#mocha because it dropped ten degrees

[sagaschan]

HADESTOWN

That hermes was an experience to last....

[writingsbychlo]

mistletoe magic | stiles stilinski

word count; 10,490

summary; stiles learns that his cute neighbour might be a witch after accidentally getting her spellbooks delivered to him instead.

notes; I know a witch!au isn’t a huge au for stiles, because he’s had evident races of magic throughout the series anyway, but just enjoy it!

warnings; smut, unprotected sex, use of magic

It had been a pretty regular Monday morning for Stiles.

At six sharp, he’d been up and awake, barely functional but stumbling through his apartment and clicking on the coffee machine, before hopping into the shower for a quick wash. When he’d emerged, the machine had just finished grinding, as always, his routine functioning like a well-oiled machine now, and he’d moved it all across into a to-go cup and left it on the counter before going to get dressed.

He’d stumbled around to find his school books and shove them into a bag, eaten two cinnamon pop tarts that had burned the tips of his fingers when he’d grabbed them straight from the toaster, and had still been chewing as he shoved his keys in his pocket and sipped at his coffee, straight into the elevator at twenty to seven.

It was a fifteen-minute walk across campus to his early morning lecture on a Monday, leaving him with a few minutes to spare, in case he saw the sweet older lady from two floors down and wanted to say ‘hi’, or the cute neighbour who lived across the hall that always made him fall over his own feet, or maybe even the kid who delivers newspapers and is always falling off of his bike. He made it on time, took some great notes, and was feeling a little more alive and welcome into his day.

At exactly ten past one, he’d been home, having gone to the library to get some study in and find his new books, and get lunch at the diner he always ate at after classes, a cheeseburger and curly fries, and grabbed his letters and a parcel from the mail slot with his housing number printed on, tucking the package under his arm and heading upstairs and back to his flat, ready to flick through his bills.

All according to plan. One year and four months away at university and he knew every day like he’d been doing it for a decade, so he was only half-way to the kitchen when he remembered the package he was clutching under his arm, coming to a complete halt, throwing the usual assortment of envelopes away to the counter, and producing the neatly wrapped bundle.

He didn’t question it, not even bothering to look at the front, figuring it was just an early delivery on the textbooks that he wasn’t expecting to get here for another three weeks, finger slipping under the folds of the brown paper and tearing it away, fingers dancing over the covers of the books, before his brows were furrowing once again.

These were definitely not his ‘intro to psychological profiling’ textbooks.

Beautiful swirls in gold, carved into dark leather across the front, Latin words he didn’t understand before he was opening the cover, brushing off a layer of dust and letting one brow arch up. The text inside was English - though, no modern - and paper that he was cautious to take care of, simply from what appeared to be the age of it, stained and worn, finger marks clear on the corner from being passed down through generations. It was handwritten, drawings in old ink that had leaked onto the paper a little, rough and coarse, and labelled doodles with names he had never heard of before.

At a glance, he would assume it to be some kind of witchcraft.

He felt on edge, suddenly. He’d left Beacon Hills to come to somewhere that no supernatural would follow, where things like werewolves were still a myth, something to be laughed at, and he swallowed thickly, looking around his apartment as though someone was going to jump out. He loved his friends, he really did, and he didn’t so much mind the supernatural when he was with them all because they protected him, but alone out here, he and his bat didn’t stand a chance.

Now, it was Christmas, he knew this from the poor excuse of a tree up in his living room, and the snow outside, and the fact that for the last six weeks, his usual mochas had been a gingerbread-spiced mocha, on the insistence of the barista who served him whenever he ventured into the little coffee shop joint, and he was growing find of it. So, he tried to be optimistic, in the spirit of festivities and all that, and texted the group chat, waiting to see if any of them had sent him the books as a present, maybe even his father or Melissa. He even texted Parrish.

Except, they all said no, and now, he was stumped. Then, as he was being extra nosey and flicking through the book, he came across a page marked with a small slip of card, the item falling out, and he cursed, having no idea which page it came from, but as he picked up the piece of paper, one of the questions in his puzzle finally gained another piece towards the jigsaw.

‘(Y/N), the spell you’re looking for is here, but be careful, it’s a strong one.’

So, the books are for his hot neighbour, the next number up from his, and it now made sense as to why he had these books - they were a mistake. It opened a new question, however, as to why you would be getting them.

He had absolutely no patience, barley remembering to flick the catch on his door so that he’d be able to get back inside, before he was striding across the hall in one, two steps, and knocking on the wood. He could hear you shuffling around inside, the soft and muffled notes of the classic rock music you’d been listening to getting turned right down to low. It only took you a further few seconds until you were opening the door, but it felt like years to him with his impatience, fingers tapping against the books agitatedly, biting the nail of the other thumb, and his foot was tapping against the floor.

When you opened the door, though, he felt like it was too soon, like he wasn’t prepared for what to say, his breath hitching in his throat as his heart leapt in his chest, eyes sweeping down along your body and widening at your bare legs, only a t-shirt hanging on your frame, rising up to reveal the edge of a pair of white lace panties as you opened the door, and he forced his eyes back up to yours, wincing as he bit down a little too harshly on his nail, and pulled it from his mouth, shaking it as his dropped to his side.

“Hey, neighbour.”

“H-Hi. Hello. Yes, hi.” He already wanted to die a little bit, he hadn't stuttered this much in front of a pretty girl since junior year in high school, even Lydia had lost this effect on him, and college really had been a growing experience for him. He’d had a fair few hook-ups, and experimented, and he wasn’t shy about flirting when he wanted to, but you always through hi right back through loops, like he was still that kid with a buzzcut.

“What can I do for you, four-A?”

“Stiles. My name is Stiles.” He waited for the usual reaction, the cringe, the eyebrows shooting up, the scowl, something to indicate that you had actually heard the pronunciation, but you only smiled a little wider.

“I know. After I introduced myself and you fell over and didn’t give me your name, I checked the mail in your post-slot. I was curious. There was a lot addressed to Mieczysłav, but then one with a handwritten address to Stiles.” You shrugged, leaning against the doorframe, and crossing your arms, and while you might seem casual, at least his degree was coming in useful for something, as your body language read an entirely different reaction, insecurity and worry rolling off of you in invisible waves of tells.

He rubbed at the back of his neck with his free hand, laughing slightly. “That sounds like something I would do.”

Silence fell between you both for a second, and he couldn't help but stare, taking in every detail of your face, the way your lower lip was a little reddened, and he figured you must have been nibbling on it while working, and your hair was messy, an attempt to pin it back that seemed to have come loose and entirely ineffective, presumably from dancing, because you looked a little flushed. When you raised your brows at him a little, he realised you were waiting for him to explain himself, why he was on your doorstep, and he flushed with embarrassment shaking his head clear.

“I got your spellbooks by mistake.” He held them out, eyes widening even more, before his jaw was dropping open. “Book. Regular books. Not spell books, because that would imply magic, right? And, that’s dumb. Just regular books. I didn’t look at them, at all, not even a little bit, I promise.”

“You don’t believe in magic, then?” You took them from him, a coy smile on your lips, and you placed them down on the counter beside the door, pushing a bowl of potpourri getting pushed aside, along with your car keys and what looked like an incense burner.

“Do you?”

He was testing the water, seeing where your mind was at, and as a whistling came from your kitchen, you glanced back over to the kettle on the hob, and he thought this conversation might be about to come to an end. “Well, I think there’s always a little magic in life, even if people don’t notice it. You have to believe in magic to be able to see it. It’s like the supernatural that way.”

“And, you believe in the supernatural, huh?” He felt bad for the way he said it, because it was mocking, but he had to be sure that you weren’t messing with him, or spying on him, he had to try and find out who you were, but you only looked away as the whistling got louder, opening the door a little more and waving him inside as you walked away, and he stumbled after you and closed the door before his mind had even caught up with the movement of his feet.

Your apartment was littered with plants. The windowsills were lined with them, all brought green and blooming, even though he was sure it wasn’t the right season, and there was even a set of cactuses along a shelf near the corridor. There was a homey feel to your place, almost earthy, neutral tones and soft accents, a smell that was so calming he felt his own muscles begin to relax, and the music had changed from classic rock to some country song he was sure he’d heard in a movie somewhere but couldn't quite place it, and he followed you to the kitchen.

Rows of cookbooks and recipe folders stacked up on top of a lower cupboard, and he swallowed thickly, averting his gaze from the way your lace panties hugged your ass deliciously as you reached up for a mug, bringing back two, and pouring them both full of the herbal concoction you’d been making. On a mismatching saucer, you offered it to him, and he sniffed it carefully, but remembered his manners, mumbling a ‘thank you’, because his mother raised his right, even if he was a little suspicious of you.

“Relax, Stiles, if I was going to poison you, I wouldn’t be giving you tea made of Valerian and Lemon Balm. Do you want any honey, honey?” You grinned a little at your joke, but he shook his head, watching as you stirred a spoonful of the sticky sweetener into your own, and taking a tentative sip after blowing on the surface. It wasn’t all that bad, he had to admit, and he found his tensions slipping away a little. “It’s for relaxing, and helping with sleep.”

“It’s good.” You smiled, blowing lightly on your own, and he decided that he could busy himself by checking out your posters. An interesting arrangement, one was a band poster, the other was a chart with the phases of the moon, a third with diagrams of plants and little facts underneath, and the fourth, with symbols and drawing he didn’t quite understand. “So, you’re really embracing that whole witch thing, then?”

“Well, seeing as I am a witch, I would think it’s only appropriate.” He tried to hide his grin behind his mug, shaking his head a little, not believing that they really existed, and you didn’t miss the glint in his eyes, clearly, because there was a playful kind of offence flashing across your face. “You can’t tell me you think I’m insane, not when there’s so much of the supernatural all over you, Stiles.”

“The supernatural? Really?”

“So, you’re not the emissary to a pack of werewolves?” You challenged, his jaw dropping at the accuracy of it, and it was your turn to laugh at him. “It’s literally stitched into your aura, I sensed another supernatural the second you walked into the building.”

“I just associate with a lot of ‘em, but I’m not supernatural myself.”

“You sure about that?” He stilled, memories flashing behind his eyes of a time when he once was, and you seemed to pick up on the slightly sour mood he’d taken on, then again, he wasn’t really sure where your abilities lay, being that Scott or Derek would have simply sniffed it out on him. Your hand on his arm snapped him back to the moment, fingers squeezing lightly at his bicep. “You don’t have to talk about it.”

“There was a possibility, once, but it’s gone. There’s a dark chapter in my past, and the spark I was told I once had disappeared when I got through it.”

It went quiet again after that, your fingers slipping down from his arm to take his, and you placed your cup down, the steaming brew barely touched, but he followed suit, letting himself be pulled along as you directed him back to the living room. You were distracting him, it was an obvious ploy, but he was excited to learn, and he let the sadness of remembering his possession fade away as the thrill of new knowledge took over. “I can tell you have a lot of questions, so, what do you want to know first?”

He rubbed at his chin, settling down onto the couch at the edge of the room, finding it surprisingly comfortable, and you were busying yourself around him, a little water jug in your hand as you nurtured the abundance of houseplants you owned. “How did you know about my pack? And how much do you know about them?”

“It’s in your aura, I suppose. I can just pick up hints of different things when you’re around. The wolves are obvious, I’ve been around a lot of wolves. I also get death, and I've never met a banshee, but I assume that’s what it is. I knew you were the emissary because you’re the only magic in there, I would sense other traces on you, and there’s something else I can’t quite place.” Your face screwed up a little bit as you thought about it, nose wrinkling adorably before shrugging. “Like a werewolf, but not quite. I can’t get it.”

“She’s a werecoyote.”

You paused your pouring, turning to look at him, eyes flicking lightly around his being, before smiling slightly to yourself, and going back to your task. “Huh. Interesting.”

“Have you been a witch your whole life?”

“Since the day I was born, but I didn’t know or start practising until I was older. It just kinda’ happens, comes out of nowhere at a certain age, you start to realise you have abilities.” You had moved onto using a dropper to give little drips of water to cacti and succulents, standing on a small step stool as you did.

“Do you have to go to a school, like Harry Potter? Do you have a wand?”

You laughed at that, a genuine and hearty laugh, and you finished up your tasks, legs folding underneath yourself and you smirked a little at him as you sat down and got comfortable. “You wish, Stilinski. It’s not like that, it's more of an earthly connection than magic. It’s why my plants are so healthy. I can brew stuff, make little potions-” You motioned a hand over the jars lining the shelves on the walls, his eyes scanning over each one, picking out the neatly written titles across the fronts. “-I can cast very light spells, but it’s not the sort of thing where you can curse people, or teleport.”

“So, you can’t curse people to turn into frogs?”

“No, unfortunately not.” He was sure your giggle was the sweetest he’d ever heard, and he dared to twist himself around a little more, inching slightly closer to you across the couch. “I can do some stuff, like make your skin break out or give you a rash that won’t go away until I let it, and I can even give you headaches and such, but I don’t like to dabble in that sort of stuff. I much prefer protection charms.”

“Protection charms?” His heart skipped a little beat at the way your face lit up as you nodded, and he was intrigued, interest piqued. “I could use one of those, y’know, I’m incredibly clumsy and often get into supernatural trouble when I’m home. Hasn’t been so bad since I got here. Will you make me one?”

Your eyes left him, bottom lip nibbled between your teeth, and for a second he had worried he’d messed up, unsure on how witch spellcasting etiquette worked, but then you were moving across the room, opening up the cabinet on the other side of the room, and inside the doors and wooden frame hung what must be close to a thirty different decorative charms. Some were dreamcatchers or garlands hanging on the inside of the door, others were handcrafted little ornaments sitting on the shelves and filling them up, and your fingers were flittering over them all.

When you found what you were looking for, you lifted it out, a dream catcher that was bright and colourful and a little odd-looking, before bringing it back over to him, and presenting him with it cautiously. “You already made me one?”

“Yeah, well, I couldn’t let the cute guy from across the hall get any more injuries. I watched you fall over five times in your first week living here. You’re really clumsy.”

He felt heat rush to his cheeks, and yet he couldn't help the goofy grin that travelled across his features, not mentioning the fact that he noticed you sitting considerably closer to home when you took your seat once again. He was embarrassed for two reasons, the first being that you had noticed his innate penchant for ridiculous injuries, but more overwhelmingly, the second being that you still thought he was cute. College might have helped him bloom a little, but when he had a crush, he was still a bumbling mess, and he didn’t know quite how to respond.

He busied himself with taking in the details of the dreamcatcher. Somehow, despite this being the first real conversation that the two of you had ever had, passing and fleeting chats in the halls and elevator not counting, you had managed to capture his entire essence, he could already tell. The strings were made of wool, chunky and all different colours, a mix of yellows and blues, woven in together and tangled in strange patterns, but beautiful nonetheless, and the little accents were what made it complete.

A button that had fallen off of one of his flannels, he recognised the distinctive wooden piece, and it was woven into the design, along with a blue ribbon in the same colour of the jeep that was tied in a bow, and a wooden twig tangled in it. Dangling on more pieces of wool from the bottom was a keyring he was sure he’d lost after leaving it downstairs overnight, the Yoda on it looking cleaner than he remembered, and you must've cleaned it. There was also a black feather, and a sprig of some kind of dried herb that he didn't recognise, but enjoyed the smell anyway.

It was intricate and personal, and he felt chuffed just to know that you’d made one for him, a little security and peace washing over him to know that someone was out here looking after him, completely unmaliciously, simply because you wanted to.

“This is incredible.” You let out a breath of relief, he recognised it in the way your body slumped a little, and he placed it down carefully on the coffee table beside you both, reaching out to take your hand in his, and daring to lace your fingers together and squeeze in gratitude, and you held onto him yourself, gaze dropping down to your connected hands. In a bold move of your own, you lifted your other hand, holding onto his with both of yours, and his thumb lifted out to brush lightly over your skin. “You’re the reason I don’t get papercuts and splinters anymore.”

“And you are very welcome for that.” You teased him back, and an easy kind of harmony fell between you both, your presence being more comfortable simply having only just really begun to meet you than he ever had been with someone new. It was strange, to feel so relaxed and at home with you, the way you put his fears at ease and soothed every worry without even trying, making him feel welcome and accepted, like he’d known you for years, not just shy of an hour. “Will you tell me about your pack?”

“You really want to know?” He couldn’t mask his surprise, and you nodded, excitement gleaming in your eyes, and he felt a surge of pride swell up in his system at the idea of getting to boast about his friends completely honestly for the first time in his life. There was no threat, he wasn’t showing off their skills as a way to try and ward off a threat or intimidate someone, but he simply wanted everyone else to be as awed by them as he was, and he didn’t have to hide any supernatural secrets from you. “Shall I start at the beginning?”

“Is it a long story?”

“Very long.” He confirmed, a shy laugh leaving you, before you were shifting again.

“How about I go and make us some fresh tea, then?” You were on your feet, wandering away to the kitchen as soon as he’d offered his affirmations of the idea, and he decided to follow after you, already beginning to blather about Peter Hale.

Hours seemed to pass by, as he spoke to you, two more pots of tea being made, and you’d broken out your snack-store for him, before the two of you had ordered pizza. He’d made himself at home, too, keys and phone sitting abandoned on the table, shoes kicked off on the floor, and feet stretched out along the couch. You were sitting at the opposite end, your legs stretched out in his direction, and one of his hands was sitting on your ankle, fingers drawing patterns on the soft skin there absentmindedly as his other hand was used to gesture wildly around himself.

He told you it all, confessing right from the beginning as he encountered Derek Hale, who liked to lurk in the woods, which had made you crack up as he told you about how the man was basically now the alpha, even if Scott was officially the alpha, and he’d told you about Jackson’s kanima phase, which had made you crack up even more as you claimed he deserved it.

You’d been shocked by his homicidal English teacher, and comforted him when he spilled his heart to you over the nogitsune incident he hated to think about, accepting your hush happily, and revelling in the smell of your hair when you’d pressed in close to him, before retreating to your seat.

He told you all about the benefactor and the dread doctors, and about Allison’s death, which he still blamed himself for when he was on a low day, and you’d used your thumb to clear away the tear that had fallen from his cheek, leaving him blushing and breathless for a second when you’d pressed a light kiss to his cheekbone just after.

You had scooted closer to him and stayed there near the end of his tales, tucked under his arm, playing with his fingers over your shoulders as he rambled about how alone he’d felt while taken by the Wild Hunt, thoughts that he’d always kept locked up in his own mind, never having shared with another person before.

“You really got the short end of the ‘supernatural encounters’ stick then, huh?”

“Oh, sweetheart, that is the understatement of the century.” You lifted your head from his shoulder, your feet nudging together on the coffee table, the reindeer themed fluffy socks on your feet playing with the patchy and worn door knitted socks he’d had for years, worn to keep warm during the winter, even though your apartment was nice and toasty, the heaters running and the radiators on, and it was much cosier than his place had ever been.

The Christmas lights on a timer had come on, flickering around the place once the light had started fading, hours flashing by in the blink of an eye, a hazy glow cast over the apartment and creating a whole new range of shadows. “Do you want me to make charms for your friends?”

He watched you for a moment longer, trying to discern whether you were serious, and when he caught no gesture of ill-will, or hesitation, or hidden-motives, he smiled. “You’d do that?”

“Seems like you all need it.”

He shrugged a little, smiling when you rested your forehead against his, fingers playing together still, but feet stilling in their game of footsie. “I can’t believe I waited this long to get to know you. You’re, like, the coolest chick I’ve ever met.”

His eyes fluttered closed, he couldn't’ help it, noses bumping together as you both simply drowned in the moment, in what the moment was leading up to, where you both knew this was going but were revelling in the simple but exhilarating tension that was crackling with electricity in the millimetres of space between your lips and his. You were so close to him that he could feel it more than hear it when you whispered some words he didn’t quite understand, your breath fanning over his face in a dreamy sigh, and it took his hazed brain a second to catch up, before he was pulling back just enough to catch your eyes, one hand coming up to rest over your cheek as he turned to face you fully.

“Oh, my God. Did you just cast a spell?”

“Look up.” He was hesitant to pull back much further, but did so anyway, and he chuckled slightly as he spotted the little green plant beginning to sprout from the ceiling. Vines were still strengthening along the beam, and the leaves were beginning to form right before his eyes, white berries hanging between the green stems, and Stiles shook his head, in complete awe as he looked at it.

You were staring up to, eyes focused on the plant as it bloomed and he assumed you were concentrating on its development, but he couldn't hold back anymore, two hands on your cheeks, pulling your face back to his, and your lips barely parted to speak before his mouth was colliding with your own. A squeak left you, and he wanted to grin at being able illicit such a sound from you, but the temptation to kiss was just enough for him to contain himself. When your mind finally caught up, you were kissing him back just as eagerly, a soft sigh leaving you. “You are fucking adorable.”

The words were whispered into your mouth, he felt you shake with a soft laugh under his hold, before you were holding onto him just as tightly in return. One of your hands wrapped around his wrists, the other sliding over his bicep to his shoulder, before slipping down underneath, and smoothing over the front of his chest. He puffed out a little under your touch, pulling away for a quick breath, groaning slightly at the way your nails dug into his skin as he did, and then, he was diving right back into you.

Your hand slipped down to rest over his heart, the organ thudding under your hand, and he felt like it was going to burst right out of his chest, but as he pressed a little further into you, a shock like an electrocution was racing right through his body, a kind of jolt that was thoroughly exhilarating, and he pulled away, eyes wide as he stared at you.

You looked just as shocked as he expected he did too, his hands dropped down as he watched sparks and electricity crackle between your fingers and his, your brows raising at him. “Thought you said you had no magic left after.. y’know..”

He couldn’t drag his eyes away from it, your fingers weaving with his, a loud snapping sounding as a particularly bright flare went off, and he flinched a little, jaw dropping and a whine slipping from him as you contained it all the sight disappeared before his eyes. “So, there really are sparks flying between us, huh?”

