the counter. In the mirror behind the counter, a reflection Diego and Patch (both 15) are visible in a booth. End ID]

i really should leave time between art posts for them to breathe and accumulate their fair share of notes, but also i need something to do while im waiting for my onions to caramelize.

In this installment: Five and Viktor meet over breakfast to discuss business, Luther is a Concerned Citizen, Diego and Patch also meet over breakfast to discuss business but in the background, and Grace is NOT a robot and this diner is NOT fully automated no sir. Also as usual Ben's face provides some ambiance, thank you Ben.

[free-my-boy-grumbot]

what are the religious themes and parallels of ASOUE part thirteen?

I’m so glad you asked! and completely unprompted, too :)

okay so you know that karl marx quote “religion is the opium of the people”? and how that means that religion allows its followers to turn a blind eye to societal problems and to ease people’s concerns about their life? yeah well lemony snicket did that literally. the island in The End is a result of Ishmael realising that he had lost control of VFD. originally, he wanted to create a peaceful society of noble, well-read people — this led him to enforce a black-and-white view of morality onto its members. obviously, there were people who criticised this, but believe it or not ishmael is not an open minded man. once again, he believes that there is an objective view of morality, and those questioning it are inherently evil. so, he convinced the volunteers that those people were dangerous, which led to a schism, which led to. well you know. anyways that was a gross oversimplification because that’s not what i’m talking about! what i was going to say was that he took some people affected by the schism — people who were also seeking an escape from the horrors that VFD had put them through — and he created a civilisation for them on an island. the only source of drinkable water on this island was cordial contaminated with opioids, and he knew this. in fact, he actively stopped newcomers from creating a water filtrations system. he then did everything in his power to make the inhabitants forget their old lives. he convinced them they’d ended up here by shipwreck, he made them bring him anything that washed up to determine if it was “safe”, he stored any reminders of the past on the other side of the island and banned the inhabitants from going there.

“nothing wrong with a little opium for the people!!” SIR. SIR THERE IS. Ishmael believes that peace should be achieved through any means necessary. therefore, if a problem has become too difficult to solve, he is all for simply pretending it doesn’t exist. This is why he gives the opiates to the islanders. He believes that maintaining a peaceful VFD has grown too complicated, and that the only way a peaceful society can exist is if its members unquestionably accept his rule. He not only believes morality to be black and white, but enforces this belief onto the volunteers, teaching them that following his authority is inherently “good”, and those who oppose or even question it are inherently evil. Since he couldn’t run a society like this in the “real world” — he would always have opposition, which would always mean conflict — he simply created his own, smaller world, where the civilians were too high off their balls to think critically about his leadership. After that, he only had to seem benevolent on the surface because they would all be too comfortable to dig deeper.

Now, black-and-white ethics, dictation of peace, dismissal of societal issues, and lack of scrutiny towards authority are all classic criticisms of religion, and you could definitely draw some parallels between Ishmael’s style of leadership and organised religion. This has all been quite generic antitheism so far. BUT THAT’S NOT ALL!!!

There is an apple tree on the “bad” side of the island. the tree is hollow. there is a library inside, containing any books which may remind the islanders of their past life. these mostly include books from the volunteers and firestarters, the “good” and “bad” sides of the schism. one might say it’s a sort of. a s. a sort of tree of knowledge of good and evil, if you will.

And then later in the book, klaus and violet, a man and a woman, are given an apple from that tree by a snake. classic daniel handler subtlety <3 so ofc this represents genesis, but here is where we get Wierd With It.

The apple saves the baudelaires. They were poisoned with the medusoid mycelium, and the apple immunised them. in fact, the apple is not presented in a negative light in the slightest. this has VERY interesting implications in my opinion and it makes me think that daniel handler is saying, in the bible, eve was also never wrong for eating the fruit! we would be nowhere without the knowledge of sin and death and suffering, there would be no art without it, nor would there be appreciation for the good (ok this part might be me)! eve was in the right, and so was the snake!! which is also incredibly fitting because everyone thinks that the incredibly deadly viper is evil but it actually wouldn’t hurt a fly (we know because monty tried to feed it flies :))

“ohhh ur overthinking it” yes on purpose overthinking this series is my number one hobby. anyways i just thought daniel handler was making an interesting point here :33 anyways i will add more stuff if i think of it

[lemon-drop-soda]

Oh hey, new followers that aren't bots! Neat!

I will have something new to show for myself in due time. Right now I'm dealing with the stress of both work changing management companies with all of the grace of a stone thrown into a lake and a cross-country move to finally get out of my parents' place in about two months. The priorities have changed a little to say the very least.

In any case, welcome to the shitshow :U

[thetxtdevil]

Strawberry Dreams

Blueberry Boy!Kai x Strawberry Shortcake!Reader

summary: Kai knows a girl and he knows that no one is sweeter. She's got that special touch.

content: nsfw/mdni short thoughts, aphrodisiac body, fem.reader, innocent reader+kai kinda corrupting each other, oral (f. & m. rec), breeding kink, descriptions of cum, cum eating, missionary, riding

word count: 900

In Strawberryland where all the people are happy and a little fruity. A big plump strawberry cottage sits in a green meadow and across was a just as big blueberry house. Cute, shy, Blueberry Boy Kai, sits and waits watching your house. Waiting until his best friend opens her red and white striped curtains and unlock the top of her front dutch door, and like clock work you did. "Hi Kai!" "Hi y/n!!!" You're Strawberry Shortcake, you are Kai's best friend in the world and the most popular girl of the place. You wave to all your friends while riding your bike all through town and to your bakery booth. While Blueberry Kai follows you close behind. Your booth is open 5 days a week at the Strawberryland Farmers' Market and Kai is always there to help you set up.

On your free days you were consistently making your strawberry shortcake desserts while Kai strums his guitar on your pink fluffy rug in your very red living room. "Mmm Kai you need to try this!" The blueberry boy is swift on his feet prepared to grab a spoon to try your new icing, but he stops once he sees your fingers stretched out in front of him. His form bends down to lick your fingers getting more than a taste of your icing. His agrees that the icing tastes really good, but something felt odd... he felt different... Hungry, not in his stomach, hunger burned in his chest down to his groin. Kai's blue eyes study your focused face attention back on your pastry. The next events happens fast, you gasp feeling something soft and wet licking your neck. You look down only to see a fluff of the blueberry boy's sapphire hair. Now you were questioning this same new feeling something weird yet felt good...

Poor, poor strawberry you, you didn't know that your strawberry nature was an aphrodisiac. Now that your blueberry boy had a taste, he's addicted. A whole pandora's box of smut and so on...

Your booth had a late start that Monday when you asked help to bring up the canopy. Kai walks up behind you raising his arms successfully creating a cover for your little shop, but then you feel something poking you. You turn around with worried eyes only to be faced with a predatory stare from Kai. Leading him to fuck you under the table of the booth. Once you begged him to stop because you needed to start business he respectfully stops, but he never leaves his spot under the table. Finding relief to eat you out while you try so hard to give the greatest customer service.

You were an aphrodisiac, but your slick was something more to Blueberry Kai. A sweet taste of fresh strawberries that strike his sweet tooth just right. His long tongue explored your folds intently, learning fast what soft parts have you shaking.

But who knew your best friend would make you just as obsessive. It seemed like Blueberry Kai's scent became stronger every sexual encounter you two had. He had an earthy scent that smelled close to a childhood memory made you feel warm inside. His cheeks turned the brightest pink every kiss you gave. Head lowering down to what seemed like a chronically erected dick, you soon found another addiction, his purple blueberry scone flavored cum. So sweet yet a little salty, you'd do anything to hear his whimpered moans and to get your tongue a shade of his lilac cum.

"Come on, Shortcake, what's taking you so long?" You bite your tongue as your hear your lemony friend call out. "B-berry I was supposed to go out with my friends today." However you were far from ready to go out, at that moment your legs were over Kai's shoulders while he was balls deep in you. "Come on, sweet, just one more." it will be 3 more until that blueberry is tired and you can go hangout with your friends

Let me take it a step further and mention Kai's new found breeding kink and loving the idea of a strawberry/blueberry hybrid child. You're making a pie with a mini version of him with purple hair, that's what he envisions when he sees you all creampied with his cum. You make Kai want to do it again and again when you whine out of arousal every time he pushes his sweet cum back in your cunt.

A sweet picnic turned into a make-out session. You two bike down the road eventually turning into a dirt path next to a big lake. Laying a gingham blanket on the plush emerald grass, shaded by the trees that encapsulate the area. You sit close to the Blueberry Boy, feeding him a triangular cut jelly sandwich. Oops, some jelly is left on his lip, you lick it off. Leading to a kiss, to an open mouth kiss, his tongue gets a taste of you quickly reminded of the fact that you're a walking aphrodisiac. Kai picks you up to put you on his lap, not wasting time to have you watching the small waves of the water while riding his big cock. :')

This goes to show that Blueberry Boy Kai and Strawberry Shortcake you are a very fluffy couple. So sweet just like your names, but please PLEASE don't have Kai get too close to you or you will be split into two strawberries.

A nuisance,

TxT's Devil 🍓 🫐

taglist: @inkigayocamman, @naoristerling, @incogrio, @biteyoubiteme

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Old Scars, New Blood 4

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as dubcon/noncon, manipulation, borderline bullying, and other possible triggers. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: Reader has accepted that she’ll never be wanted, not only by the man she’s crushed on for years, but by anyone. That is until a new player enters the game. (f!, short!reader)

Character: Lloyd Hansen, Thor Odinson

Note: Still sick but going to have to work.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me <3

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!)

Love you all. Take care. 💖

With meal prep complete, you return to Lloyd’s office to find it empty. The remnants of his earlier spill remain speckled over the desk and floor. You clean it up, leaving a lemony fresh scent in your stead. While you’re at it, you tidy up the bookshelves.

You hesitate on your way to the door. You glance over your shoulder as something tickles in your head. You still don’t get why Lloyd didn’t tell you about Valhalla. For months, he hid that from you. You think about that day in the car and being left on the side of the road. Maybe he’s been planning to cut ties with you for a while.

You stare at the large iMac. It would be wrong to snoop. Even if it isn’t his redeeming quality, you’ve always been honest with Lloyd. You’re just confused. He’s never anything less than straightforward so if he’s going to fire you, why hasn’t he just pulled the trigger?

Maybe… you know too much. That sends a shiver through you. It may actually end with shots fired.

“There she is,” Lloyd interrupts your inner turmoil and you whip around to face him. He’s freshly showered and styled. You can smell the specialty oil he puts in his mustache, “the fuck are you doing in here?”

“Cleaning,” you reply quickly.

“Looks pretty fucking spotless,” he tosses keys at you and you flinch, catching them against your chest, “I need a ride.”

“Um, I can get Jackie–”

“He drives like an old man,” he retorts, spinning on his heel as he snaps his fingers, “chop, chop, kid.”

You swallow your agitation. Usually, you’re better at it. Today you just find him grating. Maybe you’re just a bit sore about him leaving you on the highway. Well, get over it, he’s not apologising.

You follow him with the keys in your hand. He’s several paces ahead of you as you scurry to keep up. His stride is tense as he opens and closes his fists.

As you come outside, you hear a whistle. Lloyd peers over and scuffs to halt as he faces Thor. The large blond bounds over, a shirt with only one button done up displaying most of his chest. He looks over Lloyd’s shoulder and his cheek dimples.

“Running away?”

“Business,” Lloyd says flatly, “I’ll be back.”

“What about my business?” Thor challenges. Lloyd doesn’t respond. “Relax,” he slaps Lloyd’s arm, “I’m ragging on you. Tonight, we will share some of your scotch, eh? Get you nice and loose.”

“Mm,” Lloyd grumbles, “we’ll see.”

“The little one prefers wine, I think,” Thor points over Lloyd’s shoulder, “oh, and she has quite the sweet tooth, eh? You must know that.”

“Whatever. She’s the assistant. Her job is to worry about what I like,” Lloyd sneers, “don’t wait up.”

He turns back towards the car and you send an apologetic smile past him. Thor smirks and winks, flicking his tongue out lasciviously. You blanch and swiftly follow Lloyd.

You still don’t believe what he said in the kitchen. Not only that he said it but that he meant it. You’re certain it’s all just a part of this pissing match between the men. Thor keeps stepping onto Lloyd’s territory, he’ll keep going till he gets bit. You don’t how much longer Lloyd can hold out.

Lloyd’s in the passenger’s seat of the SUV before you even get to the door. You open it and swing yourself in. You hate how big all these vehicles are. You shove the keys in the slot and turn the engine. You shift in the seat and slide your phone out of your pocket, placing it in the cup holder.

You check the time then the mirrors. It’s not unusual for Lloyd to head out later in the day but you didn’t have anything on the agenda. You know better than to ask questions. That’s what he liked about you, if he likes anything about you.

“Would you just fucking drive?” Lloyd growls.

You wince and shift into gear. You look behind you then ahead of you. Thor watches you as you ease into reverse. Or maybe he’s watching Lloyd…

You roll the wheel and turn towards the gate. Lloyd takes out his phone and slumps in the seat as he scrolls and taps. You steer through the gate and pull out onto the road. You don’t even know if you should ask where to go.

“Head northeast,” he says.

Right. You take his direction and turn onto the ramp onto the highway. He grumbles at his phone but says nothing else until you have to get into the exit lane. What is he up to?

You head into the city and he directs you through the main row where much of the nightlife thrives. You’ve been there many times before. He isn’t shy about his nocturnal activities. He commands you past his typical spot.

When he points you into the lot behind a Hilton, you frown. Is he that desperate to get away from Thor? You don’t say a word as you idle by the back wall.

“Right,” he doesn’t look up from his phone as he undoes his seat belt, “I’ll be a while.”

You look over at him confused. What does he mean?

“I’m sure you can keep yourself entertained,” he pokes his tongue out as he smirks at his phone. You catch the glimpse of a chat, a picture sent of a woman in a thong. You cringe and grip the wheel.

“I’ll just go back to the compound–”

“You’ll stay the fuck here,” he tears his eyes from the cell and jabs his finger at you, “you need to remember who the fuck you work for, kid.”

You say nothing as he opens the door and drops out of the SUV. You know this side of Lloyd. His ego is bruised. It happens after rough missions or when an agent gets mouthy. It’s worse now since he can’t do much about his problem. 

He slams the door behind him and you watch him march towards the entrance. You sigh and roll down the windows before you shut off the engine. There’s no use in wasting gas for who knows how long. You’re certain if you get bored, you’ll have enough time to get a coffee down the block.

You grab your phone and shuffle through several apps. You can’t focus on any of the time-eating games you keep for when you’re restless. You have nothing else to distract you. Your sister hasn’t answered the text you sent her a week ago and Lloyd is busy.

You open up your downloaded series and turn on the same show you’ve seen a dozen times before. Still, you’re not paying attention. You don’t think Lloyd is here for business. It really shouldn’t matter to you but it feels extra humiliating to have to wait outside while he does…whatever.

You turn off the show and let the car go silent. You adjust the seat to recline and close your eyes. You’re exhausted. All the chaos has got the best of you. 

Your phone vibes before you can get cozy. It’s Lloyd. You tap the preview so it expands.

‘Need lube. Ten minutes.’

You scoff. Is he serious? Your heart shrivels up as your stomach turns. He’s punishing you. Not because you did anything but because he can’t punish Thor. You’re so so tired.

You grip the wheel and stare at the phone. You wonder if he knows? Is this why he’s doing this? All these years, talking about his escapades, you just assumed it was his usual crassness. He talks like that with everyone. If he’s not boasting about killing, it’s fucking.

Either way, he knows what he’s doing. This is low. You are low.

You open up maps and search for a shop nearby. You fix the seat and pull out, driving numbly as you follow the automated voice directing you through the street. You park without paying attention and get out, nearly stumbling from the height of the SUV’s lift.

You stroll inside the shop with its blackened windows and enter with your head down. Your eyes scan furtively as you search for your goal. The task is made more difficult as the flesh toned silicon and shameless displays set you on fire.

“Hello, hon, can I help you find something?” The man behind the counter asks.

“Er,” you cross your arms, “lube.”

“Alrighty, are we looking for flavoured? Water-based? Oil?”

You blanch as he rounds the counter and strides towards a rack. You shrug and trail after him. You see a black bottle with cherries on it.

“That’s fine,” you pluck one off the shelf and quickly retreat to the counter. “Credit.”

You bring up your card on your phone and tap. The man behind the counter tries to break the tension but you’re not listening. You shove the receipt in your pocket and swipe up the bottle and leave.

Back in the truck, you have to hold back from screaming. What are you doing? You don’t need this shit. Why do you keep bending over backwards for Lloyd when you don’t have a chance? Why have you wasted a decade hoping for nothing?

Because, you don’t have any other options.

You turn the car on and roll out of the lot. You make your way back to the hotel in a haze. You check your phone. He sent the room number and nothing else. You walk into the hotel, ignoring the front desk clerk, and wait for the elevator. You step onto it and watch the doors shut.

You get off and follow the signs to the exact door plaque. You knock with your knuckles, your hand fisted around the bottle. You hear giggling. It’s more than one woman. Footsteps approach the other side.

A woman in an open robe opens the door. She has dark wavy hair and smeared lipstick. Lloyd growls in the background as you glimpse his naked ass.

“Hurry up, sugar tits,” he calls, “I’m starting to chafe.”

You shove the bottle at the woman and drop it. You don’t wait to see if she catches it. You spin on your heel and you’re gone. Your eyes fill with hot tears. Tears like acid. Tears of stupidity.

When you get back to the car, you keel over the steering wheel and heave. You don’t hate Lloyd. You hate yourself. You need to cut it out but somehow, you just can’t. He’s the worst person you know and yet, you want him so badly.

❤️‍🩹

As the sky darkens, you get out of the SUV to stretch your legs. You pace around and check the time. You don’t want to get back in the car. Instead, you wander down the street to the coffee kiosk you drove by earlier. You get an Americano and drag your feet back up the pavement.

You stand outside the SUV and sip from the cup. You chew the paper brim anxiously and look at your phone. Another car door opens and closes.

“Candy?” A man approaches.

You look up, the glow of your face making the stranger nothing more than a dark shadow, “not me,” you back up and press your phone to your chest.

“Oh, sorry,” he puts his hands up, “thought you were someone else.”

You shake your head as he turns and wanders off. You’re not entirely sure how he mistook you for a prostitute. That is what he thought, isn’t it? Candy? Sounds pretty tasty.

You get back in the SUV and lock the doors. You put your phone in the cup holder and it flashes. A message. You don’t bother reading it. You tap your fingers on the console and close your eyes, sipping from the warm cup.

A knock on the other window startles you. You turn on the light and see Lloyd peering in. He winks and tugs on the handle. You hit the locks and sit up.

He gets in and lets out a sigh, “ahh, I feel good.”

You don’t say a word as you slip your cup into the empty holder beside your phone. You start the car and press the gas. As you come to the exit, Lloyd yawns and stretches his arm between the seats, gripping yours above your shoulder.

“I’m fucking starving, let’s hit a burger joint,” he says as he rubs his stomach, “you don’t think I would be with how much I ate.”

He cackles and you bite down. You don’t understand it. He repulses you and yet there’s that sharp pang in your chest.

“You see the tits on Kasia? Fucking pert–”

You veer onto the next street and he hits the door with the motion, “hey, be fucking careful.” He shifts in his seat as he touches his crotch, “I’m tender.”

You sniff and pull into the drive through. You stop by the menu, “what do you want?”

“Get me some of that honey chicken and some rings. Extra honey sauce for the rings. Oh, and a sprite.”

“Sure,” you answer as you drive up to the speaker. You recite his order and the fuzzy response tells you to drive up to the window.

“What’s up? You’re not hungry?”

“I’m fine,” you insist.

“Aw, you on another diet,” he taunts, “bone broth?”

“No,” you answer flatly.

“I’m not sharing my rings,” he says.

“I don’t want any,” you insist.

“You’re fucking testy,” he accuses as you pay.

“I’m tired,” you utter and roll up to the pick-up.

“You’re tired? Fuck, my back is aching from all that thrusting.”

“Would you stop?” You snap before you can stop yourself, “I don’t want to hear about your dick anymore.”

He snorts and sits up straight, “excuse me, kid?”

“I don’t care,” you reach over and give a blunt thanks to the drive-thru worker as you take the paper bag. “Why don’t you shut up and eat?"

You shove the bag in his lap then take the cup and move your phone to plant it firmly in the holder. You follow through the lane and back onto the street. The silence is still and stolid around you.

“If you wanted to join in, you just had to say–”

“No,” you snip. You know he’s not serious, he’s teasing you. You’re a joke to him. “No, I don’t want that.” You grip the wheel tight and bite down until your jaw hurts, “I don’t want you.”

He inhales and blows it out heavily through his nose. The bag crinkles as he opens it and reaches inside, unleashing the smell of chicken that makes your stomach rage. You ignore the discomfort and focus on the road.

“Learn to take a fucking joke, kid,” he snickers, “maybe then, you’ll catch a dick or two.”

[cookieclickercookieeater]

I've had a busy couple of days, so I'll be catching up from misssing Friday with battenberg biscuits. I have Mr. Kipling mini battenbergs for these.

These are very soft and cakey with some graininess from the sugar on the outside. The flavor is a very sweet lemony one. I feel like quite a few of the more recent cookies have been pretty good, and these are no exception.

4/5

[cannedpickledpeaches]

Sad Poems but I Choose to Interpret Them as Happy

Jade Leech x Reader

“I will love you if I never see you again, and I will love you if I see you every Tuesday. I will love you as the starfish loves a coral reef and as kudzu loves trees, even if the oceans turn to sawdust and the trees fall in the forest without anyone around to hear them . . . . I will love you as the iceberg loves the ship, and the passengers love the lifeboat, and the lifeboat loves the teeth of the sperm whale, and the sperm whale loves the flavor of naval uniforms. I will love you as a drawer loves a secret compartment, and as a secret compartment loves a secret, and as a secret loves to make a person gasp . . . I will love you until all such compartments are discovered and opened, and all the secrets have gone gasping into the world.” -Excerpt from The Beatrice Letters, Lemony Snicket

Jade is not as fickle as his brother, but he too is guilty of interests that come and go like the wind. There are some that stay, like hiking, foraging, and photography; but there are far more that he drops as soon as he’s figured them out. More often than not, his love is not long-lasting.

He has long accepted that any romantic relationship he finds himself in would have a very slim chance of being normal. Healthy. No, his love will likely destroy his partner, whether it is because of obsession or of fleeting interest. He thinks it wouldn’t be so bad to experience it. It would be interesting, a deviation from his norm.

You’re his target, but only because you made such a fascinating proposition. When you’re bored of me, tell me immediately, and we can break up with no hard feelings. Were you such a pragmatic person? He hadn’t noticed before. It spurs him on to know more, to learn everything about you. And once he does, once every single secret you could possibly hide is laid bare before him, he’ll lose interest like he always does and drop you like a bad habit.

So he does. Your favourite food. Colour. Season. The basic things, until they get more specific. The way you do your hair in the mornings. The recipes you favour and the ratio of their ingredients. Your reactions to his occasional unhinged comment. The shows that you laugh or cry at. The ones you think are mediocre. He files them all away in his memory, picking you apart like you’re a subject to study. That’s what he tells himself, anyway. Mild interest. Once he finds out everything, he’ll grow bored and leave.

Days turn to months turn to a year. Has so much time really passed? The secrets you hold have dwindled in number. He knows you inside out, top to bottom, soul to body. There’s only one thing left that he doesn’t know.

You often tease him, asking why he won’t bring you to the Coral Sea. He always gives some shoddy excuse or the other. He isn’t so sure, himself. There’s no real reason to stall. The ice floes have retreated. His parents would be delighted. He would finally know how you’d act in his hometown, in the dark, deep sea that is so different from your home, and with that, he would finally drop you. There will be nothing new.

Unfortunately, I find myself quite busy recently. Perhaps next month. When next month comes around, he pushes it another thirty days. Then another. He was never one to procrastinate, so why now? This is far from efficient. Was he such a cowardly person? He hadn’t known before. He needs to get it done so that he will no longer have a reason to keep you by his side—

Ah. That is the issue, isn’t it?

He doesn’t know how long he’d been in love. All he knows is that he can’t get bored anymore, even if the smile you give him is the same, even if your laughter that warms his chest is unchanging, even if he brings you home. All he knows is that as much as he thought his love would be destructive, he treasures your comfort and happiness too much to think about hurting you anymore. The deadline no longer lies where your last secret is. Forever, until the seas dry up, until he breaths his last gasp—he will love you forever.

[heartrender6]

i used to think Lemony hated when Kit called him “L” because it was a dumb teasy sibling thing, but as I learn more about VFD I’m realizing that the first initial is what they call each other during secret meetings and whatnot for confidentiality. When she called him that it insinuated secrecy and officiality. It was business-y. He hated when his sister called him L because it was too impersonal and he felt disconnected from her. im gonna cry

[allsadnshit]

was busy all day + now I am making roasted beet, butternut squash, pepper soup with chicken bone broth + a lemony yogurt sauce <3

[babygirlgiles]

I think my fic where Xander accidentally becomes a successful novelist (largely without realizing it) is the funniest idea I’ve ever had. This guy started writing little stories to remember their adventures in Sunnydale (his last line in Chosen about “how will anyone even know about this unless we tell them” burrowed itself into my little archivist brain and won’t let go) and posts them online. He unintentionally goes viral. He thinks someone named Simon N. Schuster is leaving him voicemails. He ends up on the New York Times bestseller list.

He doesn’t even realize that everyone else thinks the stories are fiction. Xander is out here writing autobiographical non-fiction but everyone else thinks he’s a weirdly dedicated author that’s really committed to maintaining a Lemony Snicket style pseudonym/persona for the narrator of his novel. There are “Who Is Xander Harris?” articles. No one can dig up much of anything on him because he lived his whole life in a town that got wiped off the map. He keeps rejecting requests for interviews because of his stage fright. At first this drives his publicist absolutely ballistic but it just adds the the air of mystery that’s drumming up book sales so she lets it go.

He only responds to questions over email and only ever responds “in character” as his “novel’s narrator” and this baffles everyone, only adding to the supposed mystery. It’s literally not even Xander actually writing the emails 95% of the time. It’s Dawn. She has appointed herself as “Xander’s representation” even though she doesn’t really know what being someone’s representation means. She printed business cards.

[karahalloway]

Morally Grey - Part IV: Covert Affairs

Fandom: TRR x Mission: Impossible II

Pairing: Drake Walker x F!OC (Harper Gale)

Series: Morally Grey

Synopsis: Drake meets his handler...and realises that he is in deeper than he thought...

Word count: 4,200

Rating/Warnings: E (swearing, lemony-ness, references to death and carnage)

Chapter theme song:

A/N1: I know this is not necessarily what people were hoping that I have been working on (poor Intentions keeps getting sidelined...! 😫) but this is where my brain has been for the past month.

A/N2: Associated clips from the movie for this chapter are below:

I jerk awake with a start.

The russet light of the late afternoon sun pools into the room, smearing the sheets tangled 'round my legs in a warm crimson.

My brows draw together. How and when did I end up in bed?

Running a hand down my face, my mind tracks somewhat groggily back to the events of this morning...

...to land bodily on me fucking Gale right there on the kitchen counter.

I shake my head. No, that can't be—

The rustle of the sheets draws my attention, and my gaze collides with the mess of honey-gold curls spread across the pillows...

...and the bare shoulder poking out from beneath the covers.

My eyes clench shut. "Shit..."

I shouldn't've touched her. That's what set this whole thing off. I should've just kept my hands to myself, or offered her a damn serviette. But I hadn't been thinking, and I'd let the heat of the moment carry me across the very clearly marked line that I've been told never to fucking cross.

Because a kiss — or two — is one thing. Not sanctioned by any official means, and definitely not one you'll find allowance for in any kind of training manual. But the rules are one thing, and real life is another. And if push comes to shove, a kiss can double as a well-timed distraction, or even as a potent lure. And Christ knows it's saved my ass more times than I want to count...

But locking lips with Gale had been different. It'd felt different. There'd been no thought, no planning, nothing even close to resembling a rational choice... Just a wild shot cracked off into the night with no target in sight.

And while I can BS myself 'round the circumstances that led to the first instance — the adrenaline, the cortisol, the heated argument — I sure as hell can't acquit myself regarding the second...

...except by virtue of the fact that I'd wanted to do it.

I'd wanted to taste her again, to hear her gasp against my mouth as her nails scraped down my skin. I'd wanted to leave her breathless, to make her forget her name, and scream out mine instead.

Because as good as she'd looked in that lace dress, that get-up had been a mere smokescreen. A calculated camouflage designed to achieve her objective back at the manor.

And it wasn't until she let her hair down that the mask slipped off... and I caught a taste of who she really was.

As beneath the firecracker façade and the biting wisecracks lay an almost naked authenticity that I thought had been wiped from this world... or at least from the world that I now inhabit. There was no bullshitting this girl, and she wasn't gonna hold back, neither. And honestly? That was like the taste of a damp breeze after an endless summer of drought.

Cracking my eyes open, I sneak a glance over at her. She's still asleep, eyes closed and mouth slightly parted, her features verging almost on innocent...

...except there'd been nothing innocent about the way she'd fucked me right back.

A low groan escapes me as I'm hit with the memory of her legs slung over my shoulders, her hands gripping the marble above her head as she slammed back against me with each violent stroke.

Sweet Jesus, she'd felt good...

As if to reaffirm that assessment, my dick twitches against the constraints of the sheets.

And even though I know it's a bad idea to pursue this liaison even a fraction of an inch further — you don't mix business with pleasure, period, let alone in this line of work, where emotional entanglements will literally get you killed — the only thing I want is to lose myself in her all over again, consequences be fucked.

Which is why — against my better judgement, and against every goddamn protocol — I find myself reaching across to run a fingertip across her delicate skin.

Because let's face it... I'm already up shit creek. So, I may as well ditch the paddle.

Her nose scrunches into a brief mou of disapproval, before she grabs the top of the covers to twist away from me...

...presenting the bareness of her backside in the process.

My gaze dives south like a fish on a lure to trace down the smooth expanse of her back, before settling on the dark cleft nestled between her cheeks... and the promise of its final destination.

Because if that's not a blatant fuckin' invitation, I don't know what is.

Kicking whatever reservations I may have left to the curb — which, if I'm being honest with myself, ain't a whole damn lot to begin with — I slip a hand 'neath the sheets.

Finding the warmth of her skin, my palm tracks briefly upwards to round her hip, before sliding down towards the coveted V between her legs.

She stirs briefly in response to my explorations, but doesn't quite come to...

...which makes me wonder just how far I can push my luck before she catches me out.

Shifting my weight slightly, I prop myself up onto an elbow, gaze trained on her face as my fingers seek their target.

Coasting over the soft flesh of her mons, I hear a low moan rush out of her as she moves against my hand.

My dick bucks against the small of her back like an over-eager hound on a leash, impatient to be let loose. But I keep myself in check, letting the anticipation build one hair's breadth at a time.

Because it's sure as hell gonna be worth it.

Slipping a finger into the heat of her folds, I seek her clit... and groan out loud when I come into contact with the veritable wellspring hidden within.

Because to say that she's wet is an understatement. Every inch of her is still coated in the aftermath of our combined climaxes and my fingers come out soaked.

Damn, that shit should be 'gainst the law...

But as much as a part of me wants to skip the foreplay and just yank her backwards onto my raging hard on, I force myself to take a steadying breath.

Because we erupted outta the gate once already today like a pair of wild broncos, jumping each other before our clothes had fully hit the deck.

And even though that'd been exactly what we'd needed after last night, this time I want to dial it back a gear... to feel her out... to make it last.

As who knows what kind of shit IMF is planning to throw our way when I finally pull my renitent ass outta bed? We could be going deep undercover... Behind enemy lines... Or even off-grid...

So, I'd rather steal the moment now, when I know I have it, than kick myself down the line when neither of us'll be able to avail ourselves of each other.

Because let's face it — Constantine yanked me off of my overdue vacation. So, as far as I'm concerned, he owes me a fuck-ton of time in lieu. And I'm planning to claim it. With interest.

"Mmm..." she moans, vindicating my decision as I start to tease her slick bud.

She twists against me and I drop my head to feather a kiss on her shoulder, drinking in her unguarded reactions as I pull her steadily towards the precipice of consciousness.

Her mouth parts with a more audible gasp as I find her sweet spot. "Drake..."

The sound of my name cascading off her lips like a breathless prayer causes my teeth to sink into her skin.

Fuck, that's hot...

"You awake yet?" I growl, tacitly pressing the issue with the addition of another finger.

"What if...I say... no...?" she mumbles, arcing against me half in protest, half in unabated need.

"I'd say you're a dirty liar," I counter, trailing my tongue up towards her neck.

She scoffs breathlessly, fighting the inevitable. "Yeah, you'd know all about that, wouldn't you, Walker?"

"Perks of the job," I smirk, nipping her ear.

She snorts back at me. "Not sure I'd call that a perk...!"

"Trust me," I grit, snapping her to me. "It's a definite perk."

She yelps as I roll her on top of me in one quick motion, leaving her spread-eagled with her back pressed against my chest.

Wedging her legs apart before she can think to argue, I shove my fingers deep inside her.

"Drake!" she cries, nearly lifting off of me at the sudden intensity.

"Case in point," I smirk, snapping a strategic hand over her breast to pin her back down against me.

She arcs into my hand. "You're such an ass..."

"You sayin' you'd rather wait a decent interval?"

She lifts her arm to tangle her fingers into my hair. "Who wants to be decent?"

"That's what I thought..." I drawl, circling her nipple with a lazy thumb while curling my fingers inside of her.

"You treat..." she gasps, even as her body strains for more, "...all your accomplices like this?"

"You mean, like this?"

"I— Ah...!" she gasps, free hand slapping onto my wrist in desperation as I add a third finger.

"I can stop any time..." I say, sliding in and out of her with deliberate slowness.

She snaps a hold 'round my dick. "Liar."

I swallow a groan with some difficulty. "Got me there, girl..."

She bursts into a laugh above me. "Guess we're just as bad as each other, aren't we?"

"Baby..." I grin, gliding my hand up to her neck. "There ain't enough time in the world for any of this to be bad."

"You say that now, cowboy..." she purrs, teasing me just as relentlessly as I'm teasing her. "But you're a spy in bed with a thief."

"Your point?"

"Right and wrong got left at the door."

I scoff dryly. "D'you wanna go find it?"

"It's a bit late for that..."

I frown. "Thought thieves weren't supposed to have a conscience..."

"Everyone picks up bad habits..." she admits with a rueful exhale.

Something in her tone gives me pause.

Slipping my fingers out of her, I tip her face towards mine...

...to find her hazel gaze welling with uncharacteristic vulnerability.

"Hey," I say, brushing my thumb across the underside of her jaw. "If you're having second thoughts—"

She shakes her head. "It's not that."

"Then?"

"Can I really trust you?" she whispers, almost too quiet for me to hear.

"To the grave," I affirm, holding her gaze.

She snorts softly. "Why do I believe you?"

"'Cause it's the truth," I say simply, rolling her beneath me. "I meant everything I said on that bridge."

"That's what I was worried about..."

"Why?"

"Because," she sighs, wrapping her arms 'round my neck, "this whole thing would be a lot less complicated if you were just another regular two-faced jerk..."

I shake my head with another scoff. "Think that's the first time anyone's called out honesty as a personality flaw."

"I've been disappointed one too many times..." she admits with a rueful roll of her eyes.

"Any chance of setting the record straight?"

"You can try," she shrugs coyly. "But it won't be easy."

"Good," I drawl, closing the distance between us. "I like a challenge."

Her lips tilt up to meet mine, and as I sink back into her, a realisation hits me like a freight train.

I'd do anything for this girl...

It's pitch black by the time I step out onto the street.

But that doesn't mean the city is asleep. The exact opposite, in fact.