He regretted the words the moment he’d said them, expecting to see on your face the same kind he’d always gotten from Malia or Lydia when he made those kinds of cheesy puns that only he enjoyed, even Scott daring to fix him with a bored or blank look, and Derek would simply glare, but much to his surprise, you laughed. It was fond, with a roll of your eyes and a huff to preempt it, but you laughed nonetheless, and he felt himself somehow manage to brighten even further. “That was cheesy.”

“I know.” He beamed, shifting a little, hands sinking down to your hips to pull you closer to himself as he settled back into the couch, and your hand pressed to the cushions beside his head, the other one coming up to weave into his hair lightly.

“I loved it. I am quite a fan of puns.”

“That’s good, because I usually have a lot of them.” He leaned up, daring himself to be bold enough to close that gap once again, and he could feel your lashes tickling his cheeks as you nuzzled into him a little more. “If I kiss you again, will those sparks happen this time, too?”

“If I stop controlling it, they will.”

“Stop controlling it, sweetheart.” He felt you move to nod your affirmations, but dipped his head in time, proud of his own reflexes as he caught your lips, feeling the hand in his hair tighten, and he was so glad he’d decided to grow it out all those years ago, because right now, he was losing all sense of himself in the way your nails would scratch across his scalp, or the delicious burning that flared over his skin for a split second when you pulled on his hair, before you were rubbing it softly, fingers working in tandem timing with your lips, teasing over his own.

That same feeling took up, a sparking that felt like fireworks, like energy surging through him, escaping at his fingertips in every place that he touched you, one palm smoothing along your back to somewhere that was definitely too lose to be respectable, as the other held onto your cheek still. You were taking control, your tongue darting out to trace over his lower lip, bribing him to part them but he needed no convincing, letting your tongue meet his own only a second after you’d made the request, equally breathy and needy noises escaping you both at the slow and wet drag of the muscles over one another.

His lungs were burning, lips beginning to sting as his assault on your mouth continued, his neck straining to hold this angle, and yet the more you kissed him, the more that the hazy feeling of getting to be with you like this raced through his body was the more he became addicted to needing more, chasing a high that he didn’t even know he wanted until now, like an addict finding his next hit.

You seemed to pick up on it all, as though you’d read all of his thoughts, because the second he’d had the lingering thoughts, you were settling yourself across his lap, a leg on either side of his own as you seated yourself down, and he couldn't help the way his hips bucked up a little to meet you, or the way his hand slid down fully to rest on your ass.

After all, as much as he’d gone through the make him grow up emotionally, physically he was still a horny-teen college boy, and you were one of the most beautiful women he’d ever seen, sitting half-naked in his lap and sucking on his lower lap while doing something with your tongue that was making him feel like he couldn't even breathe properly for how aroused he was.

Maybe you could feel the growing erection underneath of you, maybe you couldn't, but he’d stopped caring about being embarrassed around you about three hours ago when he’d had to tell you all about the time he’d once dropped a condom in Coach’s class in front of the entire classroom, and you’d laughed so much your face had gone red and you’d hidden it form him by pressing into his shoulder.

You were something he felt like he was dreaming up, like any moment now he’d wake up in a small puddle of his own drool with his face pressed into the desk of his lecture hall, the lights turned out and another note left by his kind professor to get more sleep at home, and to lock up when he left, before you were giggling a little at him, pulling away and stealing a few more pecks as you did, and he wondered if you really could read his mind, heat flushing his cheeks.

“Are you reading my mind or something?”

He felt stupid even as he mumbled te words, especially when it only seemed to heighten your entertainment, but you shook your head. “I can’t read your mind, I can just kinda’ sense your mood, I guess. It’s the connection, you were clearly thinking something funny, and I don’t know what it was, but I got a sudden rush of amusement.”

“That’s pretty fucking incredible.” He whispered, letting you peck his mouth a few more times, simply sitting there with puckered lips as he tried not to smile too much, before he was tucking hair away behind your ears and finally you were opening your eyes, and at this point, he really should learn to stop being surprised by new developments with you. “Holy shit, your eyes are glowing!”

“So are yours.” You winked, the bright purple being a shade that was so captivating and beautiful on you that he couldn’t look away, even when you leaned away from him to grab his phone, raising it up to snap a picture for him, and forcing his gaze down to it. Much like you’d said, his eyes were beginning to hint in with a faint purple, the neon shading beginning to drip into his irises and take over from the usual golden-brown that resided there. “You never made out with another witch before?”

He pinched at your ass for your cheeky comment, taking his phone and throwing it away to the side, grinning when you yelped at his painless attack. “I didn’t even know witches really existed before today. Besides, what makes you think I'm one? I had a spark once, but as I said, that died out. Nothing truly magical.”

“I don’t know, you’re having a pretty strong connection with me right now, aren’t you?” Your arms looped around his neck, snuggling in a little closer to him, and he bit back a groan as you shuffled in his lap. “I think you���re underestimating yourself, you just don’t know how to tap into your magic, you have to believe in it to see it.”

“You really think so?”

He was vulnerable and he knew it showed, he’d gone his entire life being unsure as to where all his energy and twitching came from, as to why he’d always felt a draw to the earth; the preserve and the woods, and justice and balance, and why he’d somehow fit into a supernatural world with far more elegance and ease than he ever had the normal one, and maybe this was the explanation. “I really do, Stiles.”

“Will you teach me?”

“I would love to.” He pressed a kiss to your jaw, and then to the spot below your ear, before flicking his tongue out a little to drag over the sensitive patch that lay there, before moving down your neck. He didn’t want to mark you without your consent, he wasn’t sure what was going to come of all of this and where it would go, but he was more than happy to lick and bite lightly at your skin, finding the sweet spot that made your hips roll down into his own and a sound of need and desperation to leave you that was like music to his ears, before his hips were bucking up to meet you once again.

“Y’know when you said that you could feel what I was feeling?”

“Uh-huh?” You were distracted, your reply seeming somewhat faded and distant, and he chuckled lightly, before making his way back up to your mouth now that you’d both had a chance to catch your breaths once again.

“Does that mean everything?”

“Are you asking if I know just how much you want to fuck me right now? Because yes, I do know.” He choked a little on his breath, your hand in his hair pulling his head back so that you could meet his gaze, your lower lip held between you teeth, flesh going a darker pink, and he longed to be the one biting that lip for you. “Trust me, the sentiment is returned.”

“It is?”

“Oh, yeah.” He wasn’t used to women being so confident with wanting him, being so unashamed of it, or of even wanting him at all. Most of his hook-ups had been slightly drunk make-outs and sloppy grinding, or booty calls and meetings in closets at parties. He got more action than he ever did in high school, he’d finally grown into his limbs and his looks, but that didn’t take away the surprise that still happened every time someone as pretty as you even offered him the time of day.

“Like, right here? Right now?”

“Been thinking about how much I want to ride you on my couch for like an hour and a half, now.” Stiles couldn’t stop the moan that bubbled up in his throat, lips parting as you ran a finger over his swollen lips, a cheeky glint flashing over purple eyes as you looked at him.

“You might just be perfect for me.”

“I like the sound of that.”

A toothy smile was offered to you, before he was pulling you back in towards him, hands slipping down to lay resting on your thighs as soon as your lips had found his once again. The heat seemed to have passed, and while the kiss was still completely intoxicating, there was something a little more tender about it, too. It wasn’t nearly as rushed and frantic, the sloppy kisses you’d shared as you learned one another’s ticks had passed, and as your lips worked slowly with his own, Stiles found that he much preferred this kind of kiss.

This was the kind of kiss that he could picture himself sharing with you in many settings. A sleepy, early morning kiss, when you were still between the land of consciousness and the realm of unconsciousness. Or, late nights, when he’d fall asleep while studying, and he would let you drag him to his feet and to bed. Or, simply when he would finish a lecture, or get you coffee, or meet you for dinner. The point was, Stiles already knew he wanted to kiss you at all times of the day, and to hold onto you, and to watch you brew little spells at the stove while holding onto you from behind.

Your lips were wet when you pulled away, eyes sparkling as you looked at him, a bright shade of royal purple, like silk and rich violet on flower petals, and you looked utterly ethereal. “Do you have any idea just how beautiful you are?”

“You’re sweet-talking me.” You teased, bumping the tip of your nose against his, and he shook his head.

“No, I’m not, I’m just being honest with you. I’ve been into you for a long time, even if I didn’t quite have my mind in the right place to actually say it.” You huffed out a little laugh, your eyes averting from his own so that you could try and hide your bashful little expression, but he didn’t miss it.

“Well, I’ve been admiring you a little, too. I should’ve had my deliveries sent to you sooner, if I knew it was going to end like this.” As if to punctuate your words, you rolled your hips down into his, reminding him of the solid erection pressing into his jeans, his fingers digging a little firmer into your skin, and he pushed your shirt up higher, the soft cotton of your panties revealed to him.

“These are just fucking sinful. Do you normally wander around your house in underwear and band-tees?” He tugged at it a little, before daring to tuck his hand underneath the fabric, trailing up, and a poorly-concealed groan left him as he found no further obstructions, fingers closing over one of your breasts, squeezing lightly as he palmed at your chest. “Well, clearly not all of your underwear.”

“I tend to, I keep it warm in here, for all the plants.” Your back arched up into his hand, one of your own closing over his outside of your shirt, as your other held onto his shoulder, fingers leaving crescent-moon shaped marks he was sure, and the rocking of your hips into his own only seemed to increase.

“I’d love to see you in one of my flannels sometime, just like this.”

“Give me your shirt and you’ll see it sooner than you think.” You teased, his brows raising, before he was pulling his hands back just long enough to lean into you, stripping the garment off as best as he could, leaving him in a thin black t-shirt as you took the item from him. He wanted to whine out as you stood up, choosing instead to replace the pressure of your core over his with his hand instead, palming at his cock through the thick denim, and you grinned as you watched him, yet he didn’t feel the slightest bit embarrassed.

You stood before him, draping his shirt across his spread knees as he slumped further into the cushions, getting himself comfortable and popping the button on his jeans, swollen lower lip being nibbled as you played with the hem of your shirt. Your hips were swinging to the beat of the song, and then, you raised the garment up and over your head, letting it drop away to the carpet, his jaw dropping as he looked at you.

You picked up his flannel, pulling it up your arms, and leaving it open at the front, just barely covering your tits. You were an angel and also the devil, tempting him to do so many wrong things. Stretching his hands out toward you, he beckoned you back into his lap, an act you were more than happy to take as you bounded over to him, a pep on your few short steps, before you were settling back into his lap.

“Perfect.”

He let his hands find the flaps of the flannel, pulling it open wide enough to be able to admire your tits fully, letting you push your hair back away from your shoulders for his unobstructed view. Sealing one hand around your waist, he dragged you up closer, until you were almost pressed to him fully, before dipping his head down. His tongue dragged over a hardened nipple, taking the taut peak into his mouth and sucking harshly, as your hand wound into his hair. You tugged, roughly, a groan that vibrated along your entire body leaving him and making you shiver, and you made the prettiest little noises above him.

He switches sides, making sure to give the other half of your chest that same kind of attention, leaving wet marks and stinging watches along your skin that would become bright purple marks in the morning to match the colour of your eyes, and he just hoped you kept him around long enough to see them when they did become beautiful and prominent. He wanted to see his good work, he wanted to see the way he got to mark you up and leave his touch all over your body.

“Stiles..”

“I do love how you sound moaning my name, princess, but I’m not sure how much longer I can last when you're making noises like that and grinding yourself all over my cock like this.” You grinned, letting him kiss his way back up your chest and throat until he was taking your lips with his own. Your hands were moving down, tugging at his zipper as far as it would go, hid hips bucking up into his hand as he felt you drag a nail along his covered erection, breathy sounds between you both when you pulled away.

He only had to lift himself up for a moment, before you were tugging at his jeans, helping him to get them just far enough down his thighs for his boxers to be able to follow. His cock was throbbing, painfully hard and desperate for you, leaking precum along his skin, and he gave himself some form of relief. You were watching him, eyes wide as he pumped his length in one hand, the other dipping under your skirt rubbing over your core, and you bundled up your shirt for him.

“Y’know, all those times I thought about us, a quick fuck on your couch wasn’t how I had wanted our first time to be, but then again, I didn’t expect the cute chick across the hall to be a witch, wither, so..”

He used his thumb to drag your panties to the side, your sodden folds revealed to him, and he slipped two fingers into your dripping core with ease. “I’ll let you take it slow next time, I swear, but right now, I’d really like it if you’d fuck me.”

He could only nod, heart skipping a beat at the promise of another time. Your legs shifted, muscles clenching as he forced himself to take his touch away from your core and bringing his fingers up to his mouth, sucking your sweet essence from the thin digits. As you leaned over him, he was sure to line himself up, and then, you were sinking down onto him, your forehead flailing to his as your mouth fell open, his eyes rolling back in his head.

“You’re so fucking big.”

“You’re so fucking tight.” He whispered the words, a little breathless and hanging on the edge of his orgasm already, and you seemed just as close, because as you finally sank all the way down and settled into his lap again, he could feel every pulse within your walls as you hugged around him.

It took him a moment, staving off his climax so that he didn’t come just from getting to feel you like this, and you looped your arms around his neck gently to find your purchase. Your nails were scratching lightly at the hairs at the base of his neck, his flannel once again flapping around you, panties pushed to the side to let him have access to your centre, and it was deliciously filthy.

Once you were settled, you circled your hips, a test movement, pleasure spiking in both of your systems and it felt like the temperature in the room was shooting upwards. Stiles could already feel sweat beginning to bead along his skin in a thin layer, and you pressed yourself in closer to him. Each time you shifted your hips you were moving a little more, every rock of your body into his, you were pulling yourself up just a little higher to be able to drop yourself back down onto his cock, stretching and squeezing around him.

You felt like velvet, slick and warm as you sheathed around him. You were precise and deliberate, and he couldn't help the wonton sounds that were leaving you with every drop down onto his cock, before you were taking him up to see stars every time, leaving the both of you resting in the clouds. Panted breaths, a scream in the back of your throat that tried to break out each time as you gave him broken moans of his name, picking up your pace further and further each time.

Once you were stable above him, you were moving with purpose, fast and quick as you rode him, gaining more confidence each time, and he was gripping you so tightly that there would be fingerprints all over your hips in the morning. He helped you go, lifting you up each time, only to pull you back down into his lap, thrusting up with a weak effort to meet you, but feeling you go wild each time. That same energy was back, crackling with more force, surging through him like nothing he had ever felt.

Stiles was in college, he was away from home and the weight of being the Sheriff’s kid for the first time, and he had experimented. He’d gotten drunk, and high, and hungover, but this was a whole new kind of thrill; it was like lighting up with fireworks and adrenaline all at once, like creating a bond with another person, and a tingling spread throughout his entire body as your magic bonded with his own. He hadn't felt this kind of singing in his blood since the day he’d managed to finish the circle with the mountain ash back when he was only sixteen, or breaking through the wild hunt barrier at almost eighteen.

These kind of thrills were rare for him, but they’d never been this strong, and as the two of you moved as one in the most intimate way that two people could, your mouth coming up to claim his as you silenced yourself and him, growing louder and more desperate as you went, he felt that final high beginning to build.

“‘M so close, honey.” His voice had taken on that same kind of scratchy rasp that he had in the mornings before he even broke into his day, “Oh, God, keep goin’.”

He knew his words were beginning to grow slurred, and he could barely buck his hips up into you. As everything within his body began to light up, he felt like all of his muscles were going lifeless, his body going boneless, because the heat was consuming him. He couldn't hold it back, he’d been waiting for so long to feel you this way, and his lips could barely even move back against your own as he went slack-jawed, exploding within your tight heat.

The send that he was shooting over the edge, you were following right after him, crying out his name into his mouth as you kept going against him, until you couldn't clumping down into his body as you trembled, and Stiles felt as though you’d milked absolutely everything from him that he had to offer. There was a crackling along his skin from everywhere that your fingertips smoothed over, sliding down from his shoulders so that you could press your cheek to the spot instead, fanning breaths rushing over his neck as you tried to catch your breath, racing heart just like his was.

You didn’t even bother to move from him, letting him throb within your walls with each flutter you made and each shift, and if you kept it up, he was sure he’d be ready for a second round, but he wasn’t entirely sure that he had that in him. Resting his head back against the edge of the couch, he let you lift yourself up and off of him finally, your legs shaking as you stood, offering him a weak smile as he took in your through fucked out state, before taking wobbly steps away from him, and disappearing down the hall.

He heard a door close, assuming you’d gone to the bathroom, and he leaned over to the coffee table to snatch up a few tissues, to clean himself up with, before sorting himself out too. He did the bare minimum, not even bothering to do up his jeans once he had them pulled back up, but he stretched out along the length of the couch to lay down, an arm popped under his head, and a little laugh on his lips as he did.

He took a moment to glance around, not missing the way that the plants all seemed to be blooming particularly beautifully, seeming more alive than ever. As he lifted up a hand before his face, rubbing his forefinger and thumb together, a spark travelled between the tips, and he felt a little in awe just at the sight of it.

“It's pretty incredible, right?”

He startled, jumping a little, before turning to look at you and propping himself up on his elbows as you lingered in the doorway. You had changed, your hair pulled back and out of your face, missing a few odd strands and you’d buttoned up his flannel along your body, mismatched and hanging unevenly, but still adorable. You took slower steps over to him, waiting for a second as you stood beside him, before he was lifting his arms and making it clear to you that you could lay with him, a smile gracing both of your faces as you flattened yourself along him, cheek pressed over his chest as his arms wrapped around your waist.

“You like feeling your magic, then?”

He lifted his palm, holding it to yours and admiring the final dying flares he saw, as the energy began to dissipate and absorb into his body and yours fully. “I’m not used to feeling special myself. I’ve always been a behind the scenes, research, kinda’ guy. I’m not used to being one of the main players.”

“Oh, hush. You told me your story, you were most definitely a key player, Stiles.” He shrugged under you, letting you cross your arms over his chest and prop your chin on them.

“Yeah, but I never really felt that way, and now I feel like I have something to offer.”

You leaned in, brushing your lips over his jaw with a sweet kiss, and he felt like he could most definitely get used to this feeling. Can I meet them?”

“My pack?”

You nodded, seeming a little shy now, and joy raced through him at the fact that you saw enough of a future with him to want to meet his friends an get to know them, and to once again be able to be completely open and honest with everyone, never having to hide anything from anyone, and being able to let you fully and wholly into his life. It was a surprise, because the more he’d thought about his future late at night when lying alone in his bed, he was so sure he’d never be able to really settle down, because he could never let someone in on his life in every single way, but with you, that wasn’t a problem.

“I would absolutely love that.”

“Really?” You were studying him carefully, trying to ensure that he was telling the truth, and he gave you the most honey look that he possibly could, before lifting his head to meet your lips as he leaned in.

Soft and delicate, like a kiss that was shared between deep romance and longtime lovers, and he rested a hand on your cheek, holding you to him, and rolling you to the side, to sandwich you between the couch and his body Your thigh came up to rest over his legs, his palm slipping from your face to rest on your leg, drawing patterns on the skin until you pulled away to breathe, lips detaching from his as you whined a little. You stayed close, though, a soft look etched onto your features;

“I just want to meet a few more supernatural people, and get to know others who I don’t have to hide from.”

“Well, you definitely don’t have to hide from them, and you’ll love them, just as much as they’ll love you. We’re a pretty odd group, you’ll fit right in.”

“You’re right about that ‘odd bunch’ thing. I’ve never met a banshee, or a - what did you call it? - werecoyote.” That was an undeniable truth, your head coming back down to rest on his chest as he shrugged, unable to deny that you were right. “Your wolves sound nice, too. All the other wolves I’ve met have been overly territorial and closed off.”

“Well, Derek used to be like that, but we’ve pulled him around a little. He is still broody, though.” You laughed at his joke, a sound that made his heart burst open slightly and bleed with affection, all for you, as you continued to take more and more pieces of his heart with every act, and he was falling in love with you faster than he’d ever known was possible. “Don’t take notice of any of his lurking, by the way, it’s his twisted way of showing concern and care.”

“I’ll remember that, and if I ever catch him hiding behind a tree, I’ll know that it’s real friendship.”

“He does that, I’m serious, don’t underestimate him. I think my dad arrested him for stalking, once.”

“I think your dad would be who I am most scared to meet.” A fond tone in your voice, before he was pressing a kiss to your forehead, humming under his breath.

“He’ll love you the most, don’t worry.”

Silence fell between you both then, and he busied himself with tracing illegible drawings into your skin, simply enjoying feeling so close to you. It was irrationally domestic, and you were the final piece in his college life and college experience that was missing. Despite not being a  wolf, he was unequivocally part of a wolf pack, and being surrounded so closely by such a tight-knit group of friends for those years had made him dependent on company and reliability, and he had been feeling so alone since leaving for college.

Scott had Malia, Lydia had rekindled things with Jordan, and even Derek had been (begrudgingly, to begin) hooked up with a deputy by his father, and they’d been on a few dates.

The last time he’d been home, he’d felt like a fifth, seventh, or was it ninth wheel, when Liam and Hayden were taken into account? He had been feeling awfully lonely lately, and he was glad to finally find someone that fit him perfectly, matching him like a glove.

“When I do introduce you to my friends, my pack, y’know, and my dad..”

You lifted your head, a little crease across your cheek from the fold in his shirt, and he rubbed the spot with his thumb gently, an attempt to remove the mark. “Yeah?”

“What should I introduce you as?”

“A witch.” You deadpanned, and he knew immediately that you’d clearly know exactly what he meant, but were playing with him, and he pouted, fixing you with a mock glare, before you were laughing to yourself over your joke, something so undeniably cute that he couldn't even pretend to be mad about it. “What do you want to introduce me as?”

Nudging your jaw a little with his, he puckered his lips, tempting you down to kiss him, and you were more than happy to press a series of sweet and short kisses to his lips. “I’d really like to formally claim you to be my girlfriend?”