The warm sea breeze catches my still-damp hair, bringing with it the shouts and laughter of the locals and tourists thronging the city for the annual Lantern Festival.

And — to be fair to them — it really is a sight to see. Thousands of hand-made lanterns are cast aloft to drift lazily across the city, carrying the hopes and dreams of their makers skywards.

Which is great.

But wishes ain't gonna save the world. So, I still got a job to do.

Adjusting the lapels of the hastily thrown-on leather jacket, I cast one last glance back at the building — and the lone glow of light emanating from the upstairs window — before plunging into the crowd.

I hadn't planned to run the clock down so much. But Gale was apparently a more potent distraction than initially advertised. And by the time I'd even thought to come up for air, it was already well past sundown.

Not that I strictly give a damn.

What I do on my own time is my business — no one else's. And I'd chosen to do Gale. Three more times, in fact. Plus, once more in the shower.

But, unfortunately, I'm now running behind schedule and I need to step to it if I'm gonna make the meet before the end of the 48-hour deadline.

Weaving through the throngs of tourists and locals crowding the narrow streets, I head east towards the city's old quarter.

Hawkers thrust flowers, lanterns, and light-up pinwheels at me, but I brush them off, intent on my destination.

Turning a corner, I arrive at an unassuming gap between two buildings. Slipping into the alleyway, I come upon a faded, wooden door. Locating the intercom, I quickly tap in my unique agent identifier to activate the obligatory retinal scan.

One quick database check, and the lock clicks back.

"Welcome, Agent Walker," chirps the automated voice as the door swings open.

Stepping over the threshold, I find myself in a brightly lit foyer that is in stark contrast to the dilapidated exterior of the building.

Modern minimalist pendant lights illuminate the space, making the spotless Carrara marble that decks the floor shine as if it were wet.

"He is expecting you," advises the receptionist from behind her desk. "Upstairs, first floor."

"Thanks," I nod, turning towards the elevator.

Pressing the call button, the doors ping immediately open and I hit the request for the first floor. One short ride later, I'm stepping out onto industrial carpet.

"Right this way, Agent Walker," indicates a suited Joe sporting a buzzcut and an earpiece.

I shake my head as I fall in behind the guard. The White House wishes it had this kind of security...

Arriving at the pair of double doors, the guard swipes a keycard to let me through.

Constantine is standing on the far side of the room, hands tucked into the pockets of his immaculately tailored suit, gazing out the window.

"Festival's a pain in the ass," he declares, watching the revelry at street level. "You have to wonder how the city manages to avoid setting itself on fire... Please, sit."

I pull out a leather-backed chair from beneath the large tempered glass table and park myself in it.

"I presume things went to plan with Miss Gale?" he asks, back still to me.

"More or less," I admit.

"Good," he nods. "At least that's one thing that hasn't blown up in our face..." Turning to face me, he adds, "I'm sorry I barged in on your vacation."

I shrug. "Sorry I didn't let you know where I was."

"Wouldn't be much of a vacation if you did..." he counters. "We all need time off every once in a while."

"Yeah, well," I say dismissively. "Best laid plans and all that..."

"Quite," he chuckles, spreading his hands over the top of the table. "We'd both be out of the job if nothing ever went awry."

"True," I agree. "But you're sorry and I'm sorry. So—"

"Why did you phrase it like that?"

I frown. "Like what?"

"You're sorry," he repeats, eyeing me intently. "And I'm sorry."

A scoff slides out of me. "You've got to be shitting me..."

"I am very much afraid not," he murmurs, sliding a tablet towards me.

I catch the device on instinct, eyes still on my handler. But whatever he knows, he's not willing to reveal. At least not yet.

Swiping my thumb across the screen to unlock it, I am confronted with a video file.

My finger hovers for a split second above the play icon, wondering what the hell this is all about, before I tap down onto the glass.

Here comes the rabbit hole...

As expected, the familiar face of Dr. Balen Arion fills the screen, albeit older and more haggard than when I last saw him close to a decade ago.

"Do you remember, Draven, when we first met?" the recording asks. "You convinced me that there was a chance of a better world... if each of us made better choices. Well, old friend, I am sorry to say that I failed... As in my zealous pursuit of our hero Bellerophon, I stumbled instead upon... a Chimera."

Balan reaches up to rub his eyes painedly beneath his glasses.

"History will be the final arbiter of my legacy, but in the meantime, I beg you, Draven, come to New York and accompany me to Geneva, immediately. But, however we travel, I must arrive at my destination, within 20 hours of the time-stamp of this message. I fear I can entrust this to no one but you. As we say, 'I'm sorry and you're sorry'..."

The video cuts out.

"Do you have any idea what in the blazes he's on about?" asks Constantine.

"An idea?" I mutter, still staring at the screen. "Yeah."

"Which is?"

"That it's a good idea to pick him up in a hurry. And a bad idea to fly him on a commercial carrier." I flip the tablet back to the end of the table. "So, let's get to it. Is he still in New York?"

"Dr. Balen Arion is dead," Constantine declares. "So is his colleague Damien Dan. But that happened earlier."

My head snaps up. "How?"

"The American Airlines flight he was on went down over the Atlantic. The search for survivors is still ongoing, but at this point, all 467 souls onboard are lost, presumed dead."

Something doesn't compute. "How the hell did you convince him to get on that plane without me?"

A ghost of a smile flicks across the old man's lips. "Oh, you were there..."

My guts hit the floor. Oh, fuck.

"Arion gave us a tight deadline," Constantine explains, opening up another file on the tablet and shunting it back to me, "So, when we couldn't find you, we had to replace you. Christian Rhys was the obvious choice."

The device skids to a stop in front of me and I watch with growing aggravation as a physiognomic algorithm maps out my features before transposing them onto Chris' to create a virtual mock-up of a full-face mask.

Of all the damn—

"Agent Rhys doubled you, what...?" The old man's voice cuts through my thoughts. "Two, three times?"

"Twice," I grunt, tossing the tablet back at him again.

Constantine catches the device with one hand. "What did you think of him?"

"We're not exactly compatible," I bite out acerbically. "Isn't it a little late in the damn day to be asking me that?

"Not necessarily..."

"Jesus fucking—"

The tablet slides into my eyeline again.

"Official AA records list a Captain James T. Arnolds as the pilot for the ill-fated flight," Constantine advises, as a slideshow of photos plays. "And as far as the media and all governmental agencies are concerned, Captain Arnolds met the same watery fate as the rest of his crew."

Images of what the rescue effort could salvage of the wreckage spin past on the screen.

My jaw tightens. Damn, that's a shit way to go...

"However, that is not quite what happened," my handler reveals. "It appears that the poor captain ran into a spot of bother with ground control. Something about lost and unclaimed luggage..."

A gruesome photo of a beat-up body spilling out of a duffle bag in ways that should not be physically possible flashes up before me.

"So, we're dealing with a hijacking," I surmise tightly.

"It would appear so, yes," Constantine nods. "Whoever downed that flight was skilfull enough to cover their tracks and make it look like an accident. Well... Almost an accident. Captain Arnolds' body turning up unexpectedly at Heathrow certainly raises some awkward questions."

I flick the tablet away. "As does an IMF agent gone rogue."

Constantine meets my eye from across the table. "So, you think it was Rhys."

I scoff. "Arian was a world-renowned microbiologist who specialised in DNA-RNA recombination. Whatever he was in such a hurry to get to the WHO in Geneva was obviously valuable enough for Chris to bring an entire plane down over."

"With a name like Chimera, I presume it's safe to assume that we're dealing with some novel form of virus?" my handler muses. "One that has the potential to be turned into a bio-weapon?"

"Given that Arion started his career in a Drakovian basement trying to weaponise the common cold?" I ask sardonically. "Yeah... That's a definite possibility."

Constantine nods. "In that case, you've got to recover this so-called Chimera and bring it to us."

"No shit," I agree. "We just need to figure out who he plans on selling this thing to."

"That is where Miss Gale comes in."

"How?" I snark. "By getting her to pose as the buyer? No way. Even with her skills as a thief, it's—"

"That isn't quite what I meant, Drake..."

I frown. "Then...?"

"Miss Gale and Agent Rhys had a relationship," Constantine advises evenly. "One that he took very seriously. She walked away, and he's been wanting her back ever since. I have been assured that she is our surest and quickest way of flushing him out."

"So, let me get this straight..." I bite out with more difficulty than I'd've thought possible, given that I only just met this girl. "You want to use her as some kind of swallow to set up a honey trap op?"

"If you want to put such a crude label on it," comes the dispassionate response. "The goal is for him to confide in her — the identity of the buyer, the details of the meet, anything that may be useful — and report back to you. If sex is required to fulfill that objective, then she is well within her rights to resort to it. No one's going to judge her for her actions. She is a civilian, after all."

"You made it sound like I was recruiting her for her skills as a thief," I accuse, my voice dripping with acridity.

"Well, then I mislead you," Constantine admits, spreading his palms. "Or you made the wrong assumption. Either way, we're merely asking her to resume a prior relationship, not do anything she hasn't already done."

My lips pull back to reveal teeth. "She's got no training for this kind of thing..."

"You mean, to go to bed with a man and lie to him?" Constantine smirks. "She's a woman. She's got all the training she needs."

I shoot up from the chair, fists clenched.

Constantine meets my eye calmly.

I turn away, jaw tight. "I don't think I can get her to do it."

"You mean it will be difficult?"

"You haven't met her," I tell him dryly.

"Well, Agent Walker," declares the old man from behind me. "This is not Mission: Difficult. This is Mission: Impossible. Difficult should be a walk in the park for you."

I run my hand through my hair with an acerbic scoff.

Saddling and riding a damn croc would be easier...

"But it is not my job to tell you how to do yours," Constantine continues conversationally. "So, if you can think of a faster, more... palatable way to get to Agent Rhys, you are welcome to try. Just be mindful that time is not our ally. Since the plane crash, there has been a marked uptick in bio-weapons-related chatter amongst the denizens of the dark web. Our guess is that whatever Rhys is planning with Chimera, it is imminent."

"Noted," I grunt, still trying to figure out how the fuck I'm gonna break the news to Gale without her castrating me... Or worse — stealing the keys to the Porsche and vanishing into the night.

"If you feel that some... leverage may be helpful, feel free to show her the images on that device," Constantine instructs, sliding the tablet back to me once more. "A picture is worth a thousand words, after all..."

"You want me to appeal to her conscience?" I snort, turning around.

"The fact that she agreed to come with you indicates that she has some measure of compunction."

"Yeah," I snark, snatching the tablet up. "Damn sure she'll be regretting that decision by the end of the night."

Christ, this is gonna be a shit show…

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Picture credits:

Drake - Bed - Harper - Dossier

[beatricebidelaire]

With a grand gesture, Officer Luciana stepped off the platform, clunked to the back of the room, and dragged a frightened-looking man out of a folding chair. He was dressed in a rumpled suit with a large rip across the shoulder, and a pair of shiny silver handcuffs.

“But I’m not Count Olaf!” the man cried. “My name is Jacques, and—”

“But lots of people have only one eyebrow,” Jacques cried, “and I have this tattoo as part of my job.”

“I’m not a villain!” Jacques said frantically. “I work for the volunteer—”

Jacques gave the children a grateful smile, but Officer Luciana turned around and clunked over to where the Baudelaires were standing.

“But I’m innocent!” the man on the platform cried. “Please listen to me, I beg of you! I’m not Count Olaf! My name is Jacques!” He turned to the three siblings, who could see he had tears in his eyes. “Oh, Baudelaires,” he said, “I am so relieved to see that you are alive. Your parents—” “That’s enough out of you,” Officer Luciana said, clasping her white-gloved hand over Jacques’s mouth.

J's description in tvv always kills me. "frightened-looking" "frantically" "cried" "tears in his eyes". he was frightened. desperate. in tears. it's just ...... so much. this is the first time the readers see J and it's in one of his worst moments.

in fact, it's not only one of his worse moments. it's also arguably his only on-screen moments. (when i say on-screen, i don't actually mean on screen, i guess, since i'm talking about the books, but you get what i mean). like sure, we get other details later, through occasional mentions/memories/flashbacks from others. we read his letters in tua, and there's the vfd meeting script. but he doesn't directly appear in the sense he appeared in tvv. those really were the only moments. even in atwq he didn't show up.

aside from tvv where he does show up, where he does appear, everywhere else he's more just, talked about / in flashbacks. quigley mentioned him. his siblings mentioned him. widdershins mentioned him. we saw his letters - but not himself directly - in tua. to quigley his this sort of mysterious image, someone who quigley learned some stuff from but also didn't really tell him much directly bc he was busy. in atwq he does not appear, and also wasn't mentioned by ghede when she listed what other apprentices of lemony's era were doing at that time - making him seem even more mysterious.

in his letters we found he and lemony have similar writing styles in some way, he also signs thing "with all due respect". he writes stuff like "i hope that this package reaches you safely, and that you are safe when it reaches you, and that i will be safe in making sure this package will reach you in safety, in a safe manner, and in a safe." or "but we have not been under normal circumstances for quite some time. for instance, currently i am under sixty feet of water, rather than under normal circumstances."

he says "please pass the brandy" in response to lemony's words during the vfd meeting.

he has this .... sort of dry humor of his own. sharp-witted. plays with word usage the way lemony did. he seems mysterious and stays in the shadow a lot, from the way we learned so few things about him in atwq. the atwq profile card of lemony covering his face but jacques in silhouette always gets me.

but then, J - mysterious, ambiguous, lurking in the shadows, quiet, dry-humor - his only, actually appearing physically moment was in tvv: and he was frightened. and frantic. one of his worst moments. and this absolutely kills me. and lemony described all that, too.

[moldygreenblue]

Photograph

(Day seven prompt for Woevember, aka, Free Space Day, event created by @asouefanworkevent)

The places that he, Beatrice, and Bertrand used to go together are gone. Some still stand, but many are different now; be it a new business in its place, a change in decor, or just missing an element that makes it complete. Like the laughter. Like Beatrice reciting her favorite soliloquies. Or Bertrand singing his favorite showtunes. Or Lemony himself, snapping the moment on his camera, to keep it around forever. Lemony takes one more glace of the photograph. He didn’t take it, but it’s a photo he treasures. For Lemony knows Beatrice and Bertrand are never coming back anymore.

Or, an ASOUE Movie moodboard and drabble on why Lemony keeps a photograph of [what I assume is] Beatrice and Bertrand.

(Song to Listen To: Photograph by Ringo Starr, co-written with George Harrison)

[chogiwow]

in search of happiness | part one.

pairing: bang chan x gn! reader

genre: heavy angst, hurt-comfort, fluff undertones

wc: part one : 20.6k+

warnings: suicidal themes, suicide attempt, drowning, dysfunctional family, death, smoking, major character death, themes of depression, mentions of anxiety, cancer (minor character), language, heavy themes, suggestive, eventual smut (there will be allusions, but i’m hoping i won’t have to write actual smut for this).

a/n: she is back bitches

PART I | PART II | PART III | PART IV

ONE – UNWASHED DISHES IN THE SINK. 

It's a Saturday afternoon, and Kim’s Diner is brimming with locals and tourists alike during a particularly busy lunch hour.

The suds of the dishwater splatters on your arm, tiny bubbles staining the sleeve of your old black sweater before getting swallowed into the fabric in an oval patch. The lingering worry of the rolled up sleeves getting drenched is drowned in the pile of dishes waiting to be washed and dried, something Minho reminds you of with an attempt to hurry you up in the process with a subtle threat of the orders on hold. It mocks you, somewhat.

You can smell it, the oily meat and the spicy soup in the midst of the lemony scent of the dish soap, clanging of pots and ladles behind your back and the swift hands working their knives into chopping vegetables.

A bead of sweat slides down the side of your face, falling into the sink, the tiny kitchen cramped and hot, making you perspire and wipe your face, but you resist the urge to rub the tingling left behind by the trickling sweat down the side of your face in the fear of getting soap bubbles all over your face. That would certainly be a gross feeling.

The bell on the wall dings, another order slip clipped to the wire mesh across the small window separating the dining and the kitchen area, a new set of instructions being yelled. Another portion of soup, another plate of grilled meat, a bowl of udon, pan fried noodles; a loud chorus of yells break out, everybody scattering towards their workstations – in essence it’s mostly the same, because the restaurant doesn’t offer much when it comes to a diverse platter. Not that you were catering to people with a refined palette, it was a small local restaurant tucked away in a small cranny of the hill where everybody knew everybody, and for those who had been living here for years, they didn’t even require the menus – now yellowed and fraying at the edges of its lamination, the plastic bent and peeling.

Stacking the last plate onto the drying rack, Felix is quick to take over, smiling at you as he picks up the dry cloth and wipes them down before putting them away carefully on the shelves. Removing your pink scrubbing gloves, your attention is called to the front where Mr. Kim – the owner, a man in his sixties now, who mainly mans the front desk and chats with the customers, giving free reign to the younger generation after keeping this place alive for almost thirty years– asks you to serve and clean up tables. A sharp pain jolts through your left wrist, the first sign of a terrible ache seeping through your bones. You ignore it.

Untying the damp apron from around your waist, you leave the chaos of the kitchen, wiping your sweat on your sweater sleeves only to shiver when you push open the door into the diner, the sudden change in temperature noticeable and a temporary respite from the heat of the oils and spices, but only for so long since it would eventually start to feel much too cold out here as it got darker outside.

It’s not long after that the chilly air makes you pull your sleeves down, your loose knitted sweater too flimsy for withstanding the cold by itself, but hustling around the diner helps you disregard the occasional gusts of winds through the open doors and cracks in the windows.

The restaurant itself was a quaint little thing with white stone walls, the telltale coziness of being perched atop a hill between tall trees, aged with vines draped around its chipping paint like a dress made of leaves, flagged along the perimeter by small ground lights, all glowing in different intensities with age. A wooden sign with roughened edges now fading engravings of ‘Kim’s Diner’ hung above the door.

Nobody minded the worn out wooden furniture and the same old chequered tablecloths in red and white, if anything, there was a sense of familiarity to it all, like a place preserved in memory for years, still running and still alive.

Tucked in the hills, the sloping terracotta roofs perched up were visible from the foot of the hill, burnt brick and missing a few tiles, but a certain landmark even still after years. The huge trees almost clamped down like an overgrown canopy, wide steps with moss carpets gradually merging into a downward slope leading down to the main hill town, but it was a decent walk downhill and the spot where the restaurant was nestled felt like a secret shared by the people of this small hill town.

You liked it up here though, leaning against the rusty railings to look down upon the town under a darkening sky, lights blinking into life and people walking by; nothing seemed rushed, it wasn’t quiet but it was calm.

From where you leaned across the table, running a slightly damp cloth over the plastic covering the tablecloth, you spot a figure through the window with bright blonde hair climbing up the stairs, struggling to breath and bending against their knees to catch his breath. Another tourist, you suppose, from the looks of their bright hair and camera bag strapped across their shoulder.

They stop for a moment, leaning against the balusters of the long railings, their profile inclined sideways such that the foggy windows don't let you have a good look at their face, but you discern it to be a man. You stare for a while at the broad back, the weather inappropriate attire of a simple brown cashmere sweater with the neck of a white t-shirt visible under the collar unsurprising, since most tourists didn’t often feel the cold of the hills as you did, usually coming from lands hotter and their winters more cruel that the winds of the hills were but a mere breeze of respite after a long day of hiking for them.

Inhaling a long breath, he’s still for a few seconds, eyes closed and turned towards the sky as if soaking in the winter sun, lips parting when he exhales through his mouth, chest heaving at the slight exertion, one strap of his bag slipping off his shoulder before he pulls it back up.

A low rumble echoes and you're momentarily distracted, your eyes turning towards the sky which was starting to turn grey, the clouds slowly rolling in and you knew the evening would get chillier if it indeed rained. The thought makes you shiver, drawing the knitted sweater closer around you, too flimsy for the incoming weather, the familiar sting in your wrist explained.

Placing the salt and pepper shakers beside the napkin stand, you attend to a call of a bottle of soju, pacing towards the refrigerator and pulling out a chilled bottle of the drink before placing it on the table with a shot glass for the customer.

Felix calls from the front, order for table seven ready to be served and you make your way to the serving counter, placing the hot steaming bowls of udon and a set of chopsticks each, swishing it away amongst the loud chatter and gradually louder rumbling of the skies with a practised proficiency, almost missing the ding of the bell that goes off when the front door opens.

You're in a hurry to serve though, not catching the person entering and by the time you've placed the dishes down in front of the hungry teenagers who ordered them, you only catch the same broad back with a mop of brilliant blonde hair walking towards one of the tables and sitting with their back facing towards you. The tourist from before.

The first few drops of rain are fat droplets of water, you’re in the kitchen again, the steam of dimsums and steamed vegetables greeting you as you stir a pot of clear soup, heating it exactly for three minutes and then ladling the slightly frothy and thickened with cornstarch liquid into white bowls, plating them on a large tray, ready to be handed out. With Seungmin, your usual helping hand, on a three day leave, you suddenly found yourself helping with the serving and cooking simultaneously, Felix helping you out as much as he could but he could only do so much, especially when Minho required him in the back, chopping and cooking. Regardless, you appreciated the help and didn’t mind the extra work.

There wasn’t really a concept of the intricacies of cooking like in high end restaurants such as the ones in the city, in fact, all the recipes were a Kim family heirloom, handed down through generations before Minho came and changed up the dynamic in his own way without ever entirely changing the essence of it. The noodles were handmade, the vegetables cut using only a knife, without worrying about the exact thickness of the onion  rings – at the end of the day, really, no one cared about all that fancy stuff, satisfied to just be able to enjoy the same old dishes.

Maybe that’s why you stayed, even though you had craved change so longingly. In the end, you only found comfort in what was familiar.

A new order is strung up on the mesh wire. You’re already out the doors with the previous order, the rain now having picked up pace and turned into a steady drizzle. It already smelled like wet earth and freshly mown grass. You have no time to stop and appreciate the scenery though, quite literally hustling now since it was only you on serving duty now.

The sound of chatter increases, the rain falls harder, harsher, the already dim diner turns darker and gloomier, only alive with the constant chattering of people and the sound of cutlery. Felix rings from the front, handing you the order for table number five, a two seater near the window where the blonde haired tourist sat, head turned towards the window and watching the rain as it poured now.

You smile and lift the tray, wincing when your wrist bends a bit too painfully, almost dropping the tray but you’re quick to disregard it as you move with caution now, slightly breathless at the exertion. You might not be complaining but it seemed like you did mind the lack of another helping hand what with the diner being busier on weekends.

“Order for dim sums and udon,” you say, carefully picking up the bowl and pot of steamed dim sums and placing them on the table with a pair of chopsticks, “enjoy your meal.”

You look up at the man, your perfunctory smile for the customers already making its way up to your lips before you abruptly stop short, lips awkwardly turning back down in belated realisation.

You stare at the man with a breath you don’t even realise you’re holding, the cogs in your brain positively churning, and yet you don’t exude the bewilderment on your face, containing it in your chest with pursed lips and a choked up throat.

“Hey (y/n), it’s been a while…” the man smiles, the dimples on his cheeks deepening then vanishing when he realises you don’t return his greeting.

Your claw-like hold around the tray goes limp, almost slipping through your fingers as you stare dumbstruck and quite idiotically. The rain pounds on the roof like a torrent of bullets outside as if to maim, trees swaying under nature's assault, the diner lights up in a yellow glow under the darkening sky. 

A jolt of pain surges through your wrist again, your fingers twitching against the serving dish. The noise in the diner heightens, a dull throb in your head like blood rushing up too suddenly, the heat from the kitchen suddenly turned reminiscent even though you had just been in there not even five minutes ago.

A loud gust of wind blows through the cracks of the doors and windows, carrying with it tiny splatters of rain that tickle the back of your neck as it seeps through your loose knitted sweater and settles like a chill in your bones.

It doesn’t bother you.

TWO – ON A SATURDAY AFTERNOON.

It was late by the time Chan woke up.

Rubbing his eyes groggily, he groaned at the light filtering through his windows, covering his face with his hands, his limbs still weighing him down in a relaxed state on his worn out mattress. The time on his phone read way past noon, and with an absentmindedness induced by his just woken up mind, he noted that this was by far the most he had slept in an entire week.

Sitting up on his bed, he scratches his naked chest, recalling getting rid of his shirt sometime in the middle of the night when he kept tossing and turning against his sheets. Lazily stretching out his limbs, he lets out a loud yawn that makes his jaw hurt and eyes tear up.

He has no plans today, except staying at home and studying for semester finals. He wasn’t looking forward to it, his body promptly confirming that doubt when he plopped back down, head hitting the pillow with a dull throb.

His phone buzzed somewhere around him, his hands prodding and searching amongst the scrambled up sheets for the device. A message from Jisung reminding him to cover his afternoon shift at the cafe and thanking him yet again. He groans when he realises he promised Jisung to cover for him today and only had a little more than two hours to get ready and as he had been putting it these days, get his shit together. Two hours was more than enough, it wasn’t like he had much to do except shower, eat and smoke a cigarette.

His thumb scrolled through his planner app, his day cleared off his usual ‘history - finish module 1’ to ‘cafe shift!’, the former shifted to a later part of the day since weekends were mostly flexible for him.

Chan had fallen into a habit of planning his days, which meant every day on his calendar had been planned to the T weeks prior, from exactly every single activity and chore he would carry out the following month so that by the end of it, he had something going on for him. If Friday was grocery shopping, then no matter how tired he was after an extended tutoring session, he’d be there at the 24/7 mart at three AM, slapping watermelons to check their ripeness or grabbing whatever was left of the fresh kale in the isles.

For the majority of his day, he was impelled to study for his finals in a week from now, hunched over his desk cramming his History of Photography III textbook wondering why this was necessary in the first place, while he tried not to be distracted by the imposing anxieties of the world waiting for him after these last few months of the protection of his university.

In his final year of his photography major, he couldn’t deny the increasing apprehension of having to step out from under the protective umbrella over his head, his professor’s chimes of his prodigal achievements deemed smaller and superficial the nearer he approached his graduation. Already politely turned away from three interning companies, his alleged talent was under full threat of being judged and tossed aside as an average to decent performance. He still had a few months, but time either seemed to slow down on some days and yet on others speed past him in a whimsical blur where he would be left reeling under his unproductiveness and the growing pain in his chest of not being enough.

His planning had not all been in vain; he had started off with a fresh mind, keeping up with applying for internships, completing his assignments all the while working at a cafe that had been a godsend in the form of Jisung and his unusual knack for convincing the manager to get another barista even though they weren’t short of staff, and on some days doing photoshoots for weddings and the fashion department for a decent wage. He was adulting, and though his sixteen year old self had looked forward to the prospect of this notion, now he wanted nothing but to go back to those days.

It was this same prospect that had excited him when he received a full scholarship to his university in Seoul. Much of his life, all he could remember was spending it in the hills, where even though the weather was pleasant and the people were kind, his starry eyed dreams as a teenager to leave that small town and move to a metropolitan city had been a fixation – a drive for him to work hard and shoot his shot and get out of that place.

It was nice for a while, he was in his honeymoon phase, quite literally marvelling at the fast paced life in the streets, adrenaline filled lungs breathing in the new life excitedly till his nights bled into days which bled into more nights and not long after, he felt like he was dangling from the hands of a clock that dictated every move he made.

He forgot about his home in the meantime, so caught up in the chaos of everyday life, of the same smell of coffee and baked buns, the same fabric of his brown apron, the same bus to the university campus, the same classes with a professor droning on about visual literacy, the same stick of cigarette dangling between his lips, the same stress of finals every year. Same, same, same. Boring. Mundane. Exhausting.

The stars in his eyes dulled with every passing day, his room often reeked of takeout food, prints upon prints of films lay in a scatter across his desk, none of them seemingly what people were looking for.

Turning the shower cap on, Chan lets himself dwell on his mundanity, at the end of the day he was another faceless person in the crowd because the city was too big and too grand and too dazzling that it hid all other beings in its shadows. It was a big wide hole, a void sucking everybody in. Chan was also lost somewhere in there, lured in by the diamond like gleam at first sight, only to be trapped in a tedious life where he competed against himself every day without knowing what he was competing for. It was like sitting in a test without knowing what he was to be tested on.

The water spurts out ice like in the cold January, making him flinch when it hits him out of nowhere. But he stays rooted under the showerhead, standing his ground till he got used to the temperature and the water gradually turns lukewarm. It reminds him of a memory in the back of his head, of children squealing and a water fight. He urges the images to go away, inexplicably chastised at the mere thought of it. He was no child anymore, whining for a nostalgic summer in the cold months.

The water has always been Chan’s greatest friend.

In fact, he’d go as far as to say that it’s been a sort of companion to him when he was younger. He claims so only because of a vivid recollection of throwing himself in the huge wave with his dad yelling at him before two strong arms picked him up and away from the clutches of the water.

He had whined, missing the way the foamy waves had engulfed him in a topaz hug, the sand under his feet dissolving like air through his toes, the silky curtain leaving him drenched and longing for a taste of more. He whined and whined and whined till at last he was sent to swimming lessons just to shut him up. That, and also, his parents didn’t want their son to drown doing something reckless like that again.

He was comfortable in the water. It held him snuggly in its embrace and when he dunked his head underneath and opened his eyes, he was met with a blue silence that deafened any other noise with its dulcet palms over his ears.

Under the comfort of the transparent blanket, the voices and shapes above his head were garbled and distorted and a part of him liked that. A part of him liked to envision those shapes as blurry blobs speaking a gibberish language. He didn’t have to put a name to them nor try to distinguish them from one another; a childhood fantasy that became a habit and stuck like a leech to him.

It’s a calming fixation on most days now when he doesn’t have to worry about his career. But of course, we will talk about it, because there’s a trouble plaguing everybody in the small nooks and crannies of their life, some people just let it stay there, oblivious to its existence and others have a hard time fighting it off when it seeps into their bones like moist vapour, settling down heavily in the calcium crevices.

Chan likes to believe this process of staying underwater for as long as his lungs permits him to, now heavy with the smoke he’s injected in them, as cathartic. A shit load of help that is when he’s vividly aware of his rotting insides with what he had done to them himself, but regardless, he likes to think that the longer he stays in water, he’s ridding himself of the plague that is always a hair’s breadth away from attaching themselves to his core, except he takes the extra measure of ensuring that he’s inhaling chlorine water if he loses control and spluttering in surprise as if that weren’t his intention from the start.

He wouldn’t like to admit it, but it was his coping mechanism as Jisung had put it so blatantly, because doing so would mean he needed help. He didn’t need help. He just liked to hold his breath underwater when things got slightly inconvenient, but that did not equate to needing help.

He’s out of the shower soon enough, draping on a black hoodie in his cramped one-and-a-half room apartment, the most he could afford under his crippling student loan, strolling towards the tiny refrigerator for breakfast. There’s only some leftover kimchi, a day-old kimbap roll and ripe bananas.

Chan didn’t have a dining table, he didn’t deem it necessary, rather a hassle to fit it into his tiny apartment, especially when he ate all his meals alone, which he could do perfectly well sitting on the ground with his back against his beaten down couch, the plastic takeout containers placed on the low coffee table and his laptop beside it, playing some movie he put on for the sake of a break from his hectic days.

Yet, he wasn’t entirely unhappy with the way things had turned out. His gaze trails up from where he sat on the couch, the wall in front of him bereft of any photo frames but filled with strings of polaroids and sticky notes. The grainy films with smiling people – his friends, sticky notes, crumpled and some torn and taped back with silly doodles and one with a lipstick stain – Chan still smiles, even though the paper jaggedly torn and the number of the girl who hit on him at the bar two years ago tossed out a long time ago, Hyunjin had thought it funny to add the memento to a growing collection of silly, smiling people on the wall. He was happy, he was fine. He had friends, they loved him and he loved them.

But why couldn’t he smile? Why were his muscles so tense and tired? The food in his mouth suddenly feels too hard to chew, his jaws aching and throat burning when he swallows. His eyes suddenly blurry, a thin curtain of moisture veils them. One moment he swallowed the smoke of his cigarette and the very next he gasped for air like a novice beginner.

He was fine, but he sat there with a mouthful of rice and kimchi as the tears rolled down his face in a gentle stream.

THREE – UNFINISHED CHAPTERS

The present would not exist for you had there not been a past.

In hindsight, everything that you did now, whatever you were now, had all been because of who you had been in the past, or rather whatever scraps the past had left you to be sewn.

You wake up rested, but even more exhausted than when you went to bed. Your days sewing a paradoxical blanket whose weight you had gotten used to.

You’ve never paid much attention to how people around you felt, because mostly they were happier than you were with dysfunctional families and it only rooted a sense of deep reproach in you; how were you not allowed to be this happy? How could people smile and pretend the stench of their broken homes didn’t stick on their clothes and seep through their skin, following them around wherever they went? How did people go around you without feeling the continuous need to scratch that itch of jealousy and resentfulness of not having what someone else did?

You realised it was so jarringly easy to disassociate yourself from all that under a pair of chocolate eyes that stared down at you kindly, just a sliver of boyish mischievousness behind them, but the inexplicable yet unavoidable comfort of slowly easing yourself into a sense of warmth that they brought.

It's the smallest of things that lead to a bigger plan premeditated all along and in your case it was the forgotten pencil pouch on your study table at home that fateful Wednesday morning. Of course you scrambled around, rummaging through your bag in the hopes of finding a stray pen in the depths of it, but it was no luck and you had resigned yourself to borrowing one from the person sitting behind you except, he seemed to have beaten you to it.

Three little taps on your shoulder had you turning around to a kind smile and an upraised hand with a pencil between its fingers, motioning at you to take it.

You decided then that you didn’t like this boy.

It was an impulsive decision, yet it was one of those intuitive feelings of having an immaculate dislike to someone who didn’t mind being scoffed for helping the scapegoat of the class, perfectly capable of ignoring the disbelieving stares of his classmates.

Had the sixteen year old you sensed an ulterior motive to his actions? Or had you just reproached the genuinity in his eyes? You had ultimately accepted his offering, the wooden stick with its yellow plastic wrapping around its shaft feeling alien against your fingers, but before long you had learnt to ignore the confused glares directed towards you and pressed the lead against your workbook as you proceeded to work in silence.

You weren’t at the extreme brunt of your class’s ramifications of simply wanting to be on the top of something, but you weren’t exactly the most ingrained in its social gratifications either; it was perhaps your aloofness to it all that made you a part of the outcasts. So far, eating alone had worked out for you, jogging along the track at your own pace had suited you, spending your time in one corner of the library in your free time had been gratifying.

In spite of making it clear that it was what you preferred, you found yourself being plagued by him at all times. Those brown eyes seemed to be looking out for you everywhere you went and the kind smile always curled on his lips when you finally took notice. You didn’t like it, not one bit, starting from the way the chair beside you at lunch was always occupied, there was always a pair of panting lungs when you jogged along the track field and the ever so present sound of pages being flicked in your ears in a spot in the library that was supposed to be only yours.

You didn’t like finding yourself gazing up at a pair of chocolate orbs, drowning you in their depths every time you stared too hard, a beat longer than you were supposed to. An unusual friendship bloomed out of it, one where you reprised your aloofness and Chan, his endearing demeanour of sticking to you like a leech. The much too energetic one and the much too tired one – a dynamic your classmates had never expected, but you weren’t complaining when it acted like a shield before eventually, they started to take less notice of you. Or transitioning to high school made them mature.

Your dislike for him did not arise of its own accord; at first it had been a conscious decision to resent someone who looked happier than you. But even the most stubborn person can be moved by genuinity, and you had never quite turned entirely stone cold stubborn. Perhaps he had saved you in a way, for a brief moment, but he had prevented you from walking down the steps of the dark void.

Where does one even start with Chan? In all fairness, you didn’t think you would ever have to start with him again; he was an unfinished chapter in your book you had long decided to omit. You were sure if you were to ever pen down your autobiography, you would not mention him in the least, treating him like the air around you, unnecessary to bring to notice.