He mumbled the words into your mouth, feeling your lips flick up at the edges in a smile as you gave him a kiss that was a little more firm, a little more loving and powerful, before whispering your reply; “Then we’re on the same page, because I’d like to introduce you to my coven back home as my boyfriend.”

“You have a coven?” He pulled back, a gasp of shock, and you giggled at him.

“That I do. Maybe I should tell you about them?”

“You absolutely should.” He insisted, his craving for knowledge taking over, and he couldn't have been more glad to whatever deity was watching over benevolently that he’d taken the choice to stay the first time knowledge had been offered, because it had led him to where he was now.

“It might take all night, maybe you should go and get a change of clothes. Get comfortable.”

“Is that an invitation to stay the night?” You only nodded, letting him roll you back over onto your back as he kissed at your neck. “I’ll buy you take out if you cuddle me later?”

“Cuddling and dinner? Glad I get to call you my boyfriend, now.”

“Not nearly as glad as I am to call you my girlfriend. My little witch.” His lips sealed over yours, silencing your laughs against his mouth as you teased him for the nickname, and he pinched a little at your sides. The mistletoe overhead grew a little more, a few of the berries dropping away and bouncing off of his back as the plant became bolder, just like the rest, that energy beginning to grow once again, as you got lost in each other’s touch.

[spectralscathath]

Skinny Vanilla Latte

Mikaela is the world's nicest customer, and Yuu's heart absolutely Does Not go 'doki doki' whenever he comes into the cafe for his standard order. Anyone who says otherwise is entirely incorrect. (Mikayuu but Coffee Shop AU)

Commissioned Mikayuu oneshot for @fyrecrackeruwu

Ao3 link, ff.net link

“Peppermint mocha, extra whip, for Lacus!” Yuichiro called out, trying to remember his customer service smile even though he knew his eyes said ‘I’ll kill you’ to every person in the café. Narumi just had to go and get a new job, like the traitorous bitch he was. Being a lifeguard wasn’t even a real thing.

Narumi’s absence left the Moon Demon Café down a barista, and because Shinoa and Kimizuki were banned from interacting with the general public, Yuu had been the only one they could shunt from the kitchen into front of house.

Fuck this job. If he didn’t need it so badly he’d have tossed his apron in Guren’s stupid face to get rid of the shitsmug smirk.

“Hi, welcome to the Moon Demon Café,” he turned to the next customer. “What can I-” oh my god. Don’t pause keep talking. “… I get you today?”

Holy SHIT someone call Heaven because an angel had gone missing. Seriously, the customer standing on the other side of the counter was the prettiest guy Yuu had ever seen. Not to be corny on main, but this was the first time Yuu had ever thought ‘eyes like sapphires, hair like spun gold’ had ever felt like actually applicable metaphors for someone.

“A skinny vanilla latte, please?” Pretty Boy said with the utmost politeness, and Yuu remembered that breathing existed and so did brain functions.

“Of course, can I interest you in any of our specials today?” He put on his best grin, writing down the coffee.

“No thank you, just the coffee.” Pretty Boy kept smiling, already having his card ready to pay because clearly this guy was Mr Perfect Customer.

“Sure thing, can I get a name for this order?” He barely held back from tacking a pet name onto the end, but he managed. Someone get him a medal.

“Mikaela. Mika works though, please don’t try spell ‘Mikaela’.” Pretty Boy- Mika’s- smile became slightly glassy, with the wartorn eyes of someone who’d had consistent misspellings of their name throughout their life.

“Mika it is,” Yuu grinned at him and scrawled it down. “I’ll have that ready for you in a jiffy.” Why the fuck did he say ‘jiffy’.

Mikaela snorted, bringing a hand up to cover his smile. “Sure thing.”

Yuu smiled and started up the coffee grinder, his cheer instantly evaporating away when he heard the sound of an empty grinder. Where were the coffee beans kept again? Shinoa better not have moved their location to fuck with him.

“It’ll be just a sec,” he forced a grin at Mika, getting a shrug in return. Customer seemed chill, cool. He reached under the counter to find empty air, instantly ducking down to check. Nothing but coffee residue from the bags. Welp.

“Hey, Kimizuki?” He yelled at the back.

“What?!”

“Where’d the coffee get moved?”

“You think I know?! Figure it out yourself, dumbass! I’m cooking!”

Yuu’s eye twitched and he counted to ten in his head to prevent himself from leaping through the overpass to wring Kimizuki’s neck. “Of course,” he grumbled. “Let me just pull some coffee beans out of my ass, that’s how we run things here.”

There was a soft chuckle and Yuu blanched, realising that shitfuck his sarcastic grumbling might have been a little too audible. He whipped around. “Uh- sorry, I didn’t mean that.”

Mika hid his laughter behind his hand again, blue eyes glittering like sapphires. “No no, it’s fine. Don’t worry.”

Yuu relaxed a little bit, kinda starstruck by the mirthful twinkle in those eyes. “I’ll just find you the coffee, give me a moment.” He spun around, hunting through every cabinet he could until he managed to find a dark roast with ‘hi Yuu’ scrawled on it in purple glittery ink. Shinoa and her fucking gel pens.

He started making the coffee properly this time, mentally promising that he would commit first-degree murder and get away with it the minute Shinoa showed her rat face again. He waited for the coffee machine to do the job and wrote Mika’s name on the takeaway cup, pausing before thinking to himself ‘fuck it’ and adding his phone number. He was gonna take the shot, especially since Mr Gorgeous had laughed at his sarcasm.

He finished putting it all together and smiled as he handed it over. “Skinny vanilla latte for Mika.”

“Thank you,” Mika grinned and pulled out a cup sleeve, slipping it onto the cup and completely hiding Yuu’s number. Yuu’s smile cracked. Fuck.

“Uh-” But Mika was already walking away after dropping change in the tip jar.

“Thank you!” He waved goodbye, the door closing behind him with a little jingle.

“You’re… welcome.” Goodbye gorgeous. Guess Yuu’d never see him again.

-------------

It was with great surprise that Yuu did in fact see Mika again, this time over Mitsuba’s shoulder as she did the ordering and customer talking while he just made coffee after endless coffee. Fuck rush hour holy shit.

He tried to catch Mika’s eye in-between frothing up milk and shaking cocoa powder over a cappuccino, green catching and locking with blue for the barest second before Mika smiled widely and gave him a little wave, a fancy-looking camera hanging around his neck. “Hi Yuu. Good luck with the rest of your shift, I hope it calms down a bit.”

“What, this? It’s no problem!” Yuu bragged, before he caught the side of his wrist on the milk spout and bit back a curse. Always with the burns.

“See you next time.” Mika grabbed his coffee, oblivious to Yuu’s plight, and walked out the door, again emptying some coins into the tip jar before he left.

Mitsuba turned to Yuu, blonde twintails bouncing with the movement. “You know that guy? He’s the nicest customer I’ve had yet. I hope he becomes a regular.”

“Yeah.” Yuu nodded. “Me too.”

------------

Mika did, in fact, become a regular. Which was awesome.

Every Wednesday and Friday like clockwork he’d show up, order his skinny vanilla latte to have there, pick a booth, and do stuff on his laptop. It was pretty cool, aside from the fact that Yuu couldn’t write terrible pick-up lines on the latte glasses.

That was Plan A of ‘Operation: get Mika’s number’ thwarted.

Plan B was to write it on the napkins, but then the problem was that Mika didn’t order food. Currently Yuu was on Plan C, which was Plan B but better.

Mika walked in with his laptop bag and his camera-holding thingie, waiting patiently in line until he was at the counter. “Hi Yuu.”

“Hey Mika. The usual?” Yuu gave him a charming grin.

“That’d be great, thank you.” Mika beamed. It was really pretty.

Yuu had to take a second to recover.  “Easy, one usual coming up. Do you want to try a muffin to go with it? On the house, between you and me.”

Mika looked like he was considering it and for a moment Yuu’s hopes were rising, rising higher- “Thank you for the offer, but I already ate. Just the coffee, please.” And down those hopes fell, dashed against the rocks and crumpled like wretched Lucifer, cast from Heaven into the pits of hell.

“Sure thing. Give me a shot if you need a refill.”

“Will do.” Mika smiled at him, paid, and pottered off to go take a seat.

Yuu watched him go, noticing that he was wearing thigh-high boots what the fuck that wasn’t fair. That was illegal, that had to be illegal.

“Uh, sir? Sir? Can I order now?” Someone rang the bell and Yuu snapped back to reality, looking at the man in the- what the fuck was that a fucking cat? It looked like this man had lopped off the skull of a white tiger and mounted it on his head what the actual fuck. Yuu really hoped it was fake, he desperately fucking prayed.

Okay, goodbye Mika, hello Crazy Customer of the Day #309.

------------

“Afternoon, Mika, the usual?” Yuu grinned at him, the café a bit quieter than usual. Maybe this time he could get a good conversation in while making Mika’s coffee.

“Yep, and also an English Breakfast tea, no sugars. I hope that’s not too much trouble.”

“None at all. You meeting a friend here?” He hoped it wasn’t a date. His attempts to try give Mika his number through shitty pick-up lines could not be foiled so easily.

“You could say that.” Mika smiled cheerfully, offering his card. “On debit, please.”

“No prob. He here yet?” Yuu looked around, not spotting any new faces.

“He said he’d be by in a few minutes. I’m surprised there’s not a rush, normally this place is quite busy. I thought getting a table would be harder.” Mika looked quite concerned at that.

Yuu waved it off as he finished putting in the docket. “It’s pre-midterms week. Everyone’s panic-studying, ordering pizza in, all that stuff.”

Mika chuckled. “I guess it’s a good thing I’m on top of my studies then, or else I might have had to miss out on the best coffee on campus.”

“Wouldn’t want that.” Yuu shot him a finger gun and a wink, before wondering if he’d overdone it. Luckily, Mika seemed to find it hilarious by how his smile went supernova and his laugh bubbled out of him.

“Definitely not. Thanks again.” Mika placed some coins in the tip jar before he went to the booth he always tried to sit at, pulling out his phone once he sat down.

Yuu watched him go and set to work on making the drinks, wondering if he should try make a food platter. Counterpoint to him trying to woo Mika through good food was the fact that Kimizuki was a snotty bitch who would kill him if he gave out even more free food, crushes be damned.

And yeah, Yuu could totally throw down with Kimizuki, but Mitsuba would tattle about it if there was a fight and he’d probably lose his job.

He’d just have to make it the best damn coffee in existence.

He was halfway through making the tea when a man walked in, and Yuu had to stop and stare for a sec because while yes, he was very fucking gay for Mika, he still had eyes.

It was when the total hunk sat down in front of Mika that Yuu felt his bout of ‘he’s pretty’ turn into entirely rational jealousy. Was Mika dating this guy? It took a special kind of hotness to pull off a braid and dyed bangs, Yuu could admit.

He put on his customer service smile as he carried the drinks over, rampant envy broiling in his veins. He set drinks down, being extra delicate and polite with Mika’s coffee and blanking out the other guy entirely. “here you go, Mika. If you need anything else, don’t hesitate to ask.”

“Thanks. Crowley, this is Yuu, the barista I mentioned. Yuu, this is my dad, Crowley.”

Yuu practically heard the record scratch sound. Dad?

His next thought was along the lines of ‘oh thank god, Mika’s still possibly available’, and he was starting to realise he may be desperate. “Nice to meet you, Crowley.”

“You too,” Crowley grinned back with a touch of a British accent curling around the words, red eyes twinkling in amusement. “Thanks for the cuppa, luv.”

Yuu nodded before tuning him out again and giving another smile to Mika, going around to clear some other tables and already plotting his next move. Fingerguns and winks were now on the table. Mhuahahahaha.

--------------

“So, Mika, how’s the photography?” Yuu struck up a conversation as he cleared away the latte glass, taking advantage of the restaurant’s quiet to try and kickstart a deep meaningful conversation that he was absolutely going to fill with stupid jokes.

“it’s going well,” Mika smiled, saving the photoshop file on the screen. Clearly he’d lost a file once by accident and saved every program with the vigour of a spartan warrior ever since. “Are you interested in photography?”

“Actually, I’m studying psychology,” Yuu grinned. “Gonna go for a masters if I can once I’m done with this, then eventually you’ll have to address me as Dr Yuichiro.”

Mika’s smile sharpened slightly. “A PhD, huh?”

“Thinking about it.” He shrugged, trying to look humble when he was anything but.

“I think Dr Yuichiro’s got a good ring to it,” Mika smiled slyly, and oh no that wasn’t fair he was not allowed to make it sound so sexy.

“You’re the first. Kimizuki said I shouldn’t be allowed near people,” he grinned.

“And you work the register?” Mika laughed.

“Used to work in the back ‘til Narumi up and ditched us to ‘follow his dreams’,” Yuu told him conspiratorially. “I’m the only one of the kitchen staff who can reliably not scare away customers, so I got shunted here.”

“Maybe I should thank Narumi then, if he got me such a good barista,” Mika smiled. “You’re not scary at all.”

“How dare you, I’m terrifying,” he joked.

Mika scoffed, sapphire eyes sparkling. “As terrifying as my cat.”

Yuu let out a theatrical gasp, balancing his tray on one hand as he clutched his heart. “I think I liked you better when you were a polite customer.”

Mika blinked innocently at him, a challenge curling at the edges of his toothy grin. “Am I not anymore? Shame.”

What a brat. Yuu smirked at him in answer. “Well, I can’t be rude to customers, so I’m legally required to say no.”

“Only legally? Not morally?” Mika rested his chin in his hands as he leaned forward on the table, his photoshop file left entirely forgotten.

“Morally I can say whatever the hell I want as long as it’s not said in front of consumers.” Yuu winked.

“I guess you’re treading on thin ice right now, huh?” Mika bit his lip in affected concern, a prominent pearly canine catching for a moment, and Yuu’s mind went fucking blank. “Best be careful then. I wouldn’t want my favourite barista to go jobless. Right, Yuu-chan?~”

“R-right.” Yuu stuttered for a moment as he tried and failed to come up with literally any kind of flirty remark in reply, getting zero zilch zip from his flatscreening brain. Head empty no thoughts. “I’ll get you a refill, then?”

Mika’s smile screamed ‘cat who caught the canary’. “Don’t keep me waiting, Yuu-chan.”

He nodded and scampered back behind the counter, taking a minute to settle his racing heart. He heard a tapping sound and looked at the overpass into the kitchen, Kimizuki rapping a spatula on the counter.

“You’re pathetic.” Kimizuki’s scornful gaze was only amplified by the glasses he wore.

Yuu flipped him off. Fuck Kimizuki.

--------------

Yuu steeled his nerve as Mika walked in, refusing to let his crush pull one over on him again. Shinoa hadn’t let up since Kimizuki had told her, and Yuu was getting real tired of every whipcrack hand motion she was sending his way.

Mika smiled very innocently as he walked up to the counter, blue eyes bright and oh-so-breathtaking. “Hello, Yuu-chan.”

Little bastard.

“Good to see you too, Mika,” he grinned, resting his elbows on the counter. “Here for your usual, or are you thinking of switching it up?”

“Hm,” Mika tilted his head like he was considering it. “Now that you mention it, maybe I should try something out. How about something a little sweeter this time, Yuu-chan?”

“I think you’re sweet enough already,” Yuu flirted cheesily, watching Mika’s eyes widen a touch. That’s right, he could flirt too. All that ‘Yuu-chan’ business had no power over him now. “But sure, hit me up with what you want to try.”

Mika’s eyes sparkled delightfully, a challenge in his smile. “What’s your poison, then?”

Yuu raised a brow. “Well, I’m a black coffee kind of guy-”

“Because you grind so fine?” Mika interrupted him, like he didn’t just say the sexy pick up line for Yuu.

He gave Mika a Look, Mika merely batting his eyes back at him. “Double shot, nothing extra.” Maybe a bit of hazelnut when he really needed a pick-me-up. “That’s my coffee.”

“A ‘keep me up til two AM’ kind of guy, I like that.” Mika snickered.

“Stop it,” Yuu cautioned. Only he was allowed to use terrible puns like that.

“Make me,” Mika downright dared him, leaning over the counter a little more.

Yuu grabbed his chin and looked him in the eye, a spark of victory gleaming in his emerald gaze. “Keep it up and we’ll see where it gets you, gorgeous.”

Mika’s pupils dilated.

Yuu smirked at him and let go, picking up the docket sheet. “So, coffee order? You’re holding up the line, babe.”

Mika beamed, a smile like spun sunshine. “You know what, I think I’ll go for my usual after all. But maybe next time I’ll be a bit more daring.”

“Sure you will.” Yuu winked at him. “Later, beautiful.”

Mika laughed as he went to his favourite booth, Yuu internally high-fiving himself as he went. That went excellently.

Okay. Next time he’d ask him out. Next time for sure.

-------------

Today was the day. It was absolutely the day. Today for sure.

He handed Mika his coffee, got ready to say ‘I love you give me your number’, and chickened out when he realised that was absolutely not the way to ask and would instead plant him straight in ‘ultra creep’ territory.

Next week. Next week for sure.

------------

Yuu looked up from wiping down the counter, groaning as Shinoa came in. “Aren’t you meant to be on your day off?”

“Well, yes,” Shinoa smiled far too innocently, and Yuu’s hackles went up with suspicion. “But my dearest friend has been telling me ALL about his new favourite café, so I had to come by and see it.”

“Shinoa, you work here.” Yuu glared at her.

“He doesn’t know that,” she smirked, eyes sparkling mischievously. “I never say names, my darling Yuu.”

“I never agreed to you calling me that.”

“I don’t care.” She swanned up to the counter, propping herself up on her hands and tiptoes. Yuu scowled as she smeared her hands all over the area he’d literally just wiped clean. “Now gimme free coffee.”

“Fuck off. Employee discount only and even then I’m debating making you pay full price.”

“You’re so mean,” she pouted. “And when I’m buying for my friend as well. I think you’d like him, as much as a big meanie like you can like anyone.”

“I like people, I’m not Kimizuki,” he rolled his eyes. “Who’s your damn friend?”

“Oh, you might know him.” Her evil grin came back full-force, making her look downright demented. “Why don’t we see if you can guess from his order?”

“Do you know how many customers we have?” Yuu snapped a tea towel at her hands. “Hands off the counter, you’re probably infested with something.”

“Boo you.” She huffed and raised her hands, twiddling her fingers as she did. “Anyway, I want a multi-mega mocha milkshake with extra sprinkles and four shots of coffee. Oh! And whipped cream. Lots of it.”

“You’re going to die from a caffeine overdose and I will film it.” He wiped the counter down again out of spite.

“Maybe so, but at least I’ll die not hopelessly pining for some boy who takes, oh, what was it now?” She tapped her chin, looking deep in thought. He didn’t buy it for a second, especially not when she turned a vicious smile onto him. “Oh, right, skinny vanilla latte. Large.”

He wondered what the hell kind of expression he made that had her cackling like the wicked witch she was. “You gotta be joking.”

“Nope, and remember, on the cup for that one, my friend’s name is Mik-ae-la~” She sounded out the name, taking too much joy in it. “And make it fast, sweetcheeks, he’s going to be here soon.”

“I hate you with every blood cell in my body.”

“Make sure to put one of your cute little pick-up lines on that now,” she winked. “I’ve been reading them whenever I take out the trash. You’re so desperate it’s cute. Now shoo shoo, make me coffee, coffee man.” She flicked a hand at him, revelling in the power that a customer had. Shit like this was why she was banned from interacting with the general public at work.

“Sure thing. I’ll bring your drinks out to you,” he forced out through a smile, teeth grinding together as he gritted them. His eye may have twitched. He wasn’t sure.

She twirled around and skipped to her seat, spinning her favourite little trinket in her hand and making the green and orange lights on it flare up like she was at a rave. He tried to stare a hole through the back of her head before he set about making her the drinks she ordered.

Mika. Mika was friends with Shinoa. It was a testament to how in love he was with that guy that knowing Mika willingly hung out with Shinoa did not become an immediate turn off. He liked her too, sure, for whatever was left of his sanity’s sake, but she was still a pain.

He heard the little bell above the door jingle and glanced up, his heart skipping a beat when he saw Mika waving at him. “Hey Yuu,” Mika grinned, sounding way too proud of himself.

“Hey Mika,” he smiled back, unable to stop himself from getting all soppy at the edges. “Skinny vanilla?”

“You bet,” he winked at Yuu and sauntered off to sit with Shinoa, the two of them immediately starting up some sort of gossipy conversation judging by the hand motions and expressions.

He looked down at the drinks he was plating up, took a deep breath, and furiously scribbled a puntastic pick-up line and his number on the napkin under Mika’s coffee. This was it. He was going to do it.

“I am not a coward,” he muttered to himself, picking up the tray and carrying it over. “That was a multi-mega mocha milkshake with quadruple shots, extra whip, and sprinkles, and a large skinny vanilla latte?”

“She’s having the deathshake.” Mika pointed at Shinoa, who fluttered her eyelashes at him.

“No problem.” Yuu set the drinks down, trying to ignore how he could hear his heartbeat thundering in his eardrums like the bass beat of a good metal concert, keeping on a smile that was at this point reserved only for Mika. “Let me know if you need anything else.”

“Will do,” Mika reached for a packet of sugar and dumped it into his coffee, picking up his spoon before his hand froze, sapphire eyes tracing over the wickerscratch handwriting on the napkin.

Are you an espresso? Because you’re a shot to my heart. Call me?

Mika blinked up at him, Yuu frozen in place with the sort of calm that only came from blasting beyond panic and landing in the cool grey apathy of total nerve-ridden shutdown.

Shinoa snorted, the sound snapping Yuu out of his quiet reverie. “Uh- I mean, unless you want to kinda- not to be a creep or anything, but we could-” he paused when Mika put a finger over his lips.

Mika’s smile was soft as silk. “I like movies?”