But even air is ever so present, though not required to be brought up in everyday conversations because of its unconsciously silent presence.

He would be there, under countless drafts of your uneventful life, the pages filled with a curly haired, brown-eyed boy whose cheeks blossomed into dimples when he smiled. It was romantic, it was tragic. It was a story you wished would never end, but even so, the gurgling pit in your stomach ever so present served as a reminder that every story has an ending.

The only thing worse than having an ending would be an unfinished book. You hid under the cover of the pristine pages under this reassurance, that Chan would not be an unfulfilled fragment of memory you would jot down in ink like a summer dream, before exactly that happened. Aloofness causes no pain until brought to reality.

The basis of your friendship lay on a strong foundation of your peculiarly clashing personalities, interests and fears.

While Chan was a social butterfly in your school, you were the quiet one simply there for education. Making friends had never been your forte nor was that on the forefront of your mind for as long as you could remember. Till Chan, quite literally, thrust himself into your life.

Yet, quite amusingly, he was the one who made you resent the water less.

There has only been one instance you’ve had a brush with (almost) drowning, but it made you regard the prospect of even stepping near a water body a daunting and scary once.

The first time it was in second grade, the time when people this age are usually immature little brats and would do anything for the sake of entertainment. You had only learnt how to doggy paddle and float in water, but even so the thought of trying to stay afloat in the 6 feet deep end, the idea of not being able to feel the ground with your feet, had daunted you and you pretty much made it through every time by just swimming along the length in quick strokes till you were certain the water didn’t reach above your waist with your feet touched the slippery ground beneath.

It was an unpleasant surprise therefore, to find yourself being pushed into the deeper end out of nowhere, your body falling straight down vertically and your inability to come up to the surface making you take huge gulps of air which in turn only choked you more. It was quite a scene, your limbs flailing and silent screams of help escaping in bubbles through your lips.

You never went near a pool again. 

Almost four years later, you feel yourself drowning in a set of familiar eyes you had already once found yourself a victim to ages ago. The familiarity was nostalgic, akin somewhat to finding a lost piece of jewellery years later after you thought you had lost it. And it was so different. It was breathing and suffocating at the same time, it was fear and euphoria in a concoction, it was too much all at once. You liked it. You hated it. You hated liking it. You liked hating it. You… you missed it. You didn’t resent it.

You find yourself getting drawn into those eyes again, perhaps similar to the way you had back then, ever since, but you've never quite been able to place this feeling.

You've both changed drastically, it’s not just physically you’re sure; he looks wiser, more tired and much more mature. You catch a whiff of mint breath fresheners, a scent you had never associated with him but nonetheless so characteristic of him, you couldn’t call it alien or unlikely of him to adopt it.

Yet it's more than that, he is just so... so very beautiful.

You blink.

Once, twice and thrice. He grows shy (or perhaps uncomfortable) under your gaze, flickering his eyes down to the condensing drops of water glazing around his cup of iced tea, beaded diamonds easily destructible with a flick of his fingers. He twists his digits in his lap, resisting the urge to do so.

You wonder what would have happened had you not forgotten your pencil case at home that Wednesday morning.

“Hi Chan, long time…”

The din inside the restaurant feels like white noise, it’s everywhere, sticking to your thin sweater, buzzing through your hair, nipping at your skin.

“Long time indeed…”

You smell like dishwater and oil. Chan smells like breath mints.

“Good to…see you?”

White noise. Humming, buzzing, electrifying. Everywhere; on your skin, on your clothes, in your hair.

“Yeah. Yeah, you too.”

“Enjoy your food then.”

Perunctionary smile, polite bow, retreating steps.

“Um (y/n),” a halt in your steps, you turn around, “we should…hang out some time. Catch up, maybe?”

Expectant eyes, hopeful voice, cautious words.

Do you want to finish this chapter after all?

FOUR – ICED TEA IN A SPOT OF SUN.

Most people don’t understand the amount of theoretical knowledge that goes into a major like photography, it’s not always pointing a lens wherever you want and taking a picture. Anybody can do that, anybody can be good at taking pictures without having to pay for a degree for the same.

Nonetheless, Chan rose beyond the intimidating notion of having to do well. He enjoyed what he did, had a passion for it and therefore he thought he could make it past four years banking only on his passion and talent.

What nobody told him was the world outside was too cold, too frigid – downright ignorant of him and his flame that sputtered out the second he stepped outside. He was a nobody in the huge bowl of success stories chosen at random by the universe. 

In fact, who was Chan at this point? What was he?

Another product of the society that force feeds their generation to do well…. No, he had risen above that semantic error, he had worked hard, he had understood every single text and every single parabolic function in his textbooks rather than remembered them by heart before throwing up the texts jammed in his head on his exam papers.

He read every single book like they held the world’s greatest information, studied extra hard, solved equations for the mere fun of it all because he wanted to understand; he wanted to know the working behind them, dismantle them and play with them.

And yet here he was, twenty four and supposedly much wiser than when he was in middle school, and still! He understood nothing, what was he supposed to be doing?

All his life, he had been fed the grains of being a talented individual, sure to do great things, of having such a pleasant personality, someone who would never hurt a fly. Someone loved, adored and precious to not just family and acquaintances but even to fleeting strangers who strayed into his life momentarily.

It’s admittedly easier to hold back on such thoughts as of the moment though, when Chan is busy battling the cobwebs all over his clothes and sneezing into his hands so he doesn’t further unsettle all the dust around him.

Since the day he arrived, he’s been at the gargantuan task of cleaning up his old house in the hills. Granted, his parents had put it out for rent even as a holiday home, they had never hired someone to regularly keep this place in check. Now that their son was back in the hills for a few months at the most, they were more than happy to let him stay sans the rent.

While it wasn’t all that bad, he would have to call in for some minor plumbing work and look at the light out front in the porch since it wouldn’t work and he had almost tripped on his own feet trying to navigate his way to the front door through the dark.

Though only a week had passed, he had not made his presence known explicitly. He knew for a fact that you and Minho had stayed back, he wasn’t sure he was up for a rendezvous with the town people. It wasn’t like him to avoid social gatherings, he had indeed noticed most of the older folks who were still here, but he would much rather have some time to himself before stepping out and announcing his visit.

So he busied himself with cleaning up the house, turning down his mother’s proposal to find a helping hand, insisting that he would rather do it himself. He needed that time for himself, and though a helping hand sounded like a godsend, the ache in his back every night he went to bed almost felt gratifying. The dust in his nose and the grit under his nails did not.

Though a part of him was slightly impatient in wanting to reach out to his old friends, it was also equally anxiety inducing to anticipate your reactions. Where does one even start with such things? Back in the city, it was easy to lose connection for weeks during finals, but there was an unspoken bond of reconnecting right after with a simple text and a coffee date down a few blocks.

Chan hasn’t been here in almost four years. That was four years of lost contact and unknowingly, it was suddenly starting to weigh down on him of how quickly the time had passed by without him even noticing. How do you reconnect with friends you haven’t talked to in so long?

The answer came in the form of his front door ringing on his fourth day while he was in the midst of scrubbing a particularly stubborn spot of grime on the floor.

He opened the door wearing his rubber gloves, sweating and with a frown at the interruption. The moment the stranger makes themself known, Chan is gasping in recognition and grinning almost like his ten year old self had – all too bubbly and pleasantly surprised.

“Minho! Holy shit!”

The boy in question smiles back gleefully, pulling Chan in for a hug disregarding the protest and a faint cry of dirty gloves and clothes.

Chan pulls back and stands at his doorstep, watching almost in awe as Minho takes his shoes off and lifts up a box wrapped in blue cloth, grinning down at the boy who had been a dominant part of his childhood. He still had his catty eyes and pouty smile and was as tall as Chan himself, maybe even taller, definitely a toned physique since when he last saw him in high school. Still reeling under slight shock, he realises he hasn’t stopped ogling at the boy till pointed out rather sassily by him.

“I know I grew up handsome and all, butt geez, are you gonna invite me in or stand here the whole day?”

Letting out a fond scoff, Chan leads him in, still grinning.

Minho sits on the floor where Chan had laid out a jute mattress for the time being, all his furniture subjected to a rough dusting and cleaning out in the backyard where they now sat basking in the sun before he would bring them in later in the evening.

“Sorry for the mess, and uh, lack of furniture,” Chan remarks sheepishly, bringing out a large glass flask of filled honey lemon tea and two glasses, “I’ve been making this place habitable again.”

“No worries, I don’t mind.”

Chan adjusts the table fan to face them, taking a seat beside him in a spot of sunlight streaming in through the huge windows in the front. Though colder in the evenings and at night, Chan lived at the foot of the hill where it was comparatively warmer for most part of the day and his house always received a good spot of the sun during afternoons.

Minho takes a swig from his cup, letting out a sigh of satisfaction when the cold drink hits the right spots and pushes the box towards Chan.

“I brought you some food, guessed you could use some when I heard you’ve been ordering takeout for three days straight.”

Chan eagerly unwraps the bundled knot to find a huge wooden lunch box sitting within.

“Thanks a lot Minho, your mom sent this?”

“Nope, I made it.”

“You did?!”

Minho scoffed at the look of surprise on Chan’s face and he worried he might have offended him in some way, but before he could apologise, Minho cut in.

“Yeah, I went to culinary school and know how to cook now, surprise!”

If anything, all the new information was only slightly overwhelming to Chan who was still getting used to his old friend’s presence again in his childhood home. It was reminiscent and nostalgic.

“That’s great! We should…we should catch up some day, there’s so much I want to talk about.”

“I’m sure there is,” Minho smiles and Chan can place him again in his memories of a sixteen year old nerdy boy with a shy smile and glasses, “I would love to as well. You should come over to Kim’s Diner, it’s on the top of the hill. I work there now.”

“Hey, I remember Kim’s Diner. Wow, you work there now…that’s just…wow.”

Minho laughs again at his friend’s disbelief. It was fascinating how much had changed in the past few years and yet, now that they sat here chatting and catching up, it was easy as always to laugh and smile in each other’s presence.

“So…culinary school huh? I always thought you would either end up majoring in CS or performing arts maybe. Not that it’s not good, I just mean, you know…you were always inclined towards those.”

Minho contemplates the question for a while, leaning back on his palms and stretching his toes in the sunlight. Chan takes the time to gaze at him more; he really has changed so much. His naturally black hair was dyed a dark midnight blue now, falling gracefully across his eyes that were bereft of the glasses he had been so used to. His hands are more callused and the veins visible, posture so much more mature and confident. Lee Minho had grown up so well, and a surge of pride flowed through Chan at the sight. He was happy for the man Minho had become and proud of him even though he didn’t know all that was to know yet. But that was okay, they will catch up gradually. Yet, there was no doubt Chan would only feel more proud of his friend.

“I guess I didn’t see it coming either. It just sort of happened. I think I met Seungmin around that time and he may have hinted that I could make some real use of this talent. The rest is sort of history.”

“Seungmin?” Chan asks, not missing the fond smile on Minho’s face.

“My boyfriend.”

“Huh?!” 

“Why, is there a problem?” There was a split second of defensiveness to his tone that is not lost on Chan but he'll be damned if Chan made the impression of being against it.

“I mean! I don’t care if you date boys…I mean I care of course, but like– not as in…it’s not a problem, not that I consider it one! I just meant that you– that…”

Minho cocks a brow at his friend, stifling the laughter bubbling up his chest at the way Chan’s ears grew hot and red and the man basically stuttered his way through the piece of information.

“It’s just…you keep dropping all this stuff out of nowhere, I’m just surprised. In a good way, I mean!”

With that Minho finally laughs, and it’s only then that Chan can really recognise his friend behind all the changes. The soft tinkle of his voice and the uncontained glee as he almost rolls on the floor. Ah yes, this was Lee Minho indeed – his childhood friend.

Chan cracks a smile, joining in the laughter and sipping iced tea late into the afternoon. They talk a lot, from university to life in the city and the hills and old memories and friends and all the new people in their lives but there’s still so much to uncover and so little time.

It was around half past five when Minho finally stretched on his spot on the floor and sat up.

“I should head back now, I need to start preparing for the dinner shift. Besides, Seungmin’s leaving for Seoul tonight, I promised to spend some time with him.”

“Oh?” Chan remarks, sitting up too from where he had been slouching against the wall, “he’s leaving tonight? I was hoping I could meet him.”

“Oh don’t worry, he’ll be back in a few days. He got invited to a teaching camp for extra credits and he intends to go. You know Shinha University in the next town? He works there as a TA.” Minho says with some pride.

Chan nods in acknowledgement, walking Minho to the door where the latter struggles to wear his shoes standing up, eliciting an amused chuckle from him.

“Hyung, you should come to the diner tomorrow. I’ll treat you to a meal and…you can also meet (y/n).”

For the first time since the afternoon, Minho had almost cautiously let your name slip into the conversation. He would like to think it sneaky of him, but the stunned look on Chan’s face almost made him feel guilty for not mentioning your earlier.

Chan on the other hand simply stood and stared at Minho who met his gaze sheepishly.

“(y/n) is…still here?”

Minho nods, shoving his hands inside his pocket.

“Oh. I guess I could drop by sometime this week.”

Biting his lips, Minho contemplates his next words carefully, trying to decipher what the smile on Chan’s face meant and whether he had crossed the line or not. When it seemed like Chan wasn’t upset at him, he ventures to say:

“We all missed you, you know? And…(y/n) had a bit of a hard time after you left,” taking a deep breath, he confesses, “but you’re back now so…so maybe we could all catch up.”

Breathlessly, Chan nods with a clenched jaw. He forces himself to keep smiling though his chest has suddenly started weighing down on him. He knows that Minho probably didn’t mean to keep your being here a secret, but just the minuscule realisation that he had waited until he was leaving made him wonder whether this had been the intent of his visit after all. Regardless, the soft undertone to his words was not lost on him and he was thankful to Minho for letting him know.

“We will Minho, I promise. I just gotta…figure some stuff out and then I can face my past I guess.” A light chuckle follows his statement and Minho smiles, tight lipped.

Chan bids him a good night and stands on his porch, staring at Minho’s back till it grows smaller the further he walks away. The sun was already touching the tip of the mountains by the time he retreated into his house, picking up the empty glasses and placing them in the sink.

Though for a moment Chan wanted to believe he could carry on with a few more chores before night fell, he doesn’t let himself feel too bad when he retires into his room and flops down on the mattress with a thump.

Closing his eyes, he drifts into a slumber, gulping down the thoughts of facing his past and a certain someone who kept plaguing his mind all night.

FIVE – MINT AND NICOTINE.

When Chan had left right after graduating high school, a part of him had also been sad regardless of the exciting prospect of a new life awaiting him.

He had to ultimately leave his friends behind and too many memories that had been a part of him since childhood. He felt like he was trying to bury their existence by leaving and it filled him up with immense guilt at the thought.

Yet, perhaps the most heartbreaking part would have been your muffled sobs against his chest, your hot tears falling into his red scarf and soaked up into a wet patch. He might have shed some tears too, but in his grief stricken mind, he had been too concerned with your sobs that had threatened to wrench his heart and tear it in two.

You had known, even then, that Chan would leave one day; that this sedentary lifestyle would never suit him and there lay your varying personalities. All you knew, and accounted it to therefore, was that he had always been a restless person. Always looking to do something all the time.

Sitting and merely observing like you, was not a glove he fit into. Always volunteering for events, the first one to suggest dragging you around town during your breaks against your protests which were laughed off with a promise of a fun time. You didn’t want a fun time; you wanted to stay home and sleep in till well past noon and spend the remaining of your day reading. Chan wanted nothing more than to be the one to teach you how to swim.

It was a fateful summer. Eventful, mostly for him. While you spluttered in four feet water, he swam past you in obnoxious strokes, splashing your face with more water. It enraged you, and yet you didn’t just up and leave, fumed at him maybe but he took it all in stride.

You wonder why he stuck by you, you used to have such an awful temper, even you wouldn’t want to spend time with yourself.

But Chan was driven by his restlessness, his enigmatic soul if you may. You may have learnt to float and master the front stroke at the cost of many a gleeful and not-so-peaceful days, but watching Chan glide in the pool like a fish, as if it were his natural habitat, was a reward in itself. It was peaceful too, simply sitting with your feet dipped in water while he bobbed up and down in the water gracefully.

Unaffiliating yourself from the constant presence of the boy you had grown used to had been more difficult for you than you had ever thought it to be. You tried not to mind too much when your phone never rang and no new messages popped up either. You were already easing yourself into the realisation that Chan had indeed forgotten about you.

For a fact, it seemed to have been of some consolation when you found out that Minho has lost all contact with Chan too. It definitely hurt significantly less, but you both grieved the distance together.

You supposed, and accepted eventually, that this was part of life. Of friends who would come and go – some would stay and some would leave, the pain will be there, s bit of regret of not being able to protect those relations, but in the end you would have to swallow it like a bitter pill and make do with what you had.

Except, it had been so hard for someone like you. University had not treated you well, if anything it had been like a huge blow across your face. Where once you had certainly been a part of the above average crowd, you had faced the wrath of being placed even below decent performance and gradually let yourself believe that it was all you would sum up to be.

Minho had kept you company, been there when you were feeling at your lowest and held your shoulders shaking with your sobs in his arms when you finally broke down. He had assured you that you were no less, nor would you ever be so, if you decided to give up. People made the wrong choices all the time, there was no need to beat yourself up over it no matter how much you justified yourself for it.

You dropped out and Minho loved you the same. Things were okay; you were okay.

Chan had become a distant part of your memory by then. Relationships were not a part of your life and the more you floundered in an unknown place, the thinner the strings connecting you to people became until they finally snapped and you were left quite alone. You embraced this life as best as you could and did what you could. You worked whatever small jobs you could, learnt a little bit of cooking from Minho and stacked away all your hard work to get into uni in a closet you never opened; what was it worth anyway when it got you nowhere in the end.

You had not planned out your entire life and it had played to your advantage. You didn’t feel as disappointed in things as you would have earlier because you didn’t expect things to follow a predetermined path.

There was so much to say about this matter, but who really wants to wallow in disappointment? There were still moments in your life when you would wake up with a heavy heart and an empty mind. Days like those would be harder to see through, every move you made pulling on your muscles and tugging you down under their heavy weight. You would want to cry and yet find yourself unable to. There would be no meaning to why you did what you did, an urge to find out what would happen if you stopped doing those things and a desire to sleep for a long, long time.

Yet you would sit at night in an empty house, curled into yourself and find that you were incapable of doing anything. You would wait for the next day to arrive and the clock would tick ever so painstakingly slow.

So when you found yourself facing the blonde boy, tall and broad with kind brown eyes you had once drowned in looking at you, the ghost of the past you didn’t even realise had lurked within you was suddenly coming back to life without a warning, that it left you breathless.

You felt your head being dunk underwater, cold and dark liquid enveloping you as you struggled to resurface and gulp the air greedily.

Minho had dragged you, against your protests after a long and tiring day, to the community hall where a meeting was supposedly about to start promptly at eight in the evening.

So far, most of the townsfolk that had arrived had managed to snag the front seats, leaving you, Minho and Felix to grab ones in the middle. They were good spots, hidden behind people so Minho could make fun of whatever new agenda was going to be discussed and not get caught snickering. You don’t understand why Minho forces himself to sit in these meetings when he doesn’t even pay attention, but you’ve found it’s his way of relaxing after a long day and part of the reason is because he gets to hang around town before finally heading home.

Initially it had been because of Seungmin, their cat and mouse bickering, quite the talk of the town, and under a very teasing confrontation from you and Felix, Minho had given away his little growing crush on the boy he had referred to as his ‘arch enemy’. 

The three of you wait while chatting, Minho texting on his phone and you can only assume it’s Seungmin, waiting for the town head to arrive along with everybody else. He seemed to be running late, because soon the large hall filled up with people until there’s practically no more seats left.

It has been two days since you last saw Chan.

Well, you’ve seen him since then, but never gone up to him or started a conversation. You had almost bumped into him at the grocery store, but quickly retreated in your steps to avoid him. There had suddenly been too much Chan in your life, even though you had only seen him a couple of times since he last showed up at your workplace, and it had left you feeling confused and weird at having his familiar face pop up in a place as mundane and everyday as your local grocery store.

Quite frankly, you wouldn’t like to ponder upon the reason for doing so because you already know it arises from a place of pettiness and of an urge to make him taste his own medicine. Minho though, as you had gathered from the boy himself, had met up with Chan on more than one occasion since he last came to the diner. Though he had not raised any questions on your part since you largely avoided talking to him about Chan, he had been unable to keep you out of his conversations with the said boy since he had been so keen on asking about you every time they met.

Chan’s arrival back to your hometown had been weighing on your mind since forever. To you, his existence had become a strongly pronounced obstruction in your day to day life. You worried he would pop into the diner again and you almost anticipated it, you had nearly given in to Minho’s invitation to go down to his house.

Oh god, his house. You had more than enough memories of his house stored away in your mind, it almost made you sick with its overwhelming presence made known to you.

The seat next to you suddenly creaks when someone sits on it, your attention turning towards the source and you find yourself staring directly at the source of your worrying mind.

Chan smiles at you softly and you almost choke on your spit when you notice his newly dyed black hair and the small silver hoops in his ears.

“Hey (y/n), long time,” he offers you a small wave before greeting Minho.

“It’s been two days,” you resist the urge to roll your eyes, shifting ever so slightly towards Minho who was seated beside you. Chan notices, masking the sudden heaviness in his heart with a pursed smile, but doesn’t point it out.

“Chan, this is Felix, another helping hand at the diner and my junior at culinary school.” Minho speaks up, introducing Chan to the younger boy who smiles at him brightly while you sit stone faced in the middle of it all.

“Hey, nice to meet you, I’m–”

“Bang Chan, I know,” Felix smiles warmly and you can attest to the fact that Chan likes him immediately by the way he grins and his dimples appear, “I’ve heard a lot about you from Minho. He couldn’t stop talking about you, you’re like an idol to him or something.”

Minho turns red while Chan laughs shyly, the former smacking Felix on the head who retorts with an “you do!” and sticks out his tongue.

While Minho and Felix bicker, Chan smiles and turns his attention to you, about to say something when the huge doors to the hall suddenly opens and the town head walks in to loud protests from the people complaining about being kept waiting for too long. You glance at your wristwatch and sure enough, it was twenty minutes past eight.

You try your best to ignore the presence by your side and listen to the man talk – something about the annual spring festival still three months away – but it’s admittedly hard to do so when Minho and Felix keep snickering beside you like five year olds at a church and Chan’s cologne and the nicotine disguised under breath mints ever too present in your nose. You want to ingrain this scent in your memory but at the same time hold your breath till you choke and die.

Chan suddenly leans towards you, his lips close to your ears and whispers.

“Are town meetings usually this long?”

You nod at him and pretend to listen attentively to people now raising questions and concerns like they did in every meeting to discuss whether the town needed any new facilities or not.

Chan was a lot of things; he had been a lot of things. To you it was the strong smell of chlorine and the cheap aftershave he used to disguise the smell of the bleach. It was a mild odour of sweat mingling with those two scents and the freshly washed laundry detergent on his clothes. And if he leaned a bit closer, just to annoy you or tease you, then the slightest whiff of his papaya shampoo.

Realising now that he didn’t smell anything like that anymore, it makes you shudder at the revelation of the mint concealing the nicotine. Change must have been so drastic for him, that you could no longer find a place in your memories where he fit. He was gone, the youth from him was gone, long ditched in a puddle of illusion where things were still bright and days were pleasantly sunny and the world smelt like fresh rain on earth. The boyish glimmer was lost from his eyes, sucked deep by the void behind them.

Your own body itches under your clothes, the smell of soap and oil so deeply ingrained in your skin after your entire day at the diner, you’re almost certain he can smell it too.

However awkward you felt in your own skin right now, it was nothing compared to the obvious attempt Chan was making at conversing with you and your blatant refusal to offer him that, yet, it didn’t seem like Chan had any intentions of dropping the opportunity of a conversation.

“Are you free tonight? Minho said we might get dinner together after this.”

His voice is still hushed, but you cannot ignore the shiver that passes down your spine every time he leans in, clenching your fingers against the cold metal of your chair.

“Maybe.”

Twiddling his thumbs again, he chews on his bottom lip with a frown on his face. You miss his disappointment since you’ve made it your life’s mission to give your unfiltered attention to the town meeting, something you never thought you would do, but well, people change.

You are graced the chance to drop your hushed conversation when people start chattering around you and with a start you realise that the town meeting is over, everybody scraping their chairs against the floors and leaving in groups while some hang back to talk.

Felix is, thankfully, more than interested in your old friend and swoops down on the opportunity to strike up a conversation with Chan the minute he’s up from his chair; something that Chan obliges him with a lingering gaze that flits towards you. You step to the side with Minho, finding Felix more than capable to keep up a distinct string of chatter all by himself, sharing smiles with Minho at the sight.

“Did you tell Chan about the meeting?” you ask, pulling the scarf around your neck against the cold wind that blows in through the open doors. More and more people start leaving till it’s only a bunch of you who are left behind.

“Yeah, figured he could get out more and re-familiarise with the town.”

You nod at his explanation.

While Chan and Felix are still talking, your phone buzzes in your jeans pocket. Digging around to grab it, you let out a tired sigh at the caller ID. Minho peers at your screen and offers you a tight lipped smile, patting your back sympathetically. You excuse yourself and step out into the cold night to receive it.

“Mom, hi.”

“Hello (y/n), have you had your dinner yet?”

“Not yet, I was at a town meeting.”

“Again? Why do you even waste your time going to those?”

You feel it coming, this is where the conversation changes. And you’re not even four pleasantries in. You resist the urge to sigh yet again.

“Why did you call mom?” you know why she’s called.

“The semester applications are in three months, have you been studying?”

“Mom, I told you, I’m still thinking about it.”

“What in the world is there to think about? You’ve had enough time and I’ve wasted enough money on your hobbies already. Sit for the entrance exams and get into business school. At least get a degree!”

“I’ll think about it.”

“(y/n) please don’t start again, how many times do I have to repeat myself? Do you not care about your education? If you keep thinking now, when are you going to actually do something?”

“How many times do I have to repeat myself…I have no intentions of getting into business school mom, that’s just not for me.”

“Oh, so this is what you’ve been intending since the beginning then? Business school is not for you, you can’t even stick to…was it worth it? Was choosing your hobby as a career path worth it at all (y/n)? What exactly is it that you can do then? Waste your time and money? How are you going to get a job, how will you pay for yourself?”

“I’m doing it just fine right now, if you haven’t already noticed.”

The same shit, over and over again. You really can’t tell at what point of the day you would have to attend to these calls and have your entire day or night ruined.

“I’m tired of fighting with you over this (y/n),” your mom sighs on the other end, “do whatever you want.”

One would think that’s how you find yourself relieved of this matter, but that is exactly how it ends every time before you get another call like a weekly reminder that you are, in fact, not to forget.

“Good night,” you say and promptly cut the call. You’ll have to hear about this the next time she calls.

Taking in a long breath, you shut your eyes when you feel the prick of tears behind them. You could simply pay no heed to this and let it go, but you know you will overthink and you will definitely let it ruin your mood. The heaviness embedded in your muscles starts creeping up again and you find yourself, for a moment, panicking that your limbs will give away on the streets and you’ll fall down.

You hear the faint voices of your friends approaching and sniffle, blinking your eyes rapidly so the tears don’t fall. Instead, you feel the familiar weight like a pot of water quickly filling up, slithering its way into your head, a headache that will have settled by the time you reach home tonight.

Minho is the first to come stand beside you, gently pressing his arm against yours in a silent comfort. You wish he wouldn’t; it only makes it harder not to cry.

“We’re getting dinner down at Condiments, what do you say (y/n)?” Felix’s cheerfulness is lost on you. All you can focus on is the heaviness in your heart and your pounding head.

“Umm…I think I will skip.” you reply, causing Chan to look at you in concern. To be fair, you might be good at hiding your feelings, yet sometimes you cannot help but let it affect your mood. Right now, you know by the worried glance from Felix, that you were most certainly not doing a good job at concealing your distress.

“Everything okay?” Felix immediately moves to you, looping his arms through yours with a concerned pout.

You smile assuringly, not having it in you to let on that you were most certainly not fine right now.

“I’m okay Lix, just…got a headache and I’m tired. I’ll walk back home, y’all go get some dinner. I’ll join next time, I promise.”

“Okay,” Felix is convinced, you know that. In fact, you don’t feel half as bad for lying since you practically were telling the truth. You let him hug you before waving to Minho and nodding towards Chan before you start walking uphill.

“Wait,” Chan calls out from behind, making you turn in your tracks. Felix and Minho watch curiously as he approaches you.

“Let me walk you home? It’s late and–”

“Thanks Chan, but it’s alright, I walk home alone all the time, there’s nothing to be worried about. Besides, I live uphill and you live down here. It will only waste your time going up and down.”

“But–”

“I will be alright,” at this point you’re merely trying to convince yourself of the same, “I’ll see you…when I see you.”

Chan for sure is not convinced as easily as Felix. He may have missed four years being absent from your life, but he knows the signs of dismay on your face when he sees it even now. You may very well be tired and have a headache, but it still concerned him to see your gloomy expression. If you’re actively trying to avoid him right now though…

“Are you really fine? You don’t need any medicines for your headache? If it’s too bad then I can–”

“Chan,” you are firmer this time, smiling at him with a pained expression and a frustration poorly disguised under your breaking resolve of fighting your tears, “I am fine.”

Chan stands his ground for a moment in silence, inadvertently upset and slightly hurt that you were doing your best to push him away. He knows though, he cannot fight you on this; he has no rights. It’s only when Minho clutches his arm from behind does he relent.

“It’s alright Chan, (y/n)’s used to walking home alone and it’s not particularly dangerous either.”

You shoot Minho a thankful look.

“Okay,” Chan lets go, “you will let us know when you’ve reached home, right?”

“I will text Minho,” you promise, hurriedly agreeing to do whatever so long as you can finally leave.

“Okay then…get home safe.”

“I will. Good night guys, enjoy your dinner!”

A chorus of good-nights ring back and without sparing Chan another look, you walk away, alone with your thoughts and your drumming head.

SIX – PINE TEA, BURNT TONGUE.

Coming back to the hills has so far proven to be a good decision, as far as a healthy lifestyle goes.

Chan often finds himself waking up with the sun, even without an alarm, he would be up and about by at least eight in the morning and compared to sleeping in till after noon or not getting enough sleep at all, he preferred this. But on days that he would sleep way past noon, he wouldn’t wake up feeling anxious about the lost time at all.

He has also finally managed to clean the house, the strain in his muscles lasting for a few days for which he covered himself in pain relief patches, but otherwise it has been a fruitful journey. All that remains now is to set up his equipment in his old room. Though he’s out here on a break from life itself, he can never truly give up on the joys of his hobby-turned-career path. He almost never steps out without his camera when he’s wandering in the town, capturing the most mundane things and preserving the beauty in either his digital camera or in 8 mm films.

In the little time he had been back, Chan had taken over a hundred photos already. He didn’t believe in capturing everything visible to the eyes like some sort of maniac, but he also did not have anything against preserving memories.

It’s how he lived – through moments frozen in time, perhaps the only way he saw his little reign over life – by capturing them in films. It was his own solace, his peace of mind; something he could always come back to no matter how much the world around him changed. He would always have that piece of memory only he saw, something that would most likely change ten years down the line and he would look back on an old piece of glossy paper and be reminded of the world he had seen all those years ago.

This particular morning is not the most refreshing though. Last night had been a fun time indeed with Minho and Felix, catching up and recounting stories and exchanging more with Felix as a new friend. As promised, you had texted Minho when you reached home and that was all he had heard from and of you last night.

You had not ceased to plague his mind though, even long after he had bid goodnight to the others and walked back home. He had stayed up quite a while, slouched against his pillows, swiping through his collection of photos in the dark, the screen illuminating his face.

He had worried too for most part that the reason you left last night could have been him, because though you might have told him you weren’t avoiding him, the incident from his grocery store run kept replaying in his mind on loop.

He had definitely caught you rushing away from him but had decidedly not confronted you about it. What if you really were uncomfortable around him? If so, then he had promised not to bother you again, except, he just wasn’t sure whether he would be able to stay away from you much longer.

He’s reminded of the first time you met after so much time had passed, that day in the diner. You were wearing a thin sweater and your hair was in a mess like you were harried, serving and helping out in the kitchen. You had not cracked a smile then at first, staring at him wide eyed, and his first thought had been of how much you had grown up. How beautiful you had suddenly become.

Your cheeks were flushed with all the rushing about, strings of hair framing your naked face and he could tell that age and maturity had favoured you in all the right places even through your winter attire.

The thought makes him burn, his mind momentarily distracted at the very sight of you imprinted in his memory like all the pictures he captures. It’s not until late that sleep finally takes over him, but it’s a restless slumber that he tosses and turns through.

In the morning he’s met with a tourmaline sky, splotches of tissue like clouds splattered across as the sunlight filters through his windows. It was sunny and bright today and Chan squinted up at the sky through his window, rubbing his tired eyes as he lay basking in the January warmth that spread through his bones, toes curling up underneath the sheets.

Outside he hears the birds chirp in contrast to the constant honking and cars like in the city, and the air is filled with the sweet scent of pine and cyprus. Inhaling deeply, Chan feels like he must be in heaven.

His morning routine is unrushed and he takes his sweet time preparing breakfast and eating out on the verandah under the January sun above the hills, the rays of light bespeckling his skin in warm patches that danced with the trees in the gentle wind. It was a quiet meal and Chan was, for once, not planning his entire day out in his mind, though he did have a rough idea of how he might want to spend his day.

His phone pings with a message; it’s from his mom.

mom: morning son, don’t know if you’re up already, but this is your reminder to have a good day

The smile on Chan’s face is instant, he can’t help the little leap of joy in his chest at the sight.

mom: this is also a reminder to check your smoking habit

A small chuckle passes through his lips before he replies.

me: morning, your favourite son is already up. and he says he’s trying really hard to keep his smoking in check

mom: tell my favourite son (his words) to try harder

me: this is all dad’s fault you know?

mom: your mom is giving me the stink eye now, why did you have to say that to her - dad

Chan laughs in amusement, knowing that the last message was sent in good spirits and as a joke.

me: morning dad, hope you’re treating mom well!

mom: he is darling, don’t you worry about us. are you having a good time there?

me: yeah, it’s all pretty nostalgic and stuff, but i enjoy every day here. even went to a town meeting last night and grabbed dinner with minho. you remember him don’t you?

mom: town meetings! it’s been a while since i’ve heard of those. of course i remember minho…he was a darling boy back then. how is he?

me: he’s good, it was fun catching up. i also met (y/n)

mom: oh. how are they? last we heard before moving out was their father passing away…must have been hard all this time.

Chan blinks down at the message in surprise. He did not know that.

me: their dad passed away??

mom: yes, didn’t you know? it was cancer, i believe i might have mentioned this before.

Sucking in a breath, Chan finds it incredibly hard to process this piece of information. It was like a sudden dump of emotions and his stomach curled at the revelation. His mom definitely did not mention this, there was no way he would have filtered this kind of news away like it was nothing.

me: i don’t think you did, i would have remembered…

mom: oh channie…i’m sorry, we were probably too busy with all the packing and moving back then, we only heard in passing.

me: it’s okay, not your fault

mom: do drop by at (y/n)'s and give my best regards. let me know how they’re doing okay?

me: will do mom

After a few more messages about his day, he bids his mom goodbye and tosses the phone aside. Shutting his eyes, the very first person to come to his mind is you, a resounding pang in his chest when he’s reminded of your father too. He had never spent much time around your family, in fact, you had always been the one to come over at his place majority of the time and he had only met your parents once in a while during annual school meets or sometimes during the town festivals as a child. As it so happened, your parents were never around much, both busy with work as you often told him. Still, he remembered your father, and he had always seemed a good, kind man.