“Movies. Right. I’m off at eight?” No way no way no way-

“Eight sounds great,” Mika’s grin became a bit toothier. “I’ll meet you out front?”

“It’s a date?” Yuu smiled hopefully.

Mika grabbed the front of his apron and kissed his cheek. “You bet it is.”

“Great!” He gave him a thumbs up, practically floating back towards the counter with a sunshine smile all his own.

He heard Kimizuki scoff from the overpass at him. “What coffee shop fanfiction bullshit is this?”

Yuu ignored him, too happy to even care. Best workshift ever.

[365daysofsasuhina]

[ 365 Days of SasuHina || Day Two Hundred Ten: High Class ] [ Uchiha Sasuke, Hyūga Hinata, Hyūga Hiashi, Uchiha Fugaku] [ SasuHina, vulgarity, alcohol ] [ Verse: Best Years of Your Life ] [ AO3 Link ]

She’s always hated gatherings like this. High class shmooze fests of elbow-rubbing and ego-stroking.

No wonder her father loves them.

After all, he’s been on the city council for ten years running, now. There’s no one of importance in this city that he doesn’t know...or at least know of. He keeps tabs on everything, if only because he wants to have a hand in every pot.

Hinata’s not the sort to care about money or power. All she’s ever wanted was a simple, run-of-the-mill life. But Hiashi’s influence and public image meant having to have perfect daughters. And perfect daughters go to private schools and join clubs and run for student council, just like dear ol’ dad.

All she’s ever dreamed about is working in a little floral shop where she can be surrounded by flowers and plants and soil all day long. It doesn’t have to pay well. It doesn’t have to go anywhere. She just wants to pour her heart into her passion.

Why can’t he understand that…?

School, at least, let her join the garden club every Spring. She even took a few horticulture classes. But now that she’s on her way to college this coming Autumn (or...so she’s told), Hiashi is taking a far more commanding role in her education. Business, he advises. Create a career, like he did! Let the money and employment hierarchy take you to great heights!

Psh...yeah right. And become a soul-sucking agent of greed like he is? She’d rather leap off the balcony.

All this she mulls over in silence, standing and hardly listening as Hiashi woos a small gaggle of donors. This particular event is one to help fundraise the local police and other emergency services: firefighters, EMTs, and...whatever else. In all honesty, she hasn’t been paying a lick of attention...because she knows what this all really is. Campaigning, bribing, putting the right people in the right spotlights. It’s not about the fundraiser’s target, it’s about the people who fund it. These do-gooding people putting their money where their mouths are.

...yeah, right. They just want an image boost. They want voters to like them, to like the causes they stand for...all to keep lining their pockets.

“Ah, there he is! One of our men of the hour. Fugaku, how are you?”

Dragging herself from her reverie, Hinata looks up as a group of four people approach. One she knows as the chief of police, Fugaku Uchiha. Someone her father doesn’t always agree with, but does his best to be on good terms with. The police are quintessential, after all. Beside him, all smiles and beauty, is his wife Mikoto. The only genuine person in this room, as far as Hinata is concerned. While this event is catered by those self-serving, she puts on at least one a month that benefits real organizations in their city - not anything politically aligned.

She’s the only reason Hinata has any hope for things like this...and any inclination to follow in one’s footsteps, if they could be hers.

Bringing up the rear are their two sons. The elder by five years, Itachi, is still in college to her knowledge. Admittedly, she doesn’t know his major. They rarely speak beyond the expected pleasant small talk.

The younger, Hinata’s own age, is Sasuke. A bit of am enigma. She knows so little about him, and his cool, aloof attitude means rarely getting any glimpses. The only one he seems to converse with to any real degree at these galas is his brother.

The pair, as far as she knows, are rather close knit.

Rather...unlike the Hyūga sisters. Hanabi isn’t even here.

Giving Hiashi a rugged smile, Fugaku claps him on the back. “Oh, hanging in there. Our city never sleeps, after all...and neither do we.”

“True, very true...but I’m glad you could spare yourself for one night to help herald your cause!”

From there, the two enter a spiel about the police and other city services that - to Hinata’s practiced ear - is so clearly rehearsed it makes her eyes roll as she turns aside. With her father far too absorbed to mind her, she simply excuses herself to get another drink. She’s not yet old enough to have any spirits, but...well, there’s a few plain options to be had. Swiping a soda, she decides to find that balcony she was thinking of earlier.

The summer evening is waning, city lights replacing sun as it sinks behind the horizon. Cool air breezes past her face as she leans against the railing, expression listless. She’d much rather be at home doing...anything else. Maybe trimming some of the potted plants in her room...the sun in her windows the past month or so has seen them explode in size. She might even need to repot some of them soon…

“Hey.”

Startling, she nearly drops her drink of the balcony. “Wh-?!” Heart leaping to her throat, she turns to see...Sasuke? What is he doing out here…?

“Out for some fresh air?”

...he’s just...talking to her. Why? They’ve hardly ever spoken. “I...y-yes, I...I guess so.”

“Was it that...or sparing your ears from the bullshit?”

She blanches a moment at the foul language. “...I beg your pardon?”

“C’mon, I know you could tell. I’ve seen your face at enough of these to know...especially when you think no one’s looking. You hate these things almost as much as I do.”

Still a bit tense, Hinata tries to reestablish her posture. “...they’re not my favorite things, no...great in concept. T-terrible in execution.”

“Glad someone agrees. My brother always just tells me I’m being overdramatic. That it’s just how things work. Like I was born yesterday. Cops’re supposed to uphold the law, and protect their citizenry. Not…” A hand gestures back behind them. “...this. Sitting all pretty and obedient like a dog for anyone that’ll throw money their way like a bone. I hate it…”

“...my father’s the same way. It’s all about money, appearances, i-influence…” Why is she telling him this? “...I just want to have a nice, calm little job...a little apartment...and mind my own business. Not...anything like this.”

“Exactly! I dunno how these people can stand themselves. Cuz I sure can’t.”

Unbidden, she looses a snort, failing to catch it in a palm. That was rude...but… “I don’t know...but it’s unfortunate.”

“Honestly m’tempted to just...leave. My dad won’t even notice until he realizes one of his props is gone.”

...she...never considered that. Just leave? Could they…? “...how m-mad do you think he’d be?”

“I don’t care. I’m tired of this. Tired of drowning in cologne, and hearing all the boasting, and seeing all these gloating faces.”

Hinata mulls that over. “...did you drive here…?”

“Nah, we all rode in together. Doesn’t mean I can’t take a cab, or just go for a walk.” Sasuke gives her a glance. “...feel like tagging along?”

Teeth nibble her lip, glancing back toward her father. He’s still hamming it up with the rest of the Uchiha. She’s going to get in so much trouble for this… “...okay.”

Doing their best to look nonchalant, the pair move to the elevators, taking one down to ground level. From there, they just...walk.

Of course, Hinata’s wearing two inch heels...not a killer, but not fun to take very far, either. They’re right in the middle of downtown, too. “So...where are we going?”

“Anywhere. Feel like doing anything in particular?”

“Um…” Looking around, a Starbucks catches her eye. “...want some coffee?”

“...eh, sure. Why not?”

The pair are...very overdressed for it, and the stares they get only prove it. But they take a table and just sit.

Sipping her mocha frappe, Hinata watches the street through the window. This is...oddly liberating. She’s still a little nervous - she very rarely dares to defy Hiashi, let alone this directly. But still, this is...nice.

“So...you want to head back eventually, or find a way home?”

“Well...m-maybe leaving entirely would be a bit...much.”

Nursing his own drink, Sasuke hums. “...suppose you have a point. We’ll chill here a while, then head back.”

Silence stretches for a moment. “...did you - did you really notice my face, earlier? I mean, my being annoyed?”

“Uh, yeah,” Sasuke replies bluntly, giving a snort. “Not gonna lie, watching you react every time we’re both at one of these things is the one entertainment I find.”

Her cheeks puff. “...glad to know I’m a joke.”

“Nah, not a joke. Just funny. At least you react. I’m so dead inside, I just stand there with a blank look all night.”

It’s Hinata’s turn to snort. “...that’s fair.”

For a time, the pair just...sit and chat. Nothing elaborate or meaningful. Just smalltalk. But it still makes her feel like she can understand him a bit better.

“Well...I think we’d better head back. Auction’s due to start in fifteen. They’ll definitely notice by then.”

“Yeah…” Finished with her drink, Hinata follows as they walk back toward the hosting hotel. “...that was...fun.”

“Wasn’t too bad. Definitely not the worst coffee date I’ve been on.”

Hinata jolts. “D...date?”

“Kinda was, wasn’t it?”

Well...maybe it was. She doesn’t refute it.

“Maybe we can have another sometime without all this hanging over us, huh?”

Is...is he asking her on a date? “...I, um...sure…?”

“Cool.”

...well that was easy.

They ascend back up, finding the party just as they left it. Their fathers have separated, but neither seem aggravated...yet.

“Well, see y’around, Hinata.”

“Yeah, um...you too. Did you…?”

“Hm?”

“Did you want my - my number? For the...for the, uh, date?”

“Oh, yeah. Sure.” Taking down her digits, he gives a mock salute. “I’ll text you tomorrow.”

“...okay.” A bit...taken aback, she rejoins her father.

“Ah, there you are.”

“Sorry...went for some air.”

“That’s fine - the auction is about to being. Ready?”

“...mhm.”

                                                        .oOo.

     Another late night, blegh.      Just some modern shenanigans. I think I did one...a bit similar to this. It's getting a bit hard to remember at this point, but...hopefully no one recalls or minds xD      But uh...yeah. It's veeery late, so I'm gonna head off for the night. Thanks for reading!

[ashfae]

Point of View

Prompt: Autobiographical 1st person

I turn the tuning peg such a small amount, ten degrees out of three hundred and sixty, pulling the string more taut. My semi-calloused thumb plucks the A string. It sounds true, but my ears are untuned now, years out of practice, and this isn’t my instrument. Not yet.

But I already love it, the dark wood balanced on my knee, nylon digging into my insufficiently calloused left fingers as they press near the frets, strings singing when I stroke them with a pick. This can be mine. I will make it mine.

I pluck the C string, then the A, recognize the plaintive tone of the minor third. Maybe I haven’t lost this language in the past decade of learning new words, words for disabilities and teething children and the organization parents and patients need. Maybe I can relearn.

Prompt: Fictional 1st person, someone in an unpleasant job

It’s not much of a day, just cold and rainy enough to keep away all but the regulars, plus a few tourists too stubborn to waste the time they’ve got. You can always tell those, the mulish expressions and cheap as chips poncos bought from some tat shop on the Mile, because they thought the stories about how it never stops raining here were exagerrated. They never tip.

The regulars tip. One of our favorites is here, the short lass who always orders a grande one shot mocha no whip please. She never forgets the please, or the thank you, or to call us by name. She laughs at our jokes, even Darren’s, and his are abyssmal. In return we laugh back every time she tells us how glad she is it’s Monday, even though we’ve all heard it fifty times. After all, she tips.

IT’s slow though, and the heavy murk of coffee has already plugged my nostrils and the space behind my eyebrows, or maybe that’s the humidity. Fuck, if I were a tourist, I wouldn’t be here. I’d go somewhere warm.

Prompt: 2nd person, beach, pants, young girl

The sand is hot, so hot, and you have to try different ways of walking. On your toes first, tippy-toe, then your heels, which makes you laugh because of th way they slide down and leave holes in the sand, soft and sliding and hothothot and it’s fun but it doesn’t really work.

Sides of your feet next, curving them out, then back to tip toes. That’s easiest, hop hop hop on points. You look up but the wet sand, the cool sand, is still far away, a whole thirty feet left to hop or maybe three hundred feet, and then you stop on something not hot, not sand.

Bend down, ignore the scorch, have a look. It’s dingy blue fabric, stained in all sorts of ways. Pants. Boy pants. Probably boy pants. They smell like seawater and hot sand. You pick them up, add them to your shell bucket. If you can find the right stick, then they’ll make a decent flag.

Random intermittent thought: The queen sat sewing by the ebony windowsill, to make use of the light. As she sewed, she pricked her finger with the needle. Three drops of red blood fell onto the snow-white silk, and the queen thought, “Oh, bugger.”

Prompt: Rewright the autobiographical 1st person into 3rd person

She turns the peg minutely, her attention on the string rather than the peg, hearing the note change. The ukelele is balanced on her knee, supported by an old lanyard attached to string that wraps under the body of the instrument and winds up tied to a paperclip hooked on the sound hole. It buzzes a little as she plays the string again, plucks other strings to hear the intervals. With a caution born of unfamiliarity (because it couldn’t be fear, who could be intimidated by a ukelele?), she fits her fingers between the frets, then grimaces; her ring finger, broken in a childhood accident, bends inward, must be awkwardly held or the note won’t sound right. But the third time she attempts it there’s no buzz or fuzz or twang, and she beams.

Prompt: 3rd person subjective, a couple are in a restauraint being served by a waiter, AKA dammit I was so close to not writing fanfic in class this week

His favourite enigmas are lunching today, at their usual table. The rules of the establishment discourage familiarity beyond a certain warm politeness, but he can smile as he offers the wine list, and does.

Usually the man in the black suit--they are always dressed the same, every week, one in white and the other in black--will give the list a brief flance and toss it back on the table as he makes his selection, apparently at random. The other gentleman takes more time. Louis can’t begrudge it, not when he’s inevitably given a beatific smile and an, “If you’d be so kind” along with the order. The black suit’s mouth always quirks up at that, whatever his mood is otherwise, clearly charmed by this old-fashioned courtesy whether he likes it or not.

There are bets on among the staff as to whether or not the pair are a couple. There’s an ease of long familiarity between them, and the sorts of small nitpicking statements that waiters inevitably hears between married couples. The McKenzies do nothing but argue over their meals, and they’ve come every Saturday without fail for forty years. Perhaps fighting in private bores them.

But with these two it’s less clear. For one thing, they never touch, neither casually nor deliberately, and they lack a certain frisson that acknowledged couples have. But neither of them ever looks bored, no matter how deliberately provocative black suit is (which he is, he seems to get a kick out of being a bit of a nusiance), or how slow to finish his meals white suit is (which he definitely is, a starter and a main and two desserts and whatever black suit hasn’t finished eating). Amos the piano player swears they’re madly in love but each think the other one is straight, and will deliberately pick the most over-the-top Cole Porter arrangements to play for them in the hopes that eventually they’ll clue up, because he has two hundred quid riding on an eventual proposal happening in the restautant (there’s a separate betting pool on whether white or black will be doing the proposing, and one stubborn busboy betting on both at once). Elizabeth the seating hostess orders everyone to leave them alone because she thinks they’re adorable.

Louis just wonders why they’ve ordered champagne today. That’s unprecedented. Maybe he should’ve bet along with the busboy.

[impracticable-dreamer]

Seasonal Drinks 101: A Barista Taxonomist's Guide to Overpriced Coffee Nomenclature

Okay. So I decided to place my stories on Tumblr starting with my oneshots first because why the hell not. X) Special thanks to @introvert-dragon who has been so kind as to walk me through how Tumblr works because I am Tumblr illiterate and who was so patient with me over Discord even though it took me 30 minutes to figure out how this site works.

You may also read this post over on FanFiction or AO3.

"This is my table."

It's sometime during the fall season, just in the middle of September, when she first meets him. She's in her third year at Berk University, and she's on her way to get her caffeine fix at the local coffee shop, so aptly named The Edge Café since it was just a walking distance away from the edge of the University's premises. She usually gets her coffee at one of the canteens of the University, but today is a Thursday—the one day in the week in which she was free to study—so she plans to indulge herself with the coffee blends of her favorite coffee shop for her study session.

Unfortunately for her, there's a renovation on the second floor of the café, so the first floor—where her favorite spot is located—is more jam-packed than usual, with the students making do of what available seat was left. It was Thursday after all, and the students were eager to do some last-minute studying for the last school day of the week. ("The Meade Hall on Friday nights for party and booze, The Edge Café on Thursday afternoons for coffee and books!" her fellow students would recite around occasionally.)

She places her bag on her favorite table at the same time someone else places books on the same work surface. Slightly huffing, she looks up to glare at the perpetrator, and she is surprised to be greeted by a beautiful pair of forest green eyes behind thick-rimmed eyeglasses.

He is ridiculously attractive.

His hair is a messy mop of soft auburn tresses, sticking around everywhere yet still able to adorably frame his face. Freckles liberally dust his visage, highlighting the creaminess of the expanse of his skin and the brightness of his big, green eyes. The stubble on his impossibly straight jawline is strangely pleasant to look at, too. He looks lean, but nothing in his built suggests that he's weak, and the crisp white of his button-up top matches well with his skin tone.

"I don't see your name on it, though?" he replies as if it was a joke, his voice rather nasal yet surprisingly endearing. By this time, a barista has approached them to offer her assistance.

She glares even more at him, not backing down.

"This is my de facto table," she insists, clutching a chair tightly to emphasize her point. "I've been using this spot ever since the shop first opened over a year ago. I suggest you try some place else."

"Actually," the barista—a girl she remembers as Heather—starts, "he is the ow—"

"—My apologies," the man says before Heather can finish, "Please take the table, then. I wouldn't want to intrude."

He gives her a small smile, crooked and awkward but surprisingly adorable. She wants to return it, to thank him for his politeness, but all that contorts on her face is a grimace. He doesn't seem to mind it as he has already walked away after getting his engineering books on the table and thanking the barista, and was now on his way on the table opposite hers on the other wall. She notices that he also has a faintly awkward gait, like he was slightly limping.

"Your usual, then?" Heather directs the question at her and she nods, setting herself on the chair. After an affirmative from her, Heather then approaches the man to take his order.

Astrid takes out her Chemistry books, laptop and notebook while waiting for her name to be called, trying to get a head start on studying. However, her eyes wander to the table opposite hers where he is settled.

The main reason why she liked her particular table, other than the fact that she could see people who were coming and going from the café, was because of the lighting it offered: since the wall was made of glass, it afforded her natural light that wouldn't strain her eyes when she read her books and wrote her notes. During the fall season, the lighting was much more favorable, too, since the light wasn't too glaring and too hot.

This time, though, the lighting is distracting.

The light covers the man on the table opposite hers in some sort of glow, highlighting the planes of his freckled face and the sharpness of his jawline. They are seated in a way that they can see each other from their sides of the tables, so she doesn't miss the spark in his eyes as he focuses on the entries on his textbooks, doesn't miss the graceful jerkiness of his hands as they push his glasses perched on his nose, doesn't miss how his pink lips purse and alternately open slightly as he ponders on his notes.

She briefly wonders if his lips are as soft as they looked.

Heather's voice snaps her out of her stupor.

"Signature Spice Flat White, and dark chocolate brownies for Astrid!"

She stands up to collect her order, and she hums to herself as she sets the concoction on the table, a fusion of espresso shots and spices, topped with whole milk micro foam. She sits on her table just as the man on the table opposite hers stands up to collect his. She notices his graceless stride again, and promptly realizes that he had a prosthetic leg on. But she doesn't linger on it as it doesn't really bother her; instead, her eyes wander even further up. She does not miss how his pants are tight, how the fabric molds to the shape of his backside, and her jaw almost drops at the sight.

Damn, he had a fantastic ass.

Before someone notices her checking out a stranger—a hot stranger but still a stranger nonetheless—she hurriedly grabs her earphones to tune out her surroundings. She tries to distract herself from any more diversions, willing her mind to focus on studying while the music from her earphones drowns her in her study playlist. The music blaring from the buds does not drown out Heather's voice, though.

"Cinnamon Apple Spice Herbal Tea for—"

Astrid coughs on her drink upon hearing the silly name that came next, almost spilling coffee on her shirt. He looks over at her table in concern, and she curses at herself for being so affected by his name. But she can't help it, not when this hot stranger had a name as amusing as—

"—Hiccup!"

She decides that there are too many apples in her order today.

She doesn't usually mind drink names, no matter how long or how pretentious they sound; for as long as she tastes the caffeine in the blend, then the drink could be named either Special Holiday Pumpkin Spice Unicorn Concoction Mocha Latte or Overpriced Piece of Coffee Shit for all she cared. However, today Ruffnut convinces her to try the Cinnamon Apple Cider Latte instead of her usual flat white, and she absentmindedly pairs it with caramelized apples and almond brittle. She realizes too late that the taste of apple has overwhelmed the overall palate of her order, but she's grateful for the hint of cinnamon and cider in her drink. And the caffeine. She's thankful most of all for the caffeine.

Because the caffeine positively stops her eyes from wandering to the wiry frame sitting on the table opposite hers. And when he stood up earlier to get his order of Jamaican Hibiscus Iced Tea, the caffeine definitely prevented her eyes from lingering on his ass for a second… or five.

(Who was she kidding?)

Hiccup.

Really, his name is an understatement to his attractiveness.

He's studying intently again, pouring all his attention on his books and occasionally, on the Jamaican Hibiscus Iced Tea that he ordered today, giving special attention to the straw of the said iced tea. She notices in excruciating slow motion how his tongue darts out first before his mouth engulfs the straw between his lips, notices the way his mouth nibbles on the straw, trapping the plastic between his teeth and sipping on it every now and then.

She has never been so jealous of a straw before.

Damn it.

She sighs as she stands up from her table and orders the strongest black coffee that they could offer.

She determines that she needs more caffeine content today if she wants to get some studying done instead of focusing on the inconveniently good-looking customer before her.

She doesn't get to observe him the next Thursday.

She arrives later than usual on that day, and her de facto table has been overrun by younger students clamoring to do last-minute cramming. She scans the rest of the coffee shop for any other available seat, but it seems that all of them has already been occupied. She silently berates herself for her tardiness that has resulted to a lack of available seats for her. She gives a swift glance at his table, and she observes that he has already been absorbed in his own studying.

Better luck next time, then.