Why had Minho not mentioned anything to him about this? Sure, you did creep into the conversation snow and then, but even so, every time Chan brought you up, it’s like Minho tried to safeguard you and let on as little as possible.

Nibbling his lips, he sits and ponders whether he should ask Minho about this, even retrieving his phone to text him about it but in the end concedes. Maybe Minho had not deemed it his place to tell him.

Deciding that he would listen to his mom and drop by at your place, from what he knows you still live in your old home, he spends the next hour or so doing small chores like washing the dishes and getting ready for the morning.

He’s out of the house not long after, showered and refreshed and surprisingly ready to face the day. With his camera bag slung across his shoulder, he makes his way on foot around town, exploring some of the older shops lining the hillsides under tarpaulin covers, fresh steamed bread and hot noodle shops already open and catering to people.

Chan doesn’t stop much, only lingering enough to familiarise himself with the market place which was always seemingly buzzing with people and cheerful chatter. He makes his way up the hill, pulling up his hoodie to cover his head as he walks under the gradually thickening canopies of trees above him. The road leading up becomes narrower and fewer people lurk about, only some tourists who stop by the road to take photos.

Chan doesn’t use his camera till he’s way up higher, simply walking through the pine scent till he reaches a small hilltop that overlooks the town below. Colourful buildings nestled between sloping lush greenery, the roads snaked around the town in smooth curves. He can spot the community centre and the restaurant he had dinner last night at. The market place is the most lively place at this time of the day, strings of flags strung across the semi marketplace flapping in the wind. It was like a small community tucked away from the rest of the world. At one further end of the town, a tall blue tower rises up and immediately Chan is hit by nostalgic memories.

Almost instinctively, he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a packet of cigarettes, lighting one up and exhaling deeply. He reminds himself that 9 in the morning is too early for this, but the optimist that he is, he’s also inclined to wave it off with ‘it’s midnight somewhere’.  

He turns sentimental the more he looks at the lone tower visible behind a cluster of hills. It’s his high school and upon seeing it after so many years, he almost missed going to that place.

His hometown was not such a huge place afterall. Most people knew each other here after spending so many years in the same place, but there was also the never changing map of this tiny town that losing yourself here was practically an impossible task even if you want to do it on purpose. Everything was etched out like permanent ink, Chan still remembered all the prime locations of his childhood here like the back of his hand.

In a way it might have been the reason he left too, an aspect of waking up to the same thing every day had been his drive to leave this place but the city had been no different either. Chan was slowly starting to realise that now.

He takes in another puff of the stick, now dangling between his lips before dropping it on the ground and squashing it with his feet, guiltily reminded of his mother’s text this morning and his promise to her.

Shoving his hands inside the pocket of his hoodie he strolls aimlessly along without a destination in mind. He’s aware that only a few shops and restaurants dot the top of the mountain, he’s vaguely aware that there’s a few more clearings along the way and your house was somewhere there. He does remember you having to walk a long way down to school and complain about it often to him.

Soon enough, he reaches a smaller path branching out from the main road to the side. He takes the rocky path, edges lined with wild grass and strewn with stray pine cones, a flatter piece of land leading off to a bunch of bakeries and small cafes.

It's almost like a small chunk of hill had been cut off to create an alcove, small vintage shops huddled together and the scent of fresh bread and ground coffee wafting in the air like a sweet aroma.

Chan has had his fair share of cafes working in one himself and though he had been sick of the smell of coffee for a while, here, out in the open and so far away from the city, he almost didn't mind it.

He stops for a moment and takes a few pictures, the colourful vibrant roofs of red, blue and yellows catching his eyes as he squats to capture this seemingly fairytale come to life picture. Everything in the mountains was just automatically magical. 

He's drawn to a tiny little cafe with a sloping blue roof tucked away further back against a huge rocky wall.

The wind chime tinkles against the gentle breeze above Chan who peers inside from the big window in the front with blue frames. The cafe is almost empty except for a few people scattered about on huge wicker seats.

There's no bell to notify you when a customer enters, just the loud creak of the door, which can be a bit alarming as you've often mentioned to the cafe owner.

You're at the counter scrolling through your phone when you hear the door opening, immediately shutting your phone and smiling at the customer.

"Welcome, how can we help–"

Oh. It's Chan.

"–you?"

Chan seems to be equally as surprised to see you here; he thought you worked at the diner. Nevertheless, he returns your smile.

"Hi," he greets, approaching you at the counter, "I didn't know you worked here."

"I don't, just here to cover for a friend."

You do sometimes pick up shifts here when you’re free of your duties at the diner. It’s more of a casual workplace for some extra cash and since it’s never too crowded, the employment criteria is not too rigid. You help out once in a while when the tourist season is at its peak and extra hands are required. As it so happened, January usually serves as a gradual ease into the rush, with a couple dozen or so customers always coming in for a warm drink and a cozy place to relax and read a book. By March, the tourist count increases and that is when you find yourself financially more stable. You are therefore quite dependent on the tourism sector. Right now, you're covering for Seungmin who won't be back till next week, and you could definitely make do with the cash.

"What can I get you?" you ask, waiting for Chan to look over at the menu and decide. While he examines the laminated display on the counter, you watch him quietly nibbling on his lips, the rings in his ears dangling gently when he moves, the smell of smoke nestling under your nose again. You dislike it but you can't bring yourself to look away until he turns to you with a sheepish smile and wide eyes.

"Umm…it's a bit hard to decide," he chuckles and the noise settles in your bones like a warm shiver, "there's too many to choose from. What would you recommend?"

Startled by the sudden question, you stare at him sceptically as if he had just asked you to do something unreasonable.

"You want me to recommend something to you?" You point at yourself as if to make sure for certain.

Chan nods with a smile, leaning against the counter for your opinion.

Licking your lips, you scan through the menu even though you remember everything by heart. It's just that, you can't bring yourself to meet his stare.

"Do you want a hot drink or something cold?" You question, glancing at him briefly to find him still staring. God, you hope you're not flushed.

"I would prefer something warm, but wouldn't mind if you recommend a cold drink either."

His smile again, the stupid upturn of his full lips and the tiny dimple on his cheek. You dislike it so very much. You don't even dare to meet his eyes, the brown in your memory too haunting even to this day.

"Then I'd recommend the pine tea. It's aromatic and light. I could get you some mushroom bread rolls with those or do you still not like mushrooms–"

You halt in your speech, eyes flickering up to his like a deer caught in headlights. Upon seeing him blinking back, you immediately start spluttering out an apology.

"S-sorry, I don't know why I said that…I shouldn't have assumed–"

"It's okay," Chan cuts you off hastily with a wave of his hand, "you didn't assume anything, it's fine!"

"Oh…oh, okay. I…so do you want to get something with your tea or just…?"

You trail off in embarrassment, every second a new word that falls off your lips feels like a shovel digging at your own grave. You should probably shut up right about now.

"Oh…oh yeah. Umm, anything without mushrooms," he claims, rubbing his neck with a nervous chuckle, "what about the orange loaf cake? Sounds delicious."

"Orange loaf cake, right. Good choice, it'll go well with the pine tea. I'll get you your order then, why don't you take a seat," you gesture at one of the empty tables by the window.

Chan obliges, nodding his head and taking a seat while you scurry into the pantry to get the tea leaves.

Inside the dark cool room, you take a moment to let out a breath you hadn't even realised you were holding in, leaning your head against one of the shelves, the cool wood like a comforting balm across your skin.

You just keep making a fool out of yourself in front of him. He's just an old friend, why does he affect you this way?!

The tea Chan receives is instantly aromatic, the gentle scent of pine and a savoury pinch of cinnamon in it making him look forward to the drink.

You place the steaming cup in front of him along with a plate of sliced bread, slightly warm and golden in texture. Chan feels his mouth watering though it hasn't been that long since he had had his breakfast.

"Umm," you hesitate, glancing at the box of cigarettes on the table, "there is a no smoking policy in here so…"

For all you know you could have said that just because you hated the sight of it, he could have very well just placed them on the table without any intention to smoke them inside. Your brain really wasn't in sync with your mouth today and you were regretting every second of it.

Chan follows your eyes, immediately flushing and pocketing the box, crumpling it almost as he hastily shoved it into his pocket.

"Of course, I don't smoke a lot. I mean, I do, but I won't right now. I work at a cafe too, I mean I used to, of course I know there's a no smoking policy–"

Chan doesn't finish his statement, feeling a rush of heat along his neck as if he had just been called out. He vividly remembers the red text of caution stating cigarettes causing cancer and nearly facepalms.

"Okay well, glad you know," nice save, you're doing a great job, "enjoy your meal then. Let me know if you want anything else."

With that you're gone by his side back to your place behind the counter where you immediately bury your nose into your phone, willing the heat in your cheeks to go away without fanning yourself.

Chan takes a large sip of his tea in a hurry to hide his face when you glance up at him and your eyes meet, scalding his tongue in the process and it takes him his all to not curse out loud. He stuffs a large piece of bread in his mouth to soothe the burn.

What an absolute mess.

SEVEN – IT MUST BE NICE.

Seungmin had texted you at night, a flurry of apologies and making up to you with dinner when he came back, and he was so flustered, he had completely forgotten to mention the reason for this impromptu travesty.

When you had pointed it out, it had only prompted another tirade of apologies and eventually you had ended up calling him. You were in your bed, showered and with an ache in your limbs that came with a long satisfied day.

“(y/n)? Oh my god, I’m so sorry–”

“Seungmin, stop apologising,” you had smiled, shuffling in your bed under the blankets, “how’ve you been?”

“I-what? Oh, yeah, I’ve been good.” he had sounded genuinely surprised at your inquiry, as if he hadn’t even thought you would ever ask him something like that.

“That’s good, how’s your workshop?”

“It’s fine, doable certainly. There’s a lot of interesting things, and I’m hoping to sign up for a few more non-credit courses because they honestly sound really amazing and I think I might be able to squeeze in a few after my credit classes.”

That was Seungmin for you, always the one who loved to learn and cram his breaks with a truckload of workshops and seminars, citing that he didn’t have enough time to attend them during the academic year, what with his classes at university. Your group was proud of him and all his achievements, but you were also concerned with his health.

He had just completed his teaching degree and was working as a TA in Shinha University, which was an hour away by train. You both had initially bonded over your shared interest in books and when you had told him that you had got into university for your bachelors in journalism, he had instantly clicked with you, having pursued journalism as well and then getting his B.Ed.

Seungmin had never been invasive of your reason to drop out, always keeping a polite flow in your conversations without sounding demeaning.

“Wow,” you remark, smiling into your pillow at his ramble, “does Minho know about this?”

“Does Minho know that I’m sleeping three hours a day?

“Jesus, Seungmin!”

“I know,” he groans on the other end of the line, “I couldn’t help it. Please don’t tell Minho, he will go batshit crazy.”

You can already imagine Minho getting upset, except, when it came to Seungmin and his ridiculously well planned but jam packed academic calendar, Minho tended to channel all that anger into making extra efforts at taking care of the younger boy. They would call this their freeze-zone, which lasted about eleven days at maximum – Minho would be all quiet and calm, not necessarily ignoring Seungmin, but neither did he acknowledge his lifestyle in high regards. Seungmin would also be quiet, but follow Minho around like an apologetic puppy, trying to make amends.

It would always end with a hug. And if you were unfortunate enough, then you would catch them in the kitchen after closing hours in the diner, making out heatedly. Then you would want to bleach your eyes.

Regardless, and you really had no other way to describe what they had as cute. They had a healthy relationship, as far as you knew, with their ups and downs, but they were tight. And it made you happy to watch them be happy with each other.

“Okay, I won’t tell him, but he’s gonna find out anyway,” you sigh.

“I know, I’ll be the one to tell him anyway. It’s like he’s got this sixth sense when it comes to these things you know, until last year I was convinced either you or Felix were tattling to him.”

“Hey, have some faith in us!”

“I do now.”

You can hear the smile in his voice and chuckle.

“So, what is it you were apologising to me about?”

“Oh. Right, so I've been working under Professor Lee for my research paper for a while."

You nod even though he can't see you, listening carefully.

"He’s been looking for an assistant for the new semester, and…please don’t get mad okay, but I may have told him about you. I told him you were pursuing your journalism bachelors…”

Sucking in a breath, you groan at the insinuation.

“Seungmin–”

“I swear I didn’t put you down or anything, I didn’t even tell him the reason you dropped out. It’s just…I thought you might want to check out the work at least.”

“That’s…that’s kind of Seungmin, it really is. I’m just not sure if I’m qualified enough.”

“You really think so? You almost completed your degree (y/n), you were going to graduate.”

“You know, you’re starting to sound awfully like my mom,” you mumble.

“(y/n)...you know I didn’t mean any harm.”

“I know Seungmin, I know…”

Which is why this was even more difficult for you. Seungmin’s been of immense help to you ever since you met. He’s got you to write for an anonymous column in their University paper a couple of times and though you had agreed, you had rejected the offer to become a regular in their columns. As much as Minho had been adamantly loyal to your decision of dropping out, Seungmin had his own gentle way of nudging you to pick up your pen again.

“What’s wrong (y/n), I know you want more than what you have right now.”

You detest the bitterness of his truth, the way it swirls around you in green coils and makes you sick. You do want more, but in the crevices of your bones laden heavy with the lead of your self proclaimed worth, you know you shouldn’t. You can’t want more, not when there’s better people out there.

“Seungmin I…I don't know what to say.”

“You don’t have to say anything, just sleep on it yeah? But if you agree, and no pressure there, then let me know and I’ll set you up a meeting with the professor. Okay?”

“Okay…” you reluctantly agree. You’ll sleep on it for sure, but you lack the assurance of a positive response. Maybe Seungmin senses it too, apologising again.

“Don’t apologise really, I should be thankful that you’re looking out for me.”

“Of course I am, that’s what friends do.”

Your head weighs down on the soft pillows, tears stinging your eyes in the darkness of your room.

“Yeah. Thanks a lot Seungmin, I appreciate it. I really do.”

You hope the way you force out your words is enough to let him know exactly how much this means to you even though you can never put it in enough words.

“Anytime (y/n). Goodnight then.”

“Goodnight.”

Guilt fills you up almost instantaneously when the call drops with a click from the other side. Looking back on the conversation, you detested how quickly you had compared Seungmin to your mother when all he had done was look out for you. Confusion and frustration diffuses through your guilt right after; were you a hypocrite because you felt guilty when it was a friend who looked after you and not when your mother did? Wasn’t she also just looking out for you?

You don’t find it in yourself to remove the phone from your ear, fingers loosening their hold against the device till the screen blacks out.

Left alone with your thoughts, you find the sleep behind your eyes slowly disappearing, replaced with a thin layer of tears that fail to escape, instead settling behind like heavy moss, fogging your mind and senses.

The bed feels uncomfortable, but the weight of your limbs tie you down in your place, unmoving against your will and you find the hands of the clock on your bed stand ticking too loudly. Moving your head, your gaze flits across the window on the wall, the tall peaks of hills visible, glowing with the faintest hint of warm orange from the town lights below.

Slowly, as if it ached your very soul to move, you rustle out of your blanket, dragging it along as you trod towards the balcony, curling your toes when your bare feet touch the cold marble flooring. Your flat was small but the balcony was spacious, often your haven on summer days but in the cold January, it leaves you numb. It's admittedly a good feeling, the urge to keep yourself warm by rubbing your arms and pulling the b;anket closer around your frame overtaking the need to think.

The family living below you is still awake, their apartment rings out in cheerful laughter. You can see the shadows moving on the grassy garden illuminated by the light from their windows. They dance like flames in the wind, flitting about aimlessly and chaotically, in tune to the kids yelling and playing around.

It must be nice, you think. You credit the sentiment to their laughter, but you’re unsure of whether there’s a longing behind that thought that popped up without a warning in your mind. What must be nice?

If you lean against the railings, you can catch a small portion of the town which was not hidden being a large clump of trees, twinkling under a starry sky. You hear the distant hubbub of the liveliness if you hold your breath and strain your ears. It must be nice, the voice in your head goes again.

You want to cry. What must be nice?

Why were you here on a Tuesday night, sitting on your cold marble floors wanting to simultaneously scream and cry and throw yourself off a cliff? Why did it feel so insanely morbid to feel so numb and feel so many things at once? Why would your limbs not move and tears not fall no matter how much you willed them to?

Why does this house not feel like a home? What were you so homesick for, a place that did not exist or a place that you had buried so deep in the depths of your tangled memory that retrieving it would cost you your life? Where would you run when you wanted to, how would you know what you’re running from, how long would you have to run?

What was this feeling you were drenched in? Why can’t you comprehend it? How do you get rid of it?

Your phone dings yet again with a notification and you retrieve it from somewhere in the depths of the blanket you had swaddled yourself in. another message from Seungmin.

seungmin: Professor Lee, faculty of Linguistics and Literature Studies, Shinha University. Contact details: xxxxxxxxxx

seungmin: just in case. g’night.

Your wrist tingles uncomfortably and you rub your fingers across it soothingly. It was probably going to rain later. Or soon. Time was merely flitting past but your eyes remained wide open, not a drop of sleep to be expected any time soon.

The shadows on the grass settle down in a dark lump, quiet and peaceful. The lights below lose their glow, dimming into the night one by one as the town falls asleep.

It must be nice, to be able to sleep.

EIGHT – BUTTERFLIES, LOLLIPOPS, SHARED LAUGHS.

The next time Minho texts you about dinner plans, it's with the carefully added notification of expecting Chan's presence too.

You've been entirely too busy with the diner the past few days, that you've managed to avoid another encounter with Chan naturally. You woke up early to prepare for the day and went home late after cleaning up. It was the same for Minho and Felix, and only now do the three of you realise what a great help another helping hand is. You all miss Seungmin.

But the work pays off, and the cafe work is an added bonus to your savings. If anything, at least you're saved from overthinking once you get home all tired and grisly from kitchen duties. You don't have time to worry about little things as much nor the guilt of missing calls from your mom.

It was the gentle plea at the end of Minho’s text, asking you to please join in for at least old friends’ sake that gets you thinking about the whole thing.