Before she leaves, she passes by the counter to give parting words to Ruffnut, just right after a girl has ordered for a Trenta, no foam, five-shot half-caf, no foam pumpkin spice latte with no foam at an impossible two hundred and ten degrees. After an entire argument lasting almost fifteen minutes—"Look here, rich kid, who gets five shots of espresso and heats coffee to two hundred and ten degrees? You might as well have murdered the latte and sent its soul to the coffee gods!"—Ruffnut manages to look up from behind the counter to grin at Astrid.

"Seems I've lucked out, Ruff," she mutters regrettably at her favorite barista. "I'll see if I can get a seat next time. Looking forward to your holiday flavors!"

"Any suggestions from our favorite patron, then?"

"Make Yaknog for Snoggletog," Astrid replies, returning a mischievous smile. "You still got the recipe I gave you before, right?"

"Ugh," Ruffnut groans in disgust. "More like Yuck-nog, Astrid. That recipe was horrible! But I'm willing to make it again if it sends Snottykins to the hospital like last time. They'll never know the difference between poison and Yuck-nog!"

"Hey, I'm a shieldmaiden-slash-Valkyrie who happens to study Bio-Chem at Berk U," she defends herself, shrugging. "You're the barista, you make it work. Else, I'll have to order for a Trenta, no foam, five-shot half-caf, no foam pumpkin spice quad soy hexagon vortex ugg boots spray tan latte with no foam at two-ten degrees."

Ruffnut sticks out her tongue at Astrid, and Astrid laughs and winks before she leaves the café to head for the library. Looks like it's going to be cheap cafeteria coffee for her today.

She arrives later than her usual time again next Thursday, courtesy of a Netflix marathon the previous night, and to her dismay, the café has already been filled with students. She almost leaves when Heather calls for her attention and points at her usual table.

To her surprise, her de facto table has been untouched despite the number of students, the surface area clean and shining as if it has recently been polished. What's more, there's a cup of coffee and a plate of apple spice granola that has been placed there, and she stares hardly at the table, perplexed.

Was this hers? Last she checked, reservations were not possible in the café to accommodate the number of students, and she most definitely didn't order anything in advance.

A note on the table catches her attention, and she grabs it so that she could read.

For the self-proclaimed Valkyrie who keeps on staring, it reads, here is a Hazelnut Peppermint Mocha—or alternatively, as I'd like to call it—That Holiday Shit You Can Actually Make At Home But You're Still Buying It At Ten Times The Cost In This Café Mocha. It's not the Trenta, no foam, five-shot half-caf, no foam pumpkin spice hexagon spray tan hypotenuse latte with no foam at two-ten degrees you had thought of getting, but I hope it would suffice. :)

Astrid blinks.

She doesn't know if she's flattered that someone would think of reserving her table for her and buying her drinks, or if she's insulted that someone would so blatantly accuse her of staring impolitely. She makes a quick scan of her immediate surroundings, but nothing seems to be out of the ordinary from the usual patrons of the coffee shop.

Her eyes roam the table then, and settles on the drink with her name sprawled on the side, complete with a frothy top and dark chocolate curl toppings. She grabs it and take a tentative sip. A taste of bittersweet mocha with hints of hazelnut and peppermint zing delicately assault her senses. The extra shot of espresso and steamed milk comes in as an aftertaste, but the transition of the flavors is surprisingly pleasant.

Not bad for overpriced coffee.

She whips her head around again to look for anyone who's observing her, waiting for anyone to come up to her and introduce himself. Or herself. It doesn't matter, really.

"One order of Ruby Spice Cider tea with honey for Hiccup!" Heather calls out.

Said guy stands up from his seat and comes up to the counter, and Astrid spares him a short glance. Their eyes make contact, and she feels her heart skip a beat as he blushes when their orbs clash. He immediately averts his eyes and scratches the back of his neck while walking past her to get his drink.

Bingo.

She smiles to herself as she settles in her chair, content with the surprising turn of events.

She goes to the café extra early next Thursday.

She's not a tea person, she never was, but she's scanning the seasonal tea blends of the café anyway, looking for a concoction that he might like. She settles on muffins and Pumpkin Pie Herbal Tea—whatever that means—and places it under his name. She practically begs Heather and Ruffnut to reserve Hiccup's usual table, and she's surprised that they agree so easily. Grabbing her notebook, she tears a page away and scribbles down a note.

For the talking fishbone who needs more caffeine intake, thanks for last week's coffee! I've ordered tea for you as payback. It's called Pumpkin Pie Herbal Tea, which I believe should be translated as Obligatory Autumn Tea Blend. I've no idea if this is actually good, but it sounds fancy, so. :P

She settles in her usual table, trying to appear as nonchalant as possible with her assortment of cupcakes and her Toasted Pecan White Chocolate Mocha—Heather's suggestion this time—despite the fact that her brain is restless with nervousness and her heart is irregularly palpitating in anticipation.

More students file into the coffee shop, but Ruffnut and Heather diligently redirect them to other parts of the café, leading them away from Hiccup's usual table.

The door to the café opens again, and Hiccup finally saunters in, flustered and seemingly disoriented. She tries to surreptitiously observe his actions, and her body practically freezes in a mix of excitement and nerves as he approaches his table and reads her note.

His head snaps towards her direction suddenly, and they lock eyes again for a moment, an electric jolt shooting up her spine at the eye contact. His eyes are gentle and pretty, bright yet unassuming, and just so very mesmerizing that she almost forgets how to breathe. She hurriedly tears her eyes away when she could take no more if the intensity, and pretends to focus on her notes.

She realizes that she's blushing, and she berates herself at her childishness. Astrid Hofferson does not blush.

But her cheeks are heating up, and she doesn't know if it's from getting caught or from realizing that she has gotten herself a stupid, childish crush.

The next few Thursdays are a blissful blur.

The renovation of the café is halfway finished, with the original plan to complete the reconstruction just in time for Snoggletog—that Viking version of winter holidays that Berk U has adopted, not so different from Christmas, just with more booze.

They have settled on an unspoken agreement of buying drinks for the other alternately every week, with the one paying for the drink for that week coming extra early to reserve their tables, and the other deliberately arriving late for the surprise drink. She doesn't know why the baristas so leniently went with the arrangement, agreeing to the reservations even though it was technically not allowed, but she supposes it's one of the perks of being a favorite patron of the café.

Hiccup's note that came with the drink and dessert taunts her the next Thursday—Is that how you call someone who has just reserved a seat for you? I must remind you that in the spirit of Christmas, you must remain civil with me, Shieldmaiden. Name calling shall not be tolerated. :P In the meantime, have this two-shot Vanilla Nougat Panettone Latte, which should be known as Arbitrary European Biscuits In A Coffee Cup with an extra shot of Shut Up, I'm Studying. Enjoy!

Astrid hums as she tastes the blend, a curious fusion of bread and butter flavors with steamed milk and espresso topped with dried fruits. It's an interesting match for the honey pumpkin bread that it is paired with. She responds to the note the next week—

Christmas doesn't come until December, Muttonhead. What do you suggest, though, Oh dear savior? Will terms of endearment work? O.O Here's Spiced Winter Ginger Plum Tea, which is supposed to be a 'dreamy blend of fruit and blossoms accented with plum and ginger,' but I think it should be called Why Are Flowers Included in a Premature Winter Drink?

She watches as he snickers at her reply, and he responds to her in the following week.

Fancy titles would do. Now, you may call me the Great Dragon Master Overlord. No other title is more fitting than that, M'lady. X) Try this double Gingerbread Toffee Nut Latte for today, or Random Christmas Desserts in Coffee with an extra serving of Fuck Midterms.

His reply the makes her laugh softly, and she tastes the cup, noting the delicate mix of sweet and spicy gingerbread flavors mingled with toffee, an extra shot of espresso and steamed milk. The drink is finished with a film of micro foam and ground nutmeg, and it is a pretty sight to see next to the salted almond truffles that the drink is paired with. She's usually indifferent to how food items are paired, but she can't help but feel impressed at his food selection.

She offers him a big, playful grin and a quick thumbs-up from her table, which he returns with a fond smile.

She wants to order a special drink for him the next week, and she realizes during the process of selecting tea that the drinks that she receives from him were not on the menu, even on the café's seasonal selection of blends. She realizes that they were off-the-menu, custom-made drinks.

Before Hiccup arrives that day, she calls on Fishlegs to ask for the best barista that they have in hopes to also order custom-made tea.

"He's not here," Fishlegs murmurs in reply. "He's usually not on duty on Thursdays until the weekend."

"That's a lax number of days off," she comments offhandedly, slightly annoyed.

"Well," Fishlegs ponders, "he's technically not required to come to the café at all since he's the owner and he can come and go as he pleases; still, he's here sometimes to create blends and experiment with coffee for our seasonal collection."

"Oh," Astrid replies softly, then her face grimaces in confusion. "Why haven't I met this guy before?"

"He's only just enrolled at Berk U this semester for his Masters. He graduated in Boston for his engineering degree, but he's taking up his Masters here since it's closer to his home."

Her eyebrows shoot up, and she doesn't hide her surprise, impressed. "He sounds like an interesting guy."

"He is," Fishlegs confirms. "He makes the best blends, you know. Notice the increase in customers for the coffee shop this semester? They're usually here for his creations. And on days when he spends his time not as a barista but as a customer, he pays for his order like all the other patrons."

"But he's not here today, though," she huffs in annoyance again. "Wait, if he's not here on Thursdays, then how the hell does Hiccup provide me with off-the-menu drinks?"

Fishlegs shrugs, seemingly tight-lipped about it, but she does not miss the glint of amusement in his eyes. He urges then that she order soon because of the increasing number of people in the line, and she ends up ordering one of their best-selling tea blends. She decides that she'll just make it up with her notes, then.

Hiccup arrives much later, and she watches him go around his table to collect his note. He blushes, flustered at her writing on the note, and she smirks at his reaction.

Here's Almond Sugar Cookie Black Tea for you today, or as I'd like to call it, Fancy-Ass Tea Worth Ten Books. Nah, I'll just call you Babe. You won't mind that, right, Babe? ;)

It's chaos in the café the next Thursday.

She arrives later than normal as she has planned, considering that it's his turn to pay for drinks now. To her dismay, her usual table has been taken over by other students, four people huddling on the table meant for one. She glances over to his table, and her body freezes. There's a lump in her throat, and for once in her life, she is speechless.

There's another girl in his table.

She's beautiful and blonde and sexy—the bombshell type that any girl would want to kill for. She looks sophisticated, managing to look sexy yet stylish, flirty yet refined. And she's whispering in his ear, her body seemingly too close to his for comfort. He doesn't seem to mind, though, laughing at something that she's whispered, and his eyes sparkle as he looks over at her giggling form.

Of course.

Of course, he's got a girlfriend.

How could someone so irresistibly good-looking stay single? Surely women were clamoring for his attention! She just thought—She thought she had a chance. She thought they had some sort of connection these past few days. She thought he liked her back.

Clearly, she thought wrong.

She wonders if she interpreted all the signals wrong. He was the one who started paying for her drinks, though, right? And what about those notes and sassy remarks? Surely those were signs that he was interested. Or did she just mistake his kindness for affection? Was she someone else for him, then? Another girl on his list of possible girlfriends, perhaps? Or a rebound?

(She doesn't miss the likeness between her and the girl with him in his table. How they were both blonde, both blue-eyed, and both dressed impeccably.)

Something seems to puncture her heart at the thought of it and it makes her head dizzy and her breathing laborious, but this looks like the most logical explanation. Hiccup and this girl must have broken up before he started becoming a customer of the coffee shop, but now that they're back together, he's taken the girl here with him. Yes, that was most likely it. She was a rebound.

The girl's quick kiss on his cheek and his indifference to it seems to confirm this.

Before she can dwell more on her thoughts, however, he notices her, and his eyes immediately widen. He abruptly stands up, calling out for her.

"Astrid—"

But she has already bolted from the café with unnatural speed, and he doesn't make it in time when he reaches outside to look for her.

She doesn't go to the coffee shop next Thursday. And on the next.

The days pass by in a blur, and she buries herself in books and notes and random shit so that she doesn't have to remember. She buys her coffee from the cafeteria every day now, and although it's shitty, she comforts herself with the thought that she's saving more since it costs at least five times lesser than the coffee served at The Edge Coffee Shop.

But she misses the café. She misses the smell of ground coffee beans and the comforting aura the café afforded when it wasn't so crowded. She misses Ruff's annoyance at privileged rich kids, misses Heather's brews. Hel, she even misses the ostentatious names of overpriced coffee blends.

(And she misses him, but she denies it as soon as the idea comes up in her mind.)

(It doesn't matter anyway.)

She doesn't know how many weeks has passed since that last encounter, but she remembers that it's on a Wednesday afternoon when she runs into Heather in one of the halls of the university.

"Where have you been?" Heather almost shouts when they see each other. "You never visit by the café anymore!"

"Around campus," she says, averting her eyes and trying to be as vague and safe as possible. She doesn't want any information about her reaching unwanted people. "I'm sorry, I just got busy."

"Well, you should come by soon," Heather insists. "We've missed you."

Astrid doesn't doubt that.

Heather adds, "He's missed you, too."

Astrid frowns. Now she doubts that.

"Don't say that—" Heather says and Astrid realizes too late that she's said that out aloud "—He still reserves your table, you know. He's made other blends exclusively for you, too. And he's very protective of your table, doesn't let anyone near it anymore except for him. He's pining for you."

  She almost rolls her eyes. "I don't think his girlfriend would appreciate that."

"Ex," Heather clarifies. "His ex-girlfriend, Cami. They broke up three years ago, but they remain close friends. They're only just close friends now, you don't have to worry about anything." Astrid looks unconvinced, so she continues, "You must know that on that day, he did try to reserve your table, he really did, but—"

"—Look, it doesn't matter," she says finally, waving Heather off. "He doesn't need to explain anything to me. We don't owe each other anything. Odin, we're not even anything."

Heather is silent for a moment. "But you're not visiting the coffee shop anymore. There must be something wrong."

"I just don't see the need to pass by anymore," she lies, knowing full well that the coffee served there is one of the best she's tasted and it's almost a requirement when she needs a study session. "I've found another coffee source someplace else."

"But you know that we have the best coffee in Berk U!"

"It's all right, it's really only the caffeine I'm after, anyway. It doesn't matter how the coffee tastes like," she lies again.

Heather's fallen face almost makes her guilty. "But you still have to pass by one of these days. I'm never forgiving you if you don't, and Ruff won't let you off that easily."

"Yeah, I will," she says to appease her and to make her drop the subject. "But you have to tell him not to wait for me anymore. We've never even known each other, anyway. From now on, we don't have to reach out to each other."

She knows that Heather disapproves of it, but the barista still nods her head. They part ways then, to go to their respective classes.

She still doesn't go to the café at all after that.

She desperately needs coffee.

Specifically, she needs her favorite coffee shop's coffee.

It's already winter when she decides to go back to The Edge Coffee Shop. It's the week before the Holiday break, and everyone is clamoring to get hold of their caffeine fix. She knows that she has already resolved never to go back to the place, but she's desperate for caffeine fix, too, and the shitty cafeteria coffee won't cut it anymore. So, against the most rational part of her brain, she decides to get a take-out order from the coffee shop.

She's here for the coffee, she convinces herself.

(And she may want to get a glimpse of him just a bit. Just a little bit before the Holiday break.)

(She wonders if he still reserves her usual table for her.)

She's disappointed to see that her usual table has already been infested by first-year students, a small group of five trying to fit themselves in a table for one.

(See, Heather? He really didn't feel anything for her. At all.)

She spares a brief glance at his table, and she doesn't know if she's relieved or crestfallen to see that he's also not there anymore, the table also full of studying students doing last-minute cramming for the tests to be taken before the Holiday break.

Maybe he had already left for good.

Shaking the thoughts out of her head, she proceeds to the queue to line up for drink orders, adjusting the shawl on her neck so that she could breathe a bit more. The snow has already started to cover the entirety of the university grounds, and she has covered herself almost entirely for protection against the cold. She waits in line for her turn, trying not to scan the café to look for a familiar mop of auburn hair.

She's here for the coffee, she convinces herself again.

"My usual order of the signature Flat White with an extra shot of espresso, please," she tells Ruffnut who's absentmindedly checking the watch on the wall. "And please make that a take-out order."

"What do you mean by your usual, lady?" Ruffnut grimaces while fishing a pen, and Astrid realizes that she's sorely missed her antics. "And what's the name I should use—" Ruffnut freezes as she finally looks up at Astrid, and it takes her another few seconds to finally sputter out, "Oh my Thor!"

"Please forget my previous order. I'd like to have a Trenta, no foam, five-shot half-caf, no foam pumpkin spice quad soy octagon rifle spray tan latte with no foam at two-ten degrees," Astrid tries, chuckling a bit. "Hello to you, too, Ruff."

Instead of replying to her, Ruffnut looks around and calls out for Heather and Fishlegs, who are both busy on their own stations. They both look up, though, as soon as Ruffnut calls out for them. "She's here! She's really here!"

Heather and Fishlegs immediately leave their stations, and Astrid looks on curiously as they glance at her, faces immediately becoming excited. Fishlegs is next to her in an instant, grabbing her wrist to take her away from the queue. She raises a brow at Heather's and Ruffnut's grinning faces when she walks away.

"Wait, my order—"

"—You already have one," Fishlegs interrupts, leading her away from the line and deeper into the café. She notices that every seat in the coffee shop has already been taken, and she briefly wonders just how many customers the café already has.

"But—"

"—I'm taking you to the owner," Fishlegs says, waving her off again. "He's been waiting for you, you know. Everyday. He's the first to open the shop every day of the week—even on the weekends, mind you—and he's always the last to leave, trying to see if he could catch a glimpse of you."

"What?" Astrid asks, confused. She realizes that they're heading for the stairs, and they take the flight of steps up towards the second floor. Renovations must have already been finished, then. "I don't even know him, why would he even wait for me?"

"He's given very specific instructions that if we were to see you in the café, we were to direct you here to the second floor, where he has reserved a seat for both of you."

"That doesn't answer my question…"

The view from the second floor is breathtaking, and she trails off and momentarily stops to marvel at the scene shown through the glass walls. The second floor is overlooking the entirety of Berk University, and since it has already begun to snow, the school grounds is covered in a sheet of white powder, making the entire place resemble a winter wonderland.

Fishlegs tugs at her wrist, and she follows him, taking her gaze off the view.

"When the renovations were done, he thought it best that instead of your usual seats near the door, both of you should just stay in the second floor where he got the seat with the best view for you."

She doesn't really listen to anything he says, her eyes now wandering to the interior of the second floor, which is liberally decorated in Christmas ornaments, most notably poinsettias and mistletoe. It's elegantly designed in a modernist setting, and it's also cozy, she supposes, but also full; it's less crowded than the first floor, but every seat is taken, and she wonders just how a seat has been reserved for her.

Fishlegs points at a table, then, and she approaches hesitantly while he follows behind her.

The table for two is notably situated underneath a mistletoe decoration, but as the barista has said earlier, it had the best view in the entire second floor, almost perfect for lovers. The owner's back is facing her, so she doesn't get to have a glimpse of his face.

"He's made a new coffee blend for you, too, by the way," Fishlegs whispers behind her, making her stop for a moment. "The owner made it himself over the last weeks. He got your yaknog recipe from Ruff and he's twisted it a bit. It's that one next to his Dark Chocolate Peppermint tea."

Astrid notices the mug of coffee next to the cup of tea on the table. She doesn't usually attach the word elegant to an object—much more a drink—but this mug of coffee is. The blend looks aesthetically pleasing, with a frothy finishing on top and a dusting of ground nutmeg and cinnamon. An interesting whiff of espresso and eggnog scents in the air is emanating from it as well.

Her thoughts leave the coffee blend and her eyes wander to the owner of the café, who would be the person sitting on the table with his back to her. She almost doesn't recognize the familiar mop of auburn hair that he possessed. And then it hits her—

"Actually, he is the ow—"

Last she checked, reservations were not possible in the café to accommodate the number of students.

She practically begs Heather and Ruffnut to reserve his usual table, and she's surprised that they agree so easily.

She realizes that they were off-the-menu, custom-made drinks.

"He's technically not required to come to the café at all since he's the owner and he can come and go as he pleases; still, he's here sometimes to create blends and experiment with coffee for our seasonal collection."

"He's made other blends exclusively for you, too."

—It's Hiccup.

It explains why he was able to reserve her table in the first place when reservations weren't supposedly allowed, and why Heather and Ruffnut were so lenient when she had first begged for the reservation of his table. It also explains why she always got special, off-the-menu drinks, for he had personally made them for her!

A thousand thoughts run through her mind at the realization, but the one that screams to her the most is that—fuck it, she should turn back and go now. Now.

Before she can run away, however, his neck twists at the noise, and she is frozen on the spot.

His emerald eyes that are framed behind thick-rimmed glasses lock with her sapphire ones for the first time in weeks, and she realizes that she has forgotten just how beautiful they were. A relieved sigh of surprise escapes from his lips, and he immediately stands up to face her. He releases a huge grin then, grateful and pleased and so undeniably delighted that she's overwhelmed by the raw emotions expressed on his face and she's compelled to stay and give him another chance.

"I—" he says uncertainly, rubbing the back of his neck. He looks at her then, his gaze going from hesitant and reserved in one moment to determined and impassioned in the next, and she almost melts at the intensity of his stare.

He tries again—more resolute this time, but also more softly, "I've been waiting for you, M'lady. And I... I would very much be pleased if you could join me for a mug of Snoggletog Yaknog Spice Latte, or as I'd like to call it, the Astrid Death Tonic."

She laughs even before she can stop herself, and he gestures for her to take the last available seat in the café—

The same chair that is positioned right next to his.

  E N D

[prongsno]

wednesdays at three thirty

a late bday fic for @jamesandlilyaredead​ <3 (9445 words, read on ao3)

Everyone sees the world in black and white until they meet their soulmate. But James works in a coffee shop, and every time he sees colour there’s an annoying customer there too (AKA a coffee shop and soulmate au fic in one because i have no chill).