It’s not a particularly mind gnawing decision, you simply decide that you don't need to avoid Chan as much. Fine, you definitely did not know where exactly you stood with his reappearance after all these years, but that didn’t mean you were going to be so cold as to continuously turn down these little reunions. Minho had definitely embraced his old friend with welcome arms and tonight he was finally going to meet Seungmin. You did not mind when Minho was open to introducing his life here to your old friend. There’s only so long you could possibly avoid all social interactions as you could keep up with a steady denial to let Chan affect your day to day life.

You text Minho back with a promise to join in on this dinner.

That is how you find yourself sitting in the tented bar, the sizzle of the barbeque and the delectable aroma of fried vegetables wafting in the air and a few too many bottles of beer in front of you, huddled together in a circle around a table.

Felix chats away excitedly, seemingly never at a loss of conversational topics, while Seungmin joins in with Chan. Minho looks after the barbeque, serving the food to everybody once he’s finally done. The first bite is like a doorway to heaven opening up, a bit too hot that you need to blow air before promptly stuffing yourself with more.

You stay quiet for the most part, only replying when someone asks you something, sitting directly opposite Chan and hence obliged to keep looking away when your eyes meet. It’s happened so many times already since you first came that you don’t even bother with the awkward smile anymore, glancing away quickly before downing your glass of beer.

Chan looks extremely good today, even though it doesn’t look like he put in too much effort behind his black hoodie and his usual silver earrings. His hair lays flat, fingers occasionally brushing through his fringes which he keeps straightening out. You really try not to stare, but when you do and catch yourself in the act, you convince yourself that it’s only because you’re trying to memorise this new and older Chan from the younger one with curly hair and unpierced ears.

“Hey, do you remember that time (y/n) got in detention because Chan kept poking them and they yelled at him in the middle of calculus?” Minho points out in the middle of dinner.

Chan laughs at the memory eliciting a fond smile from you too as you look back on that day, it had indeed been the first time you got into any kind of trouble at school and you had cried during your after school detention.

“I was somewhat troublesome back then, wasn’t I? Chan says, grinning at you apologetically but with a happy smile as if he held his mischievous days close to his heart.

“Somewhat?” you question incredulously, “you were quite the troublemaker, honestly how did you get appointed as student council head?!”

The table erupts into giggles and laughter, a surprised Seungmin looking at Chan in awe, finding it equally hard to believe Chan could have ever caused any trouble. You find it easy to laugh along, just old friends reminiscing on good days gone by, leaving behind fragments of floating memories you had to glue back together. It felt like you were teens again at one of your annual dinners after exams were over. It felt good to be here right now, maybe with a broken friendship, but with a sudden jolt you realise that you may have been looking forward to this unknowingly after all, and now that it was here, you were willing to put behind petty regrets and patch things up.

After all, how often will you find a friendship so precious, right? Shouldn’t you appreciate it and let go of the past for the sake of reviving whatever weak flame was flickering now?

A warmth blooms in you when you look around, eyes lingering a little longer on the man in front of you. He notices and tilts his head in question. You smile widely and shake your head and in a long while, Chan finds himself feeling elated as if the sun itself had bloomed inside his chest and was extending its rays all through his body. He has not felt this happy in a while and the sight of your smile directed at him lightens the burden without a source on his shoulders he’s been carrying ever since.

Though in the morning you might try to convince yourself that warming up to Chan had been a consequence of the alcohol in your system, you ease yourself into the light atmosphere and enjoy the moment for as long as it lasts.

Chan and Seungmin get along well, some sort of sibling dynamic forming quickly between the two with comfortable bantering which slowly backfires on Minho who gets teased by the two and turns pouty. You chuckle when he turns to you for help but only gets a pat on the back from you.

Regardless, Seungmin only needs to lean his head on his sulking boyfriend’s shoulder for him to smile sweetly and kiss his cheek. Felix and you pretend to gag at the sight, which is quickly shot down by protests.

“You’re only jealous because you’re both single!” Minho yells over the table, eliciting a gasp from you and faux display of hurt from Felix who clutches his heart and pretends to cry.

“You’re single?” you look up to find Chan looking at you, an unreadable expression on his face and you wonder why he directed his question at you even though Felix was sitting right beside him.

Before you can respond, Minho speaks up on your behalf.

“(y/n)’s been single ever since high school, I think they’re gonna die single and lonely.”

“Am not!” you stick out your tongue at him, “also I did date in uni.”

“Two weeks doesn’t count,” Minho smirks, “you didn’t even kiss him.”

“And how would you know that?” you challenge, glaring at him now.

Chan listened to the conversation curiously, hearing you talk for the longest time since the evening.

“Did you?” Minho’s eyes widen and you feel like they might pop out of their sockets if he kept staring any longer.

“No…but that’s not the point,” you grumble, hiding your face behind your glass and looking away.

“Why don’t you and Felix try dating once, huh? I’ve been waiting for y’all to get together since forever.”

You choke on your drink, suddenly embarrassed at all the attention. How did the conversation turn to your very prospective dating life all of a sudden? Granted Minho may be drunk, but he was better at holding his alcohol. You feel an apprehension when you look over and notice the smug grin he has on, regarding you through narrow eyes.

“What?” you splutter, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand and ignoring the way Chan stares at you, “why would you even say that?”

Felix chooses that exact moment to lean in and cling onto your hand, rubbing his face against your shoulder. You know he’s had one too many drinks, and if you didn’t then he made it very obvious when he mumbled against your neck.

“Yeah (y/n),” he pouted, “if both of us are single by the time we’re forty, let’s get married!”

You laugh endearingly, letting him nuzzle his face closer for warmth, the tip of his nose cold against your skin and you shiver.

“Okay Felix, only if you promise to do the laundry,” you tease.

“Shit don’t do it Lix, it’s a trap!” Minho scoffs, leaning into Seungmin who nods vehemently, also under the influence of more alcohol than he can usually tolerate.

“For my beloved (y/n), anything! I will even cook and clean and take the dog out for walks!” he proclaims. You giggle, stroking his blonde hair gently and it seems to draw him closer.

“Okay Lix, whatever you say. Oh, you’re going to make such an amazing husband one day!”

Felix simply giggles like a child, hiding his face behind his hand as he leans away and slouches across the table, the tips of his ears now red, poking out.

Minho shakes his head disagreeably, sending you a nasty glare which you respond to by sticking out your tongue. While Felix stills remains slouched on the table, probably asleep you figure, but none of you have the heart to wake him up, Minho falls into a quiet conversation with a slightly drunk and sleepy Seungmin, the two huddling close and speaking in soft tones completely ignoring you and Chan who are left alone in an awkward silence.

Chan clears his throat, gaining your attention before mumbling an ‘excuse me’ and leaving the table to step outside. You follow his movements, moving the plastic curtain and shuffling out into the cold night, standing under the makeshift awning. He lights a cigarette and puffs in air, smoking out clouds which disappear into the night, distorted behind the plastic curtain, the orange glow splitting into a line whenever he brings up the stick to his lips.

Downing the last few drops in your glass, you excuse yourself too, though you don’t think anybody listens – Minho is far too invested in playing with Seungmin’s hair while the latter hums happily against his shoulder and Felix is, well…passed out, probably – and make your way out too, pushing the curtain aside and shivering when the cold wind hits you. Nights in the mountains get chillier by the hour and you’re glad you’re wearing a thicker cardigan tonight.

Chan looks up from where he’s standing, smiling in greeting when you come to stand beside him. The silence shared outside is shared comfortably, with all the late night buzz of people and veiled chattering around you. A few street lights line the street, glowing warm yellow under a darkened blanket studded with little silver dots that twinkle brightly without any clouds in sight. It’s a moonless night, but there’s enough light around you to make out Chan’s face; not entirely hidden in the dark but illuminated in a muted yellow glow that lines his side, sloping down his nose and falling onto his lips before disappearing under his chin.

The smoke from his lips coils into the air in a grey haze before disappearing into the air. You sniffle, warily eyeing the stick between his puckered lips, folding your arms across your chest when another wind blows.

“Those things aren’t really good for you, you know” you comment, feeling awfully like a nagging mother, always confronting him about his smoking habits whenever you see him. You almost snort at the revelation.

“Ah…sorry, I’ve been trying to quit too, but it just…force of habit.”

You smile sadly, tucking your chin in your neck and leaning against a wooden pole.

“I heard about your father,” Chan’s voice is cautiously quiet in the night, the syllables coming out hushed and apologetic, “I’m sorry about him.”

“Don’t be, we saw it coming but he was worse off than we had hoped,” you reply just as quietly, but without the tremor that had been present in your voice some years ago. In fact, you don’t think you’ve talked about your father in a long while, not even with your mother. It makes you slightly sad that the first time you’re doing this is because of an old friend who, until recently, hadn’t even been in contact with you.

“It was…it was all the smoking he did…the cancer, I mean.”

You sniffle, looking up at the sky, eyes mindlessly following the clusters of stars twinkling silently.

“Ah shit…I’m so sorry. Does this make you feel uncomfortable?”

You shake your head in denial, but even so you both know it does. You know you don’t want to see someone smoking in front of you; it had been difficult enough to get over that particular phase in your life where you blatantly disliked people for smoking, but you slowly got over the fact that you had no say in how they should live their life or not. Not everybody who smoked ended up with cancer after all. But you also knew that you would always try to help your friend quit, because quite frankly, you were the type to be haunted by the fear of something that had the tendency to scar you.

When you were seven, you had fallen off the monkey bars and bruised your knees pretty badly – the scars are still there, a dark patch against your skin – and you had a huge fear of the accursed bars, steering clear of it ever since. Then you grew up and grew taller and your fingers coiled around the cold metal bars without even having to lift your feet off the ground and you realised that it was no fun that way anymore; it was much more fun and exciting when your feet swung in air and your muscles strained trying to hold on to the slippery bars. There was a beauty in having to risk your seven year old soul to hang on to some monkey bars for dear life, something you had missed out on for the longest time in your life.

Then of course, there was your fear of water. You may have never mastered the element, but once you learn to float and keep your head above the water in the deeper end, you wonder why you had been scared in the first place.

Chan throws the cigarette on the ground and stubs it with his feet, picking it off and throwing it in the dustbin nearby. The silence prevails as he leans beside you. The smell of smoke remains in the air, stagnant and pungent under your nose.

Shuffling on your feet, you dig into the pocket of your jeans, fumbling around as you struggle to pull something out of it.

“Here,” you say, handing it out to Chan who regards the lollipop between your fingers with visible confusion but accepts it gingerly nonetheless, “I would rather you died of diabetes than cancer.”

The chuckle that he lets out is easygoing, tumbling from his lips like tiny bells, chiming into the night charmingly. You know you've heard it countless times before, but it makes you feel warm out here in the cold, like a sweet blanket of comfort and nostalgia.

“Why do I die either way?” he questions, snorting at your proclamation. You shrug, sharing a smile.

“It’s a better way to go?'' It sounds more like a question but doesn’t stop Chan’s amused laughter.

“You became funnier after all this time,” he teases, surrendering by putting his hands up when you threaten to hit him.

“So, do you always carry candies with you wherever you go?” he asks, fiddling with the patterned wrapper.

“No, Lix gave it to me. He’s always got some sort of sweet with him, god maybe he’ll get diabetes one of these days.”

“Is there something between you and Felix?” you miss the slight frown on his face and the nervous lip biting, his fingers fiddling with the crinkling wrapper of the candy between them.

“No, why would you think that?” as if realising the answer to your question you add, “Minho was just joking back then.”

“Oh, I thought you might. He’s just very…”

“Clingy? Sweet boyfriend material, makes everybody fall in love with him wherever he goes and whatever he does?” you raise a brow when Chan trails off, smiling teasingly when he sputters out another laugh, flustered.

“Yeah!”

“That’s just the way he is,” you snort, “isn’t he adorable though?”

You both take this moment to glance inside where you left the three boys. Sure enough, Felix is now cupping his cheeks between his hands, red faced and hiccuping with his eyes half closed and lips out in a pout like a duck, looking around like a lost kitten. He's had one too many drinks and you can tell; his elbow keeps slipping off the table and he glares in confusion as if to gauge the problem. Sharing a glance you both burst out laughing, doubling over yourselves as the giggles erupt out of you from nowhere.

The night is chilly, but as you both huddle close, laughing over something small and mundane as a silly friend who’s had too much to drink, you feel your cheeks warm and tummies tremble in merriment.

Chan laughs with his whole body, the chimes of his joy gurgling up from his chest like butterflies that fly around you with pretty wings. Unknowingly, you start filing away little things about Chan in a place that were fond to you in your memories, like a small cabinet of his quirks. The cute dimple on his cheek, the way his eyes turn into crescents and can’t stay open when he laughs too hard, his hands which circle his waist or often find respite behind his neck when he’s too sheepish and the way the silver rings in his ears tremble all the while he’s shaking with joy.

You let yourself bask in this moment, ignoring the voice in your head telling you not to enjoy so much. It gets drowned under the horde of butterflies that circle over it, out of its reach and high above as you watch with a longing to reach out and let one sit on your finger. You stay rooted though, keeping your hands to yourself, afraid you might damage its wings if you so much as brush against its petal like fragility.

The flap of their wings send a wave of small breeze towards you, gentle and almost akin to a fever kiss, fanning your hot face and urging you to look at them past the shambles of your ruined castle walls with moss and wreck. They fly too high and you have to crane your neck just to look. They’re free, without a threat of being captured inside glass cases or having their wings clipped and you know in that moment you wouldn’t want anything happening to them.

Maybe one day, one of these winged wonders will approach you and let you lend your finger to sit.

Chan walks home that night with a spring in his step and a smile that never leaves his lips, the lollipop inside the pocket of his hoodie with its tiny but obvious weight and crinkling wrapper.

It’s too sweet for him, but he finds that sucking on it does indeed act as a substitute in the long run. He sleeps at night with the lingering taste of cherry at the back of his tongue and a warm memory of shared laughter in the cold night. It spreads through his body and lulls him to a comfortable sleep.

The straightened wrapper of candy finds a home in his bedside drawer, placed carefully beside his camera.

[welcome-back-home]

Hi! Noticed your asks are open, (and also, I love your recent work! The dynamic is so cute!!) and I want to request a wally x reader who is a popstar, I wanna see your take on it!!

Also, Have a great day! 💜💜

thank you so much! im so glad you liked my work! i really appreciate it ^^ you have a nice day too and happy reading!

link: puppet reader

note:this is a massive story im so sorry

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

the day started like any other...at least at first, wally does his daily painting routine at his favorite painting spot, underneath a tree with a easel in front of him. the painting he was making resembled a apple cut open with many colors inside in a lemony yellow backgound. he figured his beloved would enjoy it. no matter what personality, they always loved his work and almost immediately hangs it on their wall.

he then paused, mid motion of dipping his paint brush into red paint...now thinking about it, he hasnt seen you all day or hardly anyone for that matter. normally you would show up to say hello or he finds you during his journey to his painting spots, but he was so caught up in his own little world to notice that...time passed and you still haven`t shown up.

a chill goes up his spine at the thought of something wrong might`ve happened, getting a breif flashback of the time his beloved developed a daredevil like personality and they almost got themselves killed.

he looks at his painting as he set the tools down, "it can wait" he thought, as he ventures off to find you.

walking to your home he noticed the design has changed again, it was covered in colorful music notes and fake plastic vinyl records here and there and music is playing from inside. a pleasant musical theme. however over the music thats playing inside was the sounds of construction behind the house and friends talking. wally thought you where back there building something. so he walked behind the house to not see you, but sally, julie, and howdy. the three are apparently working on building a stage, it looked to be almost done as its firmly standing tall and decorated with star covered curtains and fairy lights.

the neighbors have been busy most of the day making a mini concert for you, a treat you 'the famous pop star' wanted to give to the community as a thank you for being great friends. of course you didnt ask them to make the stage, they offered to make it for you. the three of them was having fun putting the last finishing touches on the setup while frank gets chairs, barnaby gets snacks, and eddie finishing his final mail run for the day, poppy was nowhere to be found. wally wonders where both you and poppy could be...but he figures the both of you are busy with something else important for this setup. so instead he went to say hello to sally,julie, and howdy.

"hello friends!" wally greets the trio while he waves "wally! where have you been? you was about to miss the show" sally asks with a smile, a bottle of glue and a jar of glitter in her hands, she was making glitter covered shapes on the stages platform to give it extra flare "im sorry, i was caught up with my painting and did not notice the time" wally sighs as he confessed where he has been most of the day, embarrassment and a hint of remorse in his tone "thats ok silly! you`re here now!" julie speaks up, understanding that anyone can lose track of time when they are doing something they enjoy, "am i still able to help?" wally offers, even if its kind to late, howdy holds out a paintbrush to him thats coated with green paint "can you help me paint the rest of the stage?" howdy smiles, even if he had it covered already with his four arms, he would love to have some help.

with a grin wally accepts the brush and helps howdy paint the wooden stage. everyone else returned from their tasks and soon the set up was finished, poppy showed up after a while to sneak someone behind the curtains of the stage and took a seat with everyone else in the small crowd.

and then the show begins.

the curtains open to reveal you on the center of the stage, the fairy lights illuminating the stage and makes you shine brighter then anything in the world in wallys eyes. you was smiling, dressed in pop star getup, and face framed perfectly with the new hairstyle you have for the day. you looked like a angel standing on that stage.

"hello neighbors!" you said cheerfully into the mic thats on a stand in front of you "i wanted to give you something in return for the never ending kindness you've always given me since ive moved here" you continued, a spark of confidence in your voice "i`ve written this one for someone special, i hope you all enjoy it" you say as a song starts to play from the speakers.

as you began to sing the world practically stood still, your voice was so beautiful it practically made wally swoon. his heart sped up and his face grew warm as he rests his head on the palm of his hand, never taking his lovestruck gaze off of you. a song you have made for him you`ve sang with all the confidence in your very soul, each lyric and note he will forever know by heart. he has never fallen as hard as he did at this moment...

and even when the song finished he never took his eyes off of you or even stopped listening when you started the next song, he hung on to every word. just enjoying every second of your beautiful performance...