“One frozen mocha to go!”

It’s second nature to him now, as quick and easy as breathing. In one swift movement, James grabs hold of the milk carton, ready to pour it into the blender. He hears the door to the cafe open, a chilly breeze ruthlessly following a handful of students who scrabble inside as it begins to rain.

It’s then that it happens. The milk drops to the floor as he stares, perplexed, at the colour of his hand. It’s like the weight of an avalanche crumbles on top of him, an invisible weight pressing hard on his shoulders. Before he even realises, his legs are like jelly and he’s falling.

“James? Are you alright?” a voice asks. 

He feels a hand pressed against his back, the sound of someone’s concerned voice muffled against his ear. He tries to say something, but all he can manage is an intense gasp for air as his legs shake once more.

He can see.

Not that he couldn’t before… but he can see. 

Colours are everywhere, blinding and intense. They’re beautiful, so vibrant that it’s making his head spin.

He’s staring at white tiles, chestnut coloured cabinets. It feels like he’s on fire and, more than anything, he wishes he could stand, to just look around the place to see who is making him like this.

Of course, he’s read the stories like everyone else. Lullabies that dated back long before they even had a name. Fairy-tales of people who, like everyone else, saw the world in a lens, the colour of life squeezed out. There was only one person who could help to retrieve that colour back into your life.

A soulmate.

James blinks, his heart now slowing to a calm, even beat. He breathes in deeply, relishing the peaceful feeling that washes over him. The owner of the hand speaks again and rubs the place between his shoulder blades tentatively, asking if he needs an ambulance.

He shakes his head, finally looking up at Remus.

“Can you stand?” Remus asks, taking hold of James’ shaking hand and pulling him to his feet. He wobbles for a split second and reaches out to grasp hold of the counter with both arms. His fingers grip onto the support for dear life.

Who?

He swallows, a nauseating bubble rippling throughout his intestines and threatening to shoot up his throat. He breathes in, counting to ten. Slow and easy, he finally manages to pull his eyes away from the wooden counter and cautiously glances around cafe.

The colours are dazzling; blues, reds, greens, all different shades and intensities. They're all so vivid and intense that it feels like the ground’s shaking beneath him. The place is heaving with students, all wet due to the unexpected stormy April shower and James tries to look at as many as he can, searching desperately for someone who seems just as unsettled and surprised as him.

Everyone seems normal. How can that be? Colour’s just flown into every crevice of their being… and they don’t care?

There are too many voices, people ordering, grabbing their coffees and other beverages and talking aimlessly with one another. Amidst the chatter and the whirring noises from the coffee machines, the sound of the door opening reaches his ears. A freezing wind enters, the chilly kind that makes the hairs on his arms stand up on edge.

And then, just like that, his world is drained of colour. 

The door closes shut and it’s like time pauses around him.

It’s shattering, to see the colour fade and vanish so brutally and without warning.

He’s moving in an instant, ignoring Remus and his concerned questions which he brushes off with a shake of his head. He’s dodging through the large mass of students, speech failing him as he finally makes it to the door and flings it open. The rain’s pouring down with no mercy and it seems that fate has none either.

The person has vanished. The person, his soulmate.

“James!” Remus is by his side, grabbing his arm softly as he shuts the door. “Are you mad? Your feet are soaked now.”

James can’t speak, he doesn’t know what to say. His throat itches to release a soul-shattering sob; that’s what it feels like, soul-shattering.

He numbly allows Remus to lead him to the staff room, setting him down on his favourite armchair. The cushions sink beneath him and the dull chime of the cedar clock echoes in his head.

“James?” Remus asks again, this time plopping a hot cup of tea into his cold hands.

“It happened, Remus,” he whispers, it’s so painful to speak, like the air has been choked out of his lungs. He’s scared that perhaps it’s all just a dream.

“It?” Remus asks, watching James with a careful gaze. “What was it like?”

James sighs and looks down at his tea, stirring it aimlessly for a few seconds before he takes a small sip. “Unlike anything that’s ever happened before,” he says finally. He lets out a deep sigh and runs a hand through his hair, gripping at the ends.

“The colours were so perfect and then it was gone. They were gone - they just left and took the colour with them.”

“Which colour was the prettiest?”

“Red,” James says in an instant, a small smile creeping onto his face. His eyes brighten, recalling the feel of it. There’s something about that colour, it made him feel warm.

“All of them, Remus. But red… red was intense.”

The two sit in silence for a few moments. James takes cautious sips of his tea whilst Remus sits and watches his every move. The silence is more reassuring than unsettling, but still Remus tries his best.

“James…” The cafe is still horrendously busy and there’s only so much Peter and Sirius can handle on their own. He wrings his hands together, but James is the one to speak first.

“Do you think… do you think that’s it?”

This time James’ voice is back to normal. No hushed whispers, no desperately needed gasps for breath after each word. The only tell-tale sign is his right hand, his fingers still shaking.

There had been millions of accounts of people seeing colour, from all over the world. And for some that had been it, just the one moment and then they were back to the way they had always been. The colours just slowly faded from their memories like it had never happened.

“Well,” Remus starts, unsure, “if they came to the cafe then they must be a student.” he checks his watch, glancing at the time and date, “I mean, it’s a Wednesday. Student for sure.”

“Unless it’s a teacher, that’d be unfortunate.” James mutters, finally feeling like himself again. He smiles, nods his head and allows Remus’ feeble attempts to give him a slither of hope.

He gulps back the rest of his tea, assuring his friend he’s fine to go back to work.

If he’s meant to see them again then he will. And if he doesn’t then, well, he’d just go on as normal. He'd unwillingly let the memory fade away, just like the colour had.

Classes don’t seem to put his mind at ease at all - he spends the hours doodling in the margins of his notebook, not listening at all to the way Mrs McGonagall lectures on about Biology. And when the two hours are finally up, he jogs all the way back to the coffee shop.

Peter looks up in surprise from his spot at the till.

“Alright? Didn’t think you were working today.”

“Nah, I’m not. But - err - thought you could use some help? Thursdays, mate. Everyone needs a coffee on a Thursday.”

Peter smiles, thankful for the sentiment and James drags himself behind the counter, throwing his white apron on like it’s hot coal in his hands.

He glances up every time he hears the door open, but each time no one brings colour in with them. By the end of the four hour shift he’s in an angry mood and ends up getting a chinese on the way home to ease his feelings.

He spends most of Friday doing the same thing, but on more than one occasion he catches Remus’ gaze and tries to act as normal and as aloof as possible.

That’s when he slices his finger with a cake knife, and spends the remainder of his shift with an angry Remus, a paramedic and a first aid kit.

Saturday, though, is a brand new day.

His finger’s been bandaged, the sun is shining and the weather report says it seems like summer is finally in the air with highs of twenty degrees (rather unusual for mid-April, though no one seems to mind).

So, James decides not to worry. The first few times the door opens he lifts his head up out of habit, but he forces himself to stop. It only makes things harder and the only way to make things better is to focus on something he’s good at, and that’s making darn-good coffee. He even starts humming again, dancing behind the counter to Wham’s Jitterbug.

Then the air stops again and he’s struggling to breathe. He’s staring at sunshine yellow walls and a black coffee machine.

With shaking fingers he reaches out to touch the bright yellow strokes of paint, thoroughly amazed. Then he swallows slowly, pauses the machine, and turns around.

It’s pretty busy; everyone wants ice coffees and smoothies so they can sit outside and bask in the warm sun before it disappears. There’s a group of girls nearest to the door, laughing about something James can’t quite make out. He glances at them one by one but none of them act any differently or give off any feeling. He scowls.

Whoever the person is, they have come back.

“Excuse me,” someone huffs by the counter and clicks their fingers at him rudely, forcing him to turn his head.

A student glares up at him, hands on her hips. Her hair’s an intense shade of red and for a second his heart stops.

“Instead of eyeing up girls could you do your job and ask me what I want?”

James rolls his eyes and swears under his breath. He doesn’t need this right now, annoying customers make him angry. Even if said annoying customer is pretty.

And he’s already angry; someone in this cafe right now is his soulmate. And they’ll go, just like last time. And the moment will pass and he’ll go back to the dull grey once again. He’s got minutes, if that.

The woman clears her throat, waiting.

“Alright,” he says, stomping to the counter, “what do you want?”

He doesn’t care that he’s being rude. She was rude first and he’s not in the best of moods right now.

“A medium mango smoothie to go. With only a handful of ice.”

James sighs, walks towards the fridge and looks for the ingredients. He doesn’t even try to hide the smirk on his lips when he notices they’ve ran out of the said fruit.

He turns around with a twirl and tries his hardest to put on a sombre facade. “I’m afraid we’ve run out of mango, terribly sorry about that.”

“Sure you are,” she hums and grabs hold of a menu, drumming her fingernails against the countertop in an annoying beat, “I’ll have…” she trails off, her nails still dancing as she pauses.

“Yes?” James taps his pen against the till, irritated.

“A medium iced coffee then,” she says finally, dropping the menu back onto the counter. “With only a handful-”

“Of ice, got it. And your name?”

“Lily. That’s L-I-L-Y. Not two L’s. Just one.”

He bites his tongue, of course he knows how to spell. How stupid does she think he is?

Remus is on the next till, serving the group of girls who had been by the door. James watches them curiously as he pours the coffee and ice cream into a blender. They’re all acting normal; there’s no spark in their eyes, no sign that they’re experiencing anything. They’re pretty he supposes, but he… he can’t connect.

Would there even be a sign? How can he tell?

His annoying customer clears her throat again and he refrains from rolling his eyes once more. The sooner he works on her damn iced coffee then the sooner she can leave and he’ll be able to try and find them, whoever they were.

A gruelling three minutes later he plonks the beverage down onto the counter.

“That’s £2.35,” his tone is icy and he wishes he’d spat in the stupid beverage as she bites down on the straw and gives it a small sip.

She hands him the exact change without uttering another word, then wraps two serviettes around the plastic cup before picking it up. She narrows her eyes at him and glances at his name tag.

“Thanks James,” she sneers, “great customer service.” Then she’s gone and he couldn’t be any more relieved.

He releases a long, hard breath and looks around the cafe again. The group of girls are leaving, chattering to themselves as Lily lags behind them; the small girl takes tiny steps as they move at a snail's-pace towards the door. The bell chimes and the group and Lily leave the building, a few other students following after her.

He blinks and the colour vanishes with it. James curses and kicks the counter irritably.

Sirius looks over at him in shock and Remus hisses at him to behave. His foot throbs, kicking hadn’t helped at all. And he’s just wasted all his time serving that annoying Lily as his soulmate had just been and gone again, and disappeared right from under his nose.

“So, let me get this straight…” Sirius leans against the table, his long legs stretching out as he cradles a cup of hot chocolate in his hands, “you experienced it and you didn’t tell me? Your best mate?”

James rolls his eyes, mouth curling slightly into a small smile. “It was painful, thank you very much. That much colour to suddenly look at? I had a blinking migraine for a couple of hours afterwards!”

Sirius lets out a thoughtful ‘hmm’ and scratches his chin. “Did you see who it was?”

He shakes his head. “It was too busy. And I had the worst customer too, she was a right bi-”

Remus pokes his head round the door. “Didn’t you notice James almost passed out on the floor? Honestly, I bet his S.M has already clocked on. You weren’t exactly discreet, mate.”

James chucks an empty milk carton and Remus dodges it, laughing like he’s on helium.

“You’re such an arse! It’s painful, okay?”

Sirius sighs dramatically and throws one hand to his head. The other hand reaches out, clutching hard onto James’ shoulder. “But it’s beautiful, right? Beautifully painful?”

“Yeah, go ahead and make fun. I’d like to see how you handle it.”

His friend shrugs a little and balances his teaspoon on his left pinky. “I have,” he says simply.

James chokes on the last few dregs of his hot vimto, catching Remus’ perplexed gaze.

“You have? When?”

Sirius stands there a little awkwardly, thrusting his hands into his jean pockets. “It was ages ago. I  - we were only seven... we didn’t understand it much at the time.”

“Ruddy hell.”

James doesn’t know what’s more shocking - the fact that Sirius has a soulmate somewhere or that he won’t give away any more details about it. He just picks up his leather jacket, throws it over one shoulder and glances at James’ and Remus’ still surprised faces with another shrug.

“Are we running a coffee shop or what?”

He hates that he chose Biology, of all the sciences, to study at university. He’s already juggling football into the mix and classes start to interfere with his work. He finds he spends more time in the small staff room of the cafe than at the library or at Hogwarts Student’s Union. Plus, he can get free drinks here and put his feet up on the table.

That’s exactly what he’s doing when there’s a knock on the door of the break room.

“Mate,” Sirius knocks again, “I need back up. Remus has class.”

James folds down the corner of his page (anyone who claims they don’t do that is lying), puts his pen behind his ear and zips up his jeans (don’t ask). He’s checking his phone messages as he props the door open with his waist, an apology on his lips as he sets into the cafe.

He blinks and then he’s staring at that annoying customer he had the other day. She’s got red hair and she’s wearing a light brown top as she stares down at the menu. She glances up at the sound of the door and his stomach gives a little jolt when he notices her forest green eyes.

He’s struggling to breathe again, hands shaking as he runs his fingers through his messy hair.

His soulmate’s here and of course Annoying Lily has to ruin it all over again.

“Ah, if it isn’t Barista Of The Year,” she smirks.

Any nice thought is instantly replaced with every and any cuss word he can think of on the spot. He rolls his eyes, pulls down at his apron and glares at Sirius who’s taking her order.

“Be nice, mate, she’s a customer!” Sirius grins, “I’m sorry about Grumpy over there,” he jerks his thumb towards James, who’s now angrily ripping up a cardboard box, “he hates Wednesdays.”

He pulls his eyes away as he hears Lily give out a little laugh, glancing around to see if he can spot his soulmate. There’s about thirteen people and James swears under his breath.

“Make a cherry white hot chocolate for Lily, will ya?” Sirius throws him a bottle of water and James catches it swiftly with one hand.

Lily looks smugly at him, tapping her fingers against the counter expectantly. He’s just turned around, grabbing hold of the semi skimmed milk with a death grip, when he hears her clear her throat a little.

“I wanted to apologise for the other day,” she says with reluctance when Sirius coughs loudly, “I wasn’t in the best of moods and I took it out on you. So - sorry, I guess.”

“Isn’t that nice, mate?” James rolls his eyes again when Sirius claps a hand on his back. “Do you have anything to say back?”

He glances over his shoulder and gives Lily the stinkeye. “Apology accepted.”

She’s huffing, cheeks a little pink as she shakes her head, muttering out an ‘unbelievable’. He only turns around once her hot chocolate is made and he gives her a sheepish grin as he places it in front of her.

“I’m sorry too. I guess.”

Sirius snorts as he takes the order of the next customer. “That wasn’t so hard, was it? You’re lucky Remus isn’t here. He’d have you drawn and quartered for being rude to a customer.”

“I’ve got a few more things on my mind right now,” he murmurs quietly, cleaning up a little spillage with a tea towel.

“They’re here? Right now?” Sirius lifts his head in a very inconspicuous manner, eyes raking over each customer like he's in the mafia.

“Something wrong?” Lily asks as she sips at her drink.

“Hey, Lils. You know anyone in here?”

At Sirius’ question she turns around to look. “No one seems familiar. Why?”

“Well James -”

“No reason,” James stomps on Sirius’ foot, instantly silencing him.

“No reason,” Sirius echoes.

She hums, sliding over the exact change for her beverage before sitting down at one of the tables.

James glances around the cafe again.

Apart from Lily, there's a group of three girls over in the corner giggling at a laptop, a guy with a beard who's talking animatedly on his phone, two girls and a guy all collectively on their phones as they sit together (they’ve hardly spoken at all since they arrived) and a guy who must be about fifty five talking to a woman of similar age. Plus another five or so who aren’t even facing him.

He grimaces and scribbles down everyone's appearances in the margins of his notepad. This time he's not going to give up as easily.

After an hour the colour is starting to get too much to handle, he’s got a head-splitting migraine.

“I can’t,” he whispers to Sirius and shakes his head. He’s already threading his arms through his jacket. “I need to get out. Fresh air.”

It’s almost a relief to see the different shades of grey when he steps out onto the street. It’s empowering to know that, this time, he’s the one who’s taken the colour away. He lets out a sigh and kicks at an empty bottle on the road.

He doesn’t look back.

It’s Peter who notices the pattern first.

Wednesdays at three thirty, give or take a few minutes. Every Wednesday. There’s quite a number of regulars but, unfortunately for him, Lily is always showing up too.

“You make good coffee,” she shrugs the next time he sees her.

And the time after that Remus is there. It turns out the two share a class together and they spend hours talking about their essay that’s due in on Friday.

Her hair is always the first thing he notices, dangerously bold and enticing. He supposes she’s not so bad once you get to know her.

A couple of weeks later, Lily asks if James can read over her essay (apparently some people actually have their work checked, which is news for him) and he says yes in a heartbeat.

“Are you sure?” she asks as she places her laptop on a table close to the window.

James takes off his apron and throws it over the back of the chair. It’s a pointless question, since she’s already asked him the same thing about twenty times.

“Totally. But I’m a sucker for the oxford comma. Just a forewarning.”

She’s rolling her eyes as she takes out her purse. “What do you want to drink? It’s on me.”

He peels his eyes away from the screen and squints up at the menu. There’s no Remus today and that leaves Peter and Sirius behind the counter. The two snicker and goof around, juggling oranges and balancing milk lids on their noses.

“I’ll have a triple, venti, half sweet, non-fat caramel macchiato. Extra hot,” he says.

“Aren’t they a bugger to make?”

“The worst.”

“I’m about eighty percent sure Sirius spat in that,” she says when she places the steaming mug on the table next to him five minutes later.

He drinks it anyways (who would have thought such an obnoxious and hipster drink would actually taste pretty good?) and spends the remainder of the day sitting next to Lily. Her essay is impeccable, of course, and each time their arms brush against each other he gets a jolt in his stomach.

Having her at the cafe makes it a lot harder for James to liaise and spy on the other customers. Especially when she and Sirius bond over their love for marmite (how disgusting) during her next visit.

For some reason she’s eating toast and Sirius just blinks at her. “Is that marmite?”

The rest is history and she spends most of her visit that day cooped up on one of the high chairs. They chatter together about their marmite experiences for what seems like hours.

It’s becoming A Problem.

James slowly starts to notice how pretty her smile is. She always spends a good fifteen minutes or so deciding what on earth to order and, more often than not, changes her mind about three times.

On one occasion he asks her, “What do you want? What do you want?” to which she replies back with an exasperated grimace, “It’s not that simple,” then the two get matching, exhilarated grins as they both profess their love for The Notebook.

He’s almost used to seeing the colour so much now but a part of him dares to normalise the feeling, lest it vanish as quick as a heartbeat.

And it’s Wednesday again when a downpour brings in a mass of students.

Lily, yellow and blue spotted umbrella in her hand, is, of course, amidst the thrall. James isn’t even that surprised to see her anymore. Sirius is busy serving another customer, so he gives her a bright smile (which he realises isn’t actually that hard to do) and asks her what she wants.

“I’ll have a Pumpkin Spiced Latte.”

“One of those are you?” he asks, giving Lily a sly smirk as he starts to jot down her order.

“It’s good. Have you never tried it?”

He shakes his head. “Peter’s addicted to it, he made me try it once. Far too sweet,” he says with a grimace.

“That’s what makes it so delicious.”

He doesn’t understand how someone can have such strange taste buds - to think marmite, PSLs and white hot chocolates are all under the denomination of ‘delicious’. But hey - everyone has their own opinions, right? Even if it’s the wrong one.

He’s just turning around, ready to start making her drink when she sucks in a breath. He pauses instantly, already knowing by now what that little intake of breath means.

“What are you wanting to change it to?”

He can’t help but give her an amused smile, watching as she glares at the menu. Biting her chipped nails, fingers drumming against the counter-top. She looks like this is the worst decision she’s ever made.

“I can’t decide between a Pumpkin Spiced Latte or a Pumpkin Spiced Frapp.”

He blinks, “Well. One’s hot - you see - and the other’s cold.”

“Wow, thanks for that. I’d never have guessed.”

She’s smirking and she’s got such a contagious smile, he can feel his lips mirroring hers in seconds. She takes another three minutes before she slaps a fiver onto the counter. “A cold one. I’ll be daring.”

When he places the drink on the counter next to her, he rakes his eyes over the customers behind her. The same group of girls, the same elderly couple, the same bearded man. It has to be one of them.

He’s served them all before, each are nice and unique in character but it’s so hard to figure out which one it is. He’s even tried small talk, but every time he makes it personal they all shrink away. It seems like Lily is the only one in the cafe who ever bothers to talk. And, even then, it’s Sirius who she’s closer too.

He gets a message, phone buzzing against his thigh as he hands over Lily’s change.

Serious to Barista Of The Year (15:37) : stop flirting with customers ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)

“I was not flirting.”

“You know,” Sirius, who’s lounging across one of the sofas with a history book pulled over his face, lets out a small sigh, “I didn’t believe you the first five times, so -”

“I’m only saying it so you know I’m telling the truth!”

Only now does Sirius peel the book away from his face. “Mate. Come on.”

“I wasn’t.”

“You are allowed to, you know,”

“I know I’m allowed to,” James scowls.

“Do you?” Sirius swings his legs onto the floor, his socks have dozens of little hamburgers all over them. “I mean… I know you’re - well - a romantic but having a soulmate doesn’t mean anything.”

“What about you?”

Sirius scratches his chin, refusing to meet his gaze. “What about me?” his voice is gruff.

“You never told me, your best mate, that you saw colour when you were seven. Seven!”

He merely shrugs. “I was seven.”

“Yeah. That’s what I mean. Do you still-”

Sirius shakes his head. “Nah, haven’t for ages.”

“What was it like?”

There’s a small period of silence.

Sirius runs a hand through his hair, then he takes a swig of water and flings the now empty bottle up into the air. He catches it with one hand.

“It felt - God, I dunno - natural? We had no idea what it meant, how could we? We were friends, that was it.”

James gets goosebumps.  

“What happened?”

“With a swine of a mother like mine?” he snorts, “What didn’t happen. I never saw her again.”

“You could try finding her-”

He shakes his head. “Nah. Half the female population probably have the same name.”

“Jane.”

“No.”

“Sarah?”

“No. Can you stop guessing now?”

“Depends, will you tell me her name?”

Sirius rolls his eyes, but there’s a smirk on his lips. “Fine. Mary.”

James drums his fingers against the armrest of his chair. “I suppose it is quite a common name. There’s Mary Berry, Mary Poppins-”

“Mary, Queen of Scots.” Sirius adds, rubbing his eyes tiredly. “My point is there’s a heck ton of Mary’s out there. And after a while you get, well - you know.”

The annoying thing is that, even though Sirius hadn’t exactly said much, he did know.

It’s such a strange feeling, one you can’t really put into words. James had spent hours agonising over who it was, tearing himself apart to the point where he couldn’t sleep. And for Sirius to know her and to have gone through life hearing that name on people's lips, he doesn’t know how he can handle it.

It’s a gift, but one that eats away at your insides until it’s all but consumed you. Colour was something James desperately yearned for and whoever they were had the power to give it to them. Just like that, you’re made for each other.

He shuffles on his seat, fingers fluttering to itch at his backside (he does this sometimes when he’s nervous). Green emerald eyes flicker on and off in his mind, making his heart do cartwheels.

There were hundreds, thousands, of cases where people married someone who wasn’t their soulmate. You give up the gift, so to speak. Does colour really mean that much to you when you’ve got someone you love and who loves you back?

Sirius mentions something about needing to take a dump and waddles out, not before slapping the back of his neck with a tea towel. James flips him off and Sirius, like he has eyes in the back of his head, does one casually back.

James is left alone with just his thoughts. Thoughts of Lily Evans.

The next time she comes into the coffee shop she’s wearing a bright yellow anorak and James can’t help but think of sunshine, daisies and lemons.

She flashes him a smile, cheeks pink, and asks him how he is.

He doesn’t tell her how pretty she looks today, though the words are desperately wanting to run off his tongue and slide out of his mouth like jelly. He doesn’t say how happy he is to see her - how sometimes the prospect of a soulmate, his soulmate, is replaced with pictures of her.

“Not bad,” he bites, fumbling with the lid of a teapot, “you?”

“Better with the prospect of coffee. Can I get an americano, please?”

James makes a grab for a cup. “You do know how strong this stuff is, right?”

She dismisses his cautious gaze with a wave of her hand. “I’ll add four sugars, it’s fine.”

“You know what another name for an americano is, Evans?” Sirius asks, grinning like the cheshire cat as he leans against the counters.

“Do I want to know?”

“A Long Black. I kid you not.”

Lily purses her lips. “On second thought, I’ll have a latte.”

“Don't fancy drinking a Long Black?” Sirius asks, already walking off to serve another customer before Lily can say anything back.

“You can have a Long Black if you want,” James smirks, dodging Lily’s hand that goes up to swipe at him, “I won’t judge.”

“A latte is better. Thanks though. But I think americano’s have been ruined for me now, permanently.”

He doesn’t know why, but he takes his time making the drink. He wants it to be perfect and immaculate, the best latte she’s ever had before. So, when she brings it to her lips he doesn’t feel like he shouldn’t be watching her - he just wants to know how she likes the drink. For science.

“It’s really good. You’re really good.”

“You’ve got - err - a,” he gestures to his own lips, staring at her frothy milk moustache. Her hands fly up to her face immediately, and she spends a good two minutes scrubbing her entire face with a serviette before emerging out of it with a red, mortified face.

“Sorry. How embarrassing.”

Her smile has to be the sweetest thing he’s ever encountered. It makes him weak in his knees. “It’s cute,” he drops his own tea, hot water spilling onto his arms and over the counter, “bugger. I mean, it’s fine. Milk moustaches are cute, I mean.”

She smiles, “You’re sweet,” her cheeks are still crimson. “I mean, my friend would have just taken pictures. I love her to bits but, you didn’t even - didn’t laugh is what I’m trying to say.”

“I almost did.”

Then he laughs and he has to press a hand to his lips to stop himself.

She’s got constellations in her eyes, he could stare at her for hours and at each passing minute he'd find something new to marvel at. She’s a breathtaking view. Her phone vibrates against her mug and the two jump. She grabs for it, avoiding his eyes as she stutters out a hello.

“Mary! Sorry. I’ll be there in a sec, on my way,” she ends the call with a sigh and when she glances back up at him he has the strongest urge to kiss her.

“Sorry, I have to go,” she says, downing the rest of her latte. She plops the empty cup into his hands, swings her bag over her shoulders but doesn’t move an inch.

He should say something.

He should ask her if she’s okay with seeing in black and white for the rest of her life. Ask if she’s okay being with someone like him - someone who can’t give her colour. She bites her lip, ready to say something when Sirius barges past with a tray full of dirty cups and plates.

His feet falter when he glances at the two of them. “Sorry, did I just ruin a moment?”

James’ cheeks burn and Lily just clears her throat. “No. I have to meet Mary, my- uh - friend. Um. See you boys later.”

She turns around, almost running into the bearded regular man. She murmurs out an apology and has to wait as the old regular couple walk in front of her. Together the three of them leave the shop, vanishing along with the surges of colour.

James takes a shaky step back, stepping on Sirius’ toes.

“Watch it!”

“It’s them,” he says, breathing out heavily, muttering the phrase over and over again, “it has to be either the old guy or the lady. It’s official - I’m a marriage wrecker.”

“You don’t have to marry them. There’s no contract.”

“I know. But, Lily, she,” James groans and shakes a hand through his hair.

“She...?”

James blinks. She’s everything he’s ever wanted. “Er… she has a friend called Mary, didn’t you know?”

“I’ve met countless Mary’s. It doesn’t mean a thing.”

Is she in prison for murder? Did Walburga Black kill Sirius’s soulmate? That seems to be the only plausible explanation at the moment. It would explain why Sirius hasn’t met Mary since whatever happened happened.

He’s grabbing onto a bag of carrots when he gets that thought and he looks around the shop suspiciously. He’s only met Walburga a few times; the last being when Sirius, sporting his own bloody and broken nose, dislocated Orion Black’s jaw.

Barista Of The Year to Serious (17:40): shall i buy hummus

Serious has changed his nickname to Hummus Lover 2k19

Hummus Lover 2k19 to Barista Of The Year (17:41): what are u after

Barista Of The Year to Hummus Lover 2k19 (17:43): is ur mum in prison???

Hummus Lover 2k19 to Barista Of The Year (17:45): ….. i wish

He’s halfway through the doors of Tesco Extra, googling ‘why is my friend a dumbass’ when he bumps into someone and his phone drops to the floor.

“Sorry!”

“It’s fine!”

He’s already bending down, fingers reaching out to grip onto his mobile when he realises whose voice it is.

“Lily!”

It’s weird seeing her out of the cafe, without a counter separating them.

She’s smaller than he remembers and he’s actually able to see her shoes, which is extremely weird. She’s wearing black worn out dolly shoes, her hair wild and the shade of crisp red and orange leaves signalling the first sign of autumn.

Her cheeks are rosy. “James! Hi.”

A car passes by, splashing murky water all over his legs. “I bought carrots, celery and hummus.” He waves the bag he’s carrying.

She gives him a soft smile and pulls on her jacket. “I’m going to buy marmite.”

“Disgraceful.”

“How can you dislike it when you’ve not even had it before?”

“Ah - but how long is a piece of string, Lily?”

“However long it is when you buy it.”  

He’s grinning and she’s smiling back, making his heart flutter and quiver.

Seeing her with the sunset behind her, lighting up her hair like she’s a part of the sky, makes him wonder why he was even so determined to find his soulmate in the first place. She’s quickly become part of his life, his routine and he never wants it to end.

His phone makes a PING sound and he forces himself to look away from her.

Hummus Lover 2k19 has changed your nickname to I Love You Bro

Hummus Lover 2k19 has changed his nickname to Please Love Me

Please Love Me to I Love You Bro (18:09): how upset would u be if i hypothetically just broke your teapot. Hypothetically

Please Love Me to I Love You Bro (18:09): btw whats that tasty thing your mum gets sometimes? not jalebi, the other one I Love You Bro to Please Love Me (18:10): …. gulab jamun also ??? what the frick sirius?? omw

He sighs and plops his phone into his shopping bag. “Hey, Lily. I got to go, Sirius is creating havoc at our flat -”

“Say no more,” she laughs, “see you later?”

“Definitely.”

It’s only when she’s gone into the shop, and he’s half way down the road, that he glances at the passing cars and realises he’s looking at dull grey.

He’s blinking, stopping dead in his tracks. Heart pounding a trillion beats per second against his chest. It hurts so much.

No no no no no.

He swishes around, almost toppling over a woman who glares and tuts at him before stomping away.

Was he hallucinating?

“Are you seriously asking me this?”

Sirius and James are on a fifteen minute break. They’re lying on the sofas in the staff room, spending their free time balancing water bottles on their foreheads.

“Yes.”

Sirius sighs, “No. I have never thought I was seeing colour when I wasn’t. Yes, I think you’re a moron.”

“I didn’t -”

“You're making up excuses, you knob. You know. You’ve been a blithering idiot ever since she set foot in the cafe.”

“All I'm saying is that there were a lot of people on that street,”

Sirius moves slightly and the bottle falls dramatically to the floor. “I know the Old Age Pensioner’s Zumba Class finished around six, perhaps it is the old lady with the moustache.”

Remus barges in, head ducking just in time as a water bottle flies across the room.

“What are two you doing in here? And why does it stink so bad?”

“Past your bedtime is it, Remus?” Sirius asks as he pulls James into a headlock.

“It’s past three thirty and it’s Wednesday.” Remus sends a curious glance in James’ direction, who immediately stuffs a cushion over his face. “What’s going on?”

“It’s Lily. Or it’s that old lady who grabbed my arse the other day, you know the one who always orders filter coffee and reeks of cotton balls,” says Sirius with a grin.

Remus leans against the door, shaking his head in amusement. “Well the old lady’s here right now. Why don’t you go and check, James?”

James gulps, feeling hot and sweaty even though he’s only wearing a t shirt and jeans. Sirius drags him to his feet and pushes him towards the door.

There’s not even a hint of colour. And no Lily Evans.

Panicking, he seizes hold of the closest thing, waving it in Remus’s face. “Look see. This is green.”

“That’s an egg, mate. Eggs aren’t green.”

“Dr Seuss would tell you otherwise. And how would you know, Remus? No offence.”

“But I do,” Sirius grabs for the egg, it twirls out of James’s hands and falls with a crack on the floor.

“I can’t believe you didn’t realise,” Peter tuts as cleans up the egg with a couple of cloths, “she’s been coming here for, how long? It feels like forever?”

“You looked like you were sea-sick each and every time. I never knew someone could get so affected by it.” Sirius muses, albeit smiling a little sadly as he pats James’s shoulder.

“Gee, thanks.”

“Maybe she’s just running late?” Remus glances at his watch, it’s almost four by now. Lily has never been late, not once. Dead on Wednesdays at three thirty (minus the Saturday when he first met her). James groans, he's such an idiot.

“Or maybe she got scared when she realised it’s James.”

A customer comes towards the counter and Peter takes one for the team, jogging towards them with a bright smile on his face.

“This is Lily we’re talking about,” Sirius shakes his head with a lopsided grin, “she's obviously crazy about him.”

“Well I don't see her. So I guess your premonition is wrong.”

It’s exactly what James was scared about ever since this whole mess started.

The colour dissolving, squeezed out of his life like water in a sponge, and knowing who it is makes it all the more unbearable. That freaking Lily Evans (the annoying customer turned tolerable acquaintance turned low-key crush turned soulmate) was it all along.

Only one good thing seems to come out of this mess, and that’s that he’s finally able to pay more attention to his classes - and actually submits his latest assignment in on time instead of seven hours later like his last one.

McGonagall has to pull him to one side after a lecture, asking him if anything is wrong.

There’s a hole in his heart, as cliche as it sounds, and the whole damn thing’s like ecstasy. He’s got no idea how Sirius can even manage, because now it’s been in his system he’s desperately wanting it all again.

Two weeks quickly become four and James longs to see her again.

So, at the first opportunity he gets, he taps in Sirius’s code on his phone (the same four digits he has for everything - even his bank code) and has only just opened up his contacts when he hears the sound of biker boots against the hardwood floor.

“Is there a reason why you’re using my phone?”  

James Potter looks like a thief in the dead of night. “No. Hah! What - oh, this is your phone? I had no idea.”

Sirius crosses his arms. “No reason why you’re scrolling like a mad man through my L contacts either, eh?” he says with a winks and pops a strawberry into his mouth. James lets out a dejected sigh.

“I don’t have Lily’s number. Sorry.”

“You both joined the freaking Marmite society,”

“Rightly so, it needs more love.”

“And you don’t even have her number?”

He shakes his head, “No.”

Realisation dawns upon him, a glorious and ethereal light bulb flickering on inside his head. He glances up, a smile pulling on his lips. “You both joined the Marmite society.”

Sirius looks uncomfortable. “Yes… but you hate marmite.”

“I love it. Best damned thing since sliced bread.”

“You'll hate it. We only joined so we could get the free jar, but meetings include eating marmite toast so it's not exactly your cup of tea.”

“I'm going to that meeting, you can't stop fate.”

No matter how many times Sirius tries to talk him out of it, James’ mind is set. It’s a brilliant plan.

“It’s an awful plan,” Sirius says for the twentieth time, “we don’t even know if she’s going to be there.”

The words fall short on deaf ears as the two of them make their way to the mini meeting room, tucked away in the far corners of the oldest part of The Hogwarts Students Union. The strange society is made up of about twelve people and, he’s remaining optimistic, Lily’s not there yet.

Marlene McKinnon, a mature, final year Law student, seems to be in charge of the whole society, as she stands about by the toaster with a pack of bread and ten jars of marmite surrounding her.

“You guys just sit and eat toast on marmite?” James hisses as Sirius shuts the door and makes his way to three people who are sat on the nearest couch.

“I did try to tell you.”

Frank Longbottom introduces himself to James, and the first thing he says is that he’s gone through ten jars of marmite so far during his lifetime. Luckily the door opens, stopping all further conversation which involves James having to lie about loving marmite.

Luckily the door opens and colour crystallises before his very eyes as Lily Evans comes barging into the room.

She stops, eyes immediately drawing to James and Sirius who both give her a small, guilty wave. She bites her lip, hand reaching for her bag strap which she squeezes hard once. Then, like she’s lost a battle she knows she can’t win, stomps towards the sofa before plopping down opposite him.

Her hair’s the shade of cinnamon sticks and her green eyes sparkle. Sirius waggles his eyebrows when she throws one leg over the other and leans forwards to them, a smirk on her bright red lips.

“I didn’t know you liked marmite, James.”

His throat’s dry. “Not like. I love it.”

“Every marmite lover is welcome!” Marlene places two plates full of marmite-spread toast in front of them and James has to gulp down a retch. “As our newest society member, you can take the first bite.”

He's got thirteen sets of eyes on him and Sirius has to stuff the sleeve of his leather jacket in his face to stop himself from sniggering. Lily watches him with a small expectant smile. It makes his stupid heart flutter and before he knows it he's grabbing at the toast and stuffing it into his mouth.

It's disgusting, so salty on his tongue that his eyes start to water. But no one else seems to notice, they're all too busy grabbing the toast like vultures to notice, and it’s only Lily’s eyes which still hang onto him and she cocks her head a little to the side. He must look a right state, with the taste of rotten garbage in his mouth and tears streaming down his face because she smiles.

He's never going to get used to it; it's euphoric, a tingling sensation all the way from his head to his fingertips.

“Alright?” Sirius asks.

Emmeline Vance produces a jar of vegemite from her bag and, as a society, they collectively decide to hold a tasting session during their next meeting. Dorcas Meadows hands everyone a Marmite Soc t shirt and, thanks to Bellamy Blake (who made sure they printed out more t shirts in the high hopes that the society would grow), James is given one too.

“I'm in love,” he whispers. Because, crap, he really thinks he is.

Staring at green eyes, seeing Lily’s red lips curve and her hair, like cherries, roses and the setting sun. Sirius shuffles besides him and James is only vaguely aware of murmuring voices around the room.

There’s a tap on his shoulder, the meeting’s over.

He just catches a brief glimpse of Lily’s red cardigan swishing out of the door before he’s springing to his feet, grabbing hold of his bag and telling Sirius, whose white t shirt and dark blue denim jeans are now a dull grey, that he’ll meet him later. He doesn’t even wait for a response.

His heart’s pounding, a dull but excited and throbbing ache that shoots up from his toes like pins and needles.

James has never felt anything like this, the intense desperation - eating him up and consuming him. He pushes past a group of students, a sorry tangling between his lips before he’s tripping over a backpack (honestly- who leaves their bags sprawled out like that?) and flying out onto the floor.

“What are you like, honestly.”

He knows that voice, and a surge of colour comes floating with it. It’s happened so many times now, the change not quite instant but more like paint sweeping onto a canvas - bringing everything to life.

His eyes flutter open, then closed.

Lily is standing above him, grinning, a hand on her hip as she shakes her head and sighs. Then she’s reaching out her hand and she’s the first sweet sounding note of an entrancing melody, just one small trickle of spine tingling laughter and he’s floating.

He realises this is the first time he’s ever touched her hand and he grips onto her that little bit tighter as she pulls him off the floor.

“Alright?” she asks when his feet have hit the ground.

Now that he’s found her, he’s not exactly sure what he should say. Words fail him, not for the first time, and somehow he feels ten times smaller under her intense gaze.

“Fantastic. Yourself?”

“Not sure yet.”

“Oh,” he says, immediately bringing a hand up to ruffle his hair.

She kicks the bag out of way, sniffs and wipes her nose with a tissue. It’s flu season and he hates being ill (almost as much as he hates marmite) but the prospect of it doesn’t seem too bad when she’s here in front of him. Red, runny nose and all.

She sets off walking and his feet follow - like she’s the biggest flame or source of light and he’s just a moth, so entranced that he doesn’t know what to do with himself. He loves seeing in colour but there’s something about her, the way she stands out like paint pastels on a plain piece of paper.

“I err -” he clears his throat and itches his nose, “how have you been?”

“Busy.”

She stops at the small cafe located on the first floor, Puddifoot's, and asks for an Earl Grey tea. When her hands are sprawled around the take out cup, savouring the heat that flows through her fingers, and she’s sipping at the hot beverage she gives him another look.

“Classes were giving me hell so my friend, Mary, and I decided it’d be better if we spent our time here. Her boyfriend always has early lectures so he saves us seats when it’s busy.”

James nods, “What’s the coffee like here?”

“Disgusting,” she grins, a slight blush on her cheeks, “but it’s cheap and convenient.”

“You even have a loyalty card with us, this is treachery.”

“Yeah, but I still need five more drinks before I get one free,” she laughs and his heart soars.

They set off walking out of the students union, towards a plethora of wild flowers scattered over overgrown grass, a couple of wooden benches knotted into the greenery. She plops down onto one of the benches, sighing happily. She reaches into her bag to grab some torn bread, throwing it into the pond facing them.

There’s only one duck in there, which the students of Hogwarts University quickly nicknamed The Giant Duck as it’s abnormally larger than the average british duck.

He takes a deep breath and plunges into the unknown, of what he really wants to say.

“I, err, I thought you might have been - well - avoiding me.”

“To be honest, I thought I was too. That and this cold has been a nuisance.”

“Oh,” he scratches his nose and stuffs his hands into his jacket, “you should get some lemsip.”

“I wanted to, but apparently you have to be sixteen and over to buy it and I forgot my passport so the cashier wouldn’t let me buy it.”

“I could get it for you-”

She shakes her head, “Oh no, you don’t have to do that.”

“It’s like, what, three pounds? I honestly don’t mind.”

He’s already standing up, sputtering that her health is the most important thing when she grabs hold of his arm. He pauses, frozen.

She sighs, “Look. I don’t want anything to be, uh, awkward between us. Okay?”

He stops, numbly allowing her to pull him back down on the bench. Their legs brush against each other but she doesn’t move and inch. “Why would it be awkward?”

“I thought you knew.”

His heart skips a beat and he chokes. “What? You… you knew?”

She smiles, biting her lip to stop herself from grinning. “Err yeah.”

“Since when?” his head’s woozy, fingers shaking.

“Since the beginning,” her voice falters slightly, “that day I panicked and heard Remus calling your name. And I fled. Then on the Saturday I was, well, curious?” Only now does she turn to look at him, staring deep into his eyes. He's transfixed. “I only realised once I'd left that your name was the same.”

“But you kept coming.”

“Can you blame me?” she laughs and he feels ablaze.

“Guess not,” he shrugs, “I don't think anyone has enough willpower to ignore it.”

“Yeah,” she takes a sip from her tea, “and I thought you knew, I swear. But then at Tesco you didn't say anything and I realised you didn't. I panicked, that's why I didn't come back, partly. Sorry. You must hate me.”

“I could never.”

She looks so uncomfortable and he's helpless.

He wants to reach out for her hand and never let go. Like she hears his thoughts, she scrunches her fist into her pocket.

“The thing is… I made a promise to myself at a young age that if I ever did see colour I wouldn’t let it control me.”

The Giant Duck quacks loudly and James, who’s been sat on the edge of his seat, waiting anxiously for her to speak, jumps at the sound. She grins, blowing her nose again.

“I want to be able to make my own choices, James. And not be influenced.”

“Okay,” he blinks.

“So I decided I needed to take a break from it all.”

“If you err, if you don't mind me saying,” he pauses, waiting for her nod to continue, “you're saying you don't want it to be in control but it looks like you're letting it.”

“I dont-”

“Running away from it, even if you don’t want it, isn't that just fear?”

“It’s not exactly that simple,” she says.

“I know it’s not,” he gulps, a never ending shiver running up and down his spine. He’s trembling. “But, aren’t you even a little bit curious?”

The sun glows, and, under the deep orange rays she looks ten million times more radiant. He doesn’t care about cliché, he doesn’t care about anything else - only her.

She doesn’t want the colour, the myth of soulmates influencing and breathing down heavily on them. She smiles at him in the moment, moving forward, reaching out her hand so their fingers thread around each other.

And then she’s blinking, inching just that little bit closer towards him. She’s been chewing gum, he can smell peppermint as she breathes out and his eyes flutter closed in seconds.

Even with his eyes shut tight, he can still see colour. It’s more intense and vibrant than he’s ever known it, and he feels her lips place a chaste kiss on his.

It’s red and green, bursting into fireworks and butterflies alike, making his toes curl. He knows she’s feeling the same way, because she shivers against his touch and, when she rests her forehead against his and he has the strength to open his eyes again, she looks just as mesmerised.

He’s never felt more alive.

[ficdirectory]

The Crossing (Disuphere series #3) Chapter 8

Scene II: Topsy Turvey

The rest of Monday and all of Tuesday had been so busy, between meetings, work, talking to her parents and the arrival of her costume room table (at her door the minute she got back from work) that she hadn’t been able to spare a thought for Jesus.

She spends part of Tuesday afternoon erecting her costume room table (easy enough that it only took a few minutes.)  When it’s all set, she proudly takes a pic and sends it to Family Chat for Dad mostly, to see that her table arrived safe.

He sends a thumbs up but not much else.  Must still be at work.

It doesn’t take Dominique long to start getting lonely here.  Now that she’s gotten successfully through her first day, do her parents have total confidence that she’s fine and doesn’t need them?  Because it’s not like that at all.

She needs them.  Loves them.  Misses them.  More than she ever thought she would.  She was so set on moving out, she hadn’t thought of what a big change it would be.  She gets out her costuming stuff to work on Hermione some more, but seeing the wand Mom made makes Dominique feel more alone than ever.

“Roberta?” Dominique calls.  “Did Dudley eat you?”

From the living room, Dominique can hear the cat’s perturbed response at her insinuation.  Dominique peeks around the doorframe into the living room. Roberta’s yellow eyes glow Halloween-creepy in the dark.

“What are you doing out here alone?  Come in here with me.”

Roberta stays put on the giant green couch.

“Please?” she asks.  “I’ll sing you a song…” she bribes.

Roberta considers this.  

“When I think of home, I think of a place where there’s love overflowing.  I wish I was home.  I wish I was back there with the things I been knowing….”

Roberta’s up and walking toward her just like that.  The Wiz.  Works like a charm.

“Oh, and if you’re listening, God, please don’t make it hard for me to know if we should believe in the things that we see.  Should we run away, or should we try and stay, or would it be better just to let things be?”

Back in the office in “Mom’s” chair, Dominique pats her lap and Roberta jumps into it, purring, to be cuddled.  Dominique wraps a blanket around herself.  Keeps singing:

“Living here, in this brand new world, might be a fantasy. But it taught me to love, so it’s real, real to me.  And I’ve learned that we must look inside our hearts to find a world full of love.  Like yours, like mine.  Like home.”

Roberta nuzzles against Dominique’s hand.  

“I miss them, too,” she says.

She goes to bed early, even though the next day is her day off.  Lena will be here at 10 AM - their agreed upon time - to check in.  

But that night she dreams of awful things.  Pain.  Digital clocks with red numbers marking the long minutes before it was over.

Dominique wakes up sweating.  Swearing.  Screaming.  Even with her noise machine and the bathroom fan on, she’s worried that she might wake up Jesus or any of her other neighbors.  (Someone lives below her.  Someone else next door.)

She half expects someone to come knocking, but no one does.

Dominique gets on her phone.  On Facebook, to see if her survivors group accepted her yet.  They haven’t. But a Google search brings her to a message board with various topics listed.  Dominique clicks ‘Nightmares’ and reads.

It doesn’t take long to realize that reading about other people’s horrors will do nothing to help her sleep.

She stays up late, watching a Harry Potter marathon on TV.  The volume’s on low.  It helps pass the time and the hours drag til daylight.  Then, Dominique can legitimately shower.  Dress.  Be sort of presentable when Lena arrives.

--

Wednesday was lost in a blur of naps, and an irritable as hell mood.  It doesn’t make sense to her at all.  That night brings more nightmares.  Until Thursday morning dawns, and she looks at her phone.  Sees the date: August 27th.

Well, no wonder.

She walks to the elevator like a zombie, hoping for enough time to stop by Starbucks for a grande iced white mocha.  She’d get a trenta, but she doesn’t have a death wish.  Not even today.  If nothing else, today means she lived.

The elevator doors slide open, and Jesus is inside with Dudley.

“Seriously?” she  asks under her breath.

At the same time, Jesus reprimands Dudley, who smells Roberta all over her: “Dudley, seriously?  No.”

“You have Lena, right?  As your person?” he asks as the elevator takes them down.

“Why?” Dominique asks, suspicious.

Jesus shrugs.  (It’s so like her version of Imaginary Jesus that Dominique shivers.)  “Nothing.  Just...my mom’s name is Lena, too.”

“And mine’s name is Jaimie.  What’s your point?” she asks.

“She’s nice.  That’s all,” Jesus says.  “Hey.  Are you okay?”

“Yes, I am okay.  No, I haven’t always looked like this.  Ten years ago today, I was in a car accident.  Satisfied?”  She rushes off the elevator, mortified.  

Her saving grace is that working ‘til 4:30 means that she’ll have at least eight and a half hours to not think about Jesus, and how he left her hanging on Twitter, but now seems just as morbidly curious and rude as everybody else.

--

As much as Dominique had thought that a shift at the hospital would help her forget her trauma, it does the opposite.  Just being there on this day is enough to have her tense and watchful the whole time.  She hopes she doesn’t see Bev or any of the other nurses she knows.  She doesn’t want anybody connecting the dots about what day it is.

Doesn’t want anybody trying to say the right thing and ending up putting their foot in their mouth wishing her a “happy anniversary” on a day that is so mixed, at best.

She survived, and that’s great, and she is happy for that, but this is also a day that represents a Before and an After all its own.  A day when Dominique’s body was totally, irrevocably changed.  Her arms, her neck, part of her face, her legs.  All different now.  All scarred.  And not in a way she can hide, unless she decides to put serious work in, which she does.  She wears long sleeves under her scrub top.  Wears makeup and a wig each day.  But she’s still beyond self-conscious that someone might see something - say something - about scars she can’t cover.  By her ear, or on her hands.

It’s what made her react badly to Jesus this morning.  His question about her well-being was often used by perfect strangers as an opening to ask more invasive questions.  Dominique is used to that.  Used to the violation that exists when people she doesn’t know ask her questions.  She just can’t deal with any today.

--

She arrives home by 5 PM, exhausted and ready for bed.  She unlocks the door and lets herself in.  Her phone pings with a text:

Mom:

Dad wants to bring you a cake.

She texts back:

Can you tell him the anniversary is tomorrow?

Mom:

I can tell him you’ll feel more like cake tomorrow.  Lemon?

Dominique:

The bundt cake?  No frosting?

Mom:

You got it.  You okay today?

Dominique:

Not really.  Snapped at some guy in the elevator this AM.

Mom:

Giving you a hard time?

Dominique:

Not sure.

She’s still standing in the entryway, just inside her front door.  It’s closed at her back, but she can definitely hear someone leave something outside for her.

Dominique watches the time - waits a full minute - before daring the stick her head out the door and investigate.  

She sees what was left instantly and brings it inside.  An unbelievably soft gray blanket, and a Tupperware container full of chocolate cookies with marshmallows in them.  Belatedly, she spies the note, taped to the lid of the container:

Anniversary dates are hard.  Hot chocolate cookies and a blanket always help me.  Hope you feel better.  Jesus and Dudley (306)

Dominique:

Just got more cookies than I could ever eat.  You and Dad like hot chocolate ones?

Mom:

From who???

Dominique:

Elevator Guy and his dog.

She turns off her phone before she gets the third degree about Jesus and whether he is cute or not.  Dominique’s not interested.  Not romantically. Now she could use a friend - but definitely not one who would ignore her and then drop stuff off at her door without even knocking.  Doesn’t even wanna give her something to her face.

Roberta’s walked over and is sniffing at the cookies in the container, investigating.  They look like they smell amazing, but Dominique is seriously thinking about dropping everything back off outside his door without knocking.

She’s about to do just that, but when Dominique goes to pick up the container of cookies with the blanket folded on top, she finds Roberta there, on top of both like a queen.

“Oh, you think that’s yours now?”

Roberta purrs.

“We’re not keeping it…” she warns.

Roberta’s tail flicks back and forth.  She’s so happy.  Dominique hates her a little.

“Traitor,” she mutters and seriously thinks about tipping Roberta off her throne to have a cookie, but thinks better of it and sits on the couch, launching into the last verse of No Good Deed from Wicked.

“No good deed goes unpunished.  All helpful urges should be circumvented.  No good deed goes unpunished.  Sure, I meant well, but look at what well-meant did…”

Dominique isn’t sure if she’s singing to Jesus, or to herself.

(It’s easier to be annoyed, easier to sing, than to admit that Jesus and his niceness is scaring the crap out of her.)

[fuzzballsheltiepants]

How a Horse Ruined My Liver

An incredible true story!

The Players: Me My best friend Amanda, sitting with her horse below My perfect pony Mocha.  Age: 23.  Size: 13.3 hands (135 cm, or 4′7″), about 700 lb, the little spotted guy in the background here Amanda’s off the track Thoroughbred, Regal.  Age: 13.  Size: 17 hands (172 cm, 5′8″) about 1300 lb, the horse laying down

The Scene: A trail in the middle of the woods that runs along a reservoir in scenic Stafford, Connecticut.

Regal had been out of work for a while due to an injury.  One sunny morning in late June, Amanda and I decide that it’s time to get him back out on the trail.  Amanda has some anxiety, and I’m the more experienced rider, so we swap horses for this particular ride.  This was not unusual, and I know Regal almost as well as I know my own horses.  

The horses are having a wonderful time as we ride first about a mile down the road to the beginning of the trail, then along the trail itself.  The footing is good, the horses are trotting along well, everything is glorious.  We come to the place where the trail began to run along the reservoir, which is to our left and very low despite rain we had gotten a few days earlier.  There is a large pond to the right of the trail, which has two shallow (3-4” deep, about 3 feet wide) ditches dug across to allow any overflow from the pond to end up in the reservoir.

So, the thing about Regal is, he’s a lovely, athletic sweet horse, but he has about 3 brain cells and they argue.  Frequently.  So when he comes to the first drainage ditch - that he could step over easily - he freezes, convinced that there were crocodiles hiding within.  Now, remember, horses have poor depth perception, but can see about 300 degrees around them.  This means Regal can see the possibly-shark-filled pond to his right, and the possibly-crocodile-filled ditch in front of him, but can’t see the very low reservoir to his left because the water is about 7-8 feet below the grade of the trail.  It just looks like safe space to him.  So he plants his front feet at the ditch, and swivels his butt towards the drop so he can keep his eye on the water.  

At this point I realize that this ginormous horse is about 6” from a sizable drop into water of unknown depth, and I ask him to move his butt over.  He says no.  I ask again, and he flips me the hoof, convinced I’m trying to get him murdered by water-dwelling predators.

At Amanda’s request Mocha, my sensible man, walks calmly through the ditch to prove that there were no crocodiles.  Regal doesn’t believe him.  Mocha walks back through the ditch.  Regal still doesn’t believe him.  Mocha walks through a third time, and Amanda rides perhaps ten yards further down the trail, but Regal still will not follow, even though he follows Mocha everywhere.

Finally, I’m starting to get nervous, as he keeps tossing his head and inching backwards.  I haul off and kick him as hard as I could, just needing him to move far enough over that I could jump off of him safely.  He takes one step to the right, and I get ready to leap off, but before I can he swings his big butt back and his hind feet slip off the trail.

Now, if you ever want to know fear, ride a 1300 lb horse backwards off a sheer drop of unknown height.  Thankfully, I’ve ridden so many crazy horses that the second his butt drops below his shoulder, I automatically throw myself up his neck and grab mane, looking straight up between his ears.  I’m not sure at this point if he’s going to end up sliding all the way down and ending up on all fours in the reservoir, or if his back feet are going to hit bottom soon, or if he’s going to end up flipping over backwards (in which case, bye bye me).  Finally, I feel his hind feet hit bottom.  

Amanda, up on the trail, can only see Regal’s muzzle, his front toes clinging desperately to the trail, and the top of my helmet.  Regal is nearly vertical, and let me remind you, he’s a seriously enormous horse.  I sit there on him for a second, trying to figure out what to do next when almost any movement on my part will almost certainly cause him to fall over backwards and kill us both.  Then I felt him gather his haunches as much as he could without losing his grip on the trail, and launch us both upwards.

He ended up sprawled on his belly on the trail, me still sitting on him, his hind legs dangling off the drop.  Before I can get off, he pulls his right hind leg up onto the trail and uses it to launch us forward, where we end up - you guessed it - in the pond on the other side.

So now, I’m on a down horse in a couple feet of water and mud, and because his three brain cells are now in full-on panic mode, he can’t figure out to lift his head out of the water and he starts to drown.  I get off of him, get my feet stuck in the mud, and fall on my ass, while he starts thrashing, trying to get his head above water.  He succeeds, and ends up swimming out into the pond, but not before he kicked me half a dozen times while I was sitting in the water, unable to  get out of the way.

I struggle my way out of the pond, and Amanda calls for Regal a couple of times before he turns around and swims back and we get him out of the pond.  At this point, the doctor part of my brain kicks in and I assess myself and the horse.  He’s holding up his left hind leg, which has a huge deep scrape down the inside of the knee (stifle) joint, but the far more serious issue is he has torn the skin of his left front cannon bone and peeled it down towards his foot.  It’s called a degloving injury, because it looks like the skin is a glove being removed.

I have been kicked in the thigh, but though it hurts quite a bit the bone isn’t broken.  My helmet was shattered from when he kicked me in the head (message: always wear a helmet, kids).  But the thing I’m really concerned about is that my radius - the thicker and shorter of the two bones in my forearm - is jutting about half an inch out from where it should be.  The skin isn’t damaged, thankfully, but I can’t move or feel my left hand.

In my best possible “I’m a doctor and know what I’m talking about” voice I tell Amanda, who is about to go into hysterics over Regal’s leg, to get back on Mocha and ride home as fast as she can and have the barn owners get the trailer hooked as I’m not sure how far Regal can walk and I think my arm is broken.  She takes off, and I begin the long, slow process of getting Regal the mile or so to the road.  

Now, I can’t drive myself to the hospital and don’t want an ambulance, and my husband is 2 hours away, so I sit at the barn and wait until the vet gets  there and assesses Regal.  He takes one look at me and ordered me to get someone to drive me, which is how about an hour or so later I’m getting my arm assessed at the emergency room.  

My elbow is basically fixed in a flexed position and I can’t rotate my wrist or hand, so they order x-rays of that plus my shoulder, which it turns out had two massive bruises over the collar bone and the upper arm where I had also been kicked and hadn’t realized it.  The very nice young radiology technician is trying to get my arm in the right position, but I can’t rotate my hand the way he wants it, so he grabs my wrist to help me.  One loud click later, suddenly I can feel my hand and lo and behold, my elbow straightens.  I meet the poor young man’s terrified eyes as he realizes he just reduced my dislocated elbow by mistake, he excuses himself, and runs down the hallway, presumably to either vomit or tell a doctor, or both.  I really wish I was around when he told his family that story that night.

The final tally of my injuries is: I tore the labrum and shredded the joint capsule in my shoulder, and crushed the ulnar nerve in the same arm.  After several months of unsuccessful physical therapy, I have the shoulder repaired.  That goes well, and I rehab fine, but my left hand is still numb a lot of the time.  So, since I need feeling in that hand in order to do my job well, I have another surgery to have my ulnar nerved moved out from under the scar tissue from the dislocation, so it now runs along the inside of my forearm.

Now, given the title of this, you’re probably wondering how any of this has anything to do with my liver.  Well, about a month after my elbow surgery, I start having profound fatigue and joint pain and swelling.  I go to the doctor, thinking I have Lyme or something, and she runs a bunch of blood tests.  My liver values are off the charts.  One value in particular, the ALT, is nearly twenty times the normal value.  So they run more tests, try some treatment, keep running tests.  It keeps being elevated, anywhere from 10 to 20 times normal.  Finally, I have my liver biopsied, and I have a very rare form of autoimmune disease.  The most common trigger?  Inhalant anesthesia, which I had now had twice to repair the damage done in that 30 second catastrophe.  

So that is how a horse ruined my liver.

[littlepuffrosebud]

Rosebud Fight Club

Part 1 // Part 2 // Epilogue (to come some time next month)

The epilogue to this will be just a little add on; the story could quite easily end with this installment. I hope you have enjoyed reading it as much as I have had writing it! I have a few more little posts related to this planned, but until then, enjoy :)

Baz finds that being friends with Simon Snow is akin to torture. Though it is better in some ways – being able to admire Simon more often for one – Baz is finding it increasingly difficult to not take Snow by the back of the neck and meet him with his mouth. Penny and Agatha are unfazed by the sudden addition to their group; when Simon drags him up to the two girls in the corridor one day, Penny simply adjusts her glasses, whilst Agatha flicks her hair over one shoulder. Baz catches them sharing heavily-coded glances with one another when they think he isn’t looking, and can’t help but wonder what Snow told them about him. Simon is, of course, blessedly oblivious. For someone who fast tracked his way through the first two years of astrophysics, the boy can be extremely obtuse. He never seems to realise that his touch alone is enough to turn Baz into a sappy, blushing mess.

“Baz, I’m so hungry. Can we go get scones already?” Simon whines, curling his head onto Baz’s shoulder. They’re in the library, and Simon has spent the past few hours complaining, in between frenzied calculations. “Not yet, Snow. I need to finish this paper.” Baz wills himself not to blush, even as Simon sighs and presses deeper into his side. “Please, Bazzy?” At this, Baz can’t help the flush of colour spreading over his cheeks, the tip of his nose. Across the table, Penny glances up sharply, smirking. Baz does his best to glare, but it is impossible when the human version of a limpet is sliding one hand across his stomach. With a sigh of frustration, Baz throws down his pen. “Alright! Let’s go get your bloody scones, you insufferable child.” Simon jumps up with a cry that earns their table several death stares. As Baz turns to follow, Agatha raises an immaculate eyebrow, grinning. “Have fun, Bazzy.” Baz throws them a hateful glare, before following after Snow. (So weak for him).

“I don’t know how you do it,” Simon says quietly, as they’re walking towards Ebb’s café. The lawns are crowded with students, making the most of the remaining sun. Already, the leaves are beginning to fade, and the sky seems a little paler. “Do what?” Baz asks. “Be what your family wants you to be. Do so well at it. Do you actually like economics, Baz?” Baz curses Simon for being so bloody perceptive. “I don’t,” he says bluntly. “You’re so – you what?” “I don’t like economics, Simon.” Baz slows a little, allows Simon to fall in step with him. “I’m like you were – I only do it because it’s what my family expects of me.” Simon stops walking with a jerk. His face is pinched and drawn. “I’m sorry, Baz.” Baz shakes his head angrily. “Don’t be, Snow. It’s my own choice, is it not?” Simon smiles sadly. “I wish it were as simple as that.” They’ve stopped outside the café. Simon buys six scones, insisting they get them dine in. In resignation, Baz buys a Pumpkin Mocha Breve. Simon finds this to be abhorrent, and pronounces that Baz has severely damaged their friendship. Baz responds by eating a scone, which earns him a pouted glare. “What is it?” Simon asks eventually. Baz stares at him in exasperation. “I’m going to need a little more context than that, Snow.” “I mean, what is it you really want to be doing?” Baz looks away, schooling his face into an impenetrable mask. “I don’t have the faintest idea.” Simon shakes his head, and suddenly, Baz finds his hand being tugged into Simon’s. The boy’s hand is warm, and when Baz attempts to extricate his hand, the other joins in holding him captive. “That’s bullshit, Baz. Tell me.” Simon’s voice is soft. Baz glares down at his lap, but Simon’s hands don’t budge. “Fine,” he snaps. “I want to be a violinist, okay?” Thankfully, Simon relinquishes his hand at this. “Wow Baz, that’s so cool. I bet you’d be really good at it!” Baz shakes his head. “It doesn’t matter, either way. My family – my father – would never stand for it.” Simon shrugs. “You might be surprised, if you talked to him.” “Like you did to yours?” Simon’s face falls. “Not like me, Baz.” Baz frowns; he still doesn’t understand the story, can’t make sense of how ‘Simon Snow’ became Simon Snow, punk extraordinaire. “What do you mean?” Simon is shoving the last scone into his mouth, shaking his head furiously. “Can’t Baz,” he mumbles, spraying scone crumbs everywhere. Baz sighs, and lets the subject drop.

As they walk back towards the library, Simon is unnaturally quiet. Baz is distracted, thinking about the possibility of an art degree, imagining the way he would orchestrate Simon in this moment; cross-sawed curls, lines following the curve of his golden neck. Perhaps he would – “Hey, faggot!” The cry is sharp, abrasive, and Baz feels dread splinter through his stomach. Three boys are standing behind them in a shaded alley; Baz recognises them to be several starry-eyed followers of Snow’s from last year, who took to ‘defending’ their hero’s honour in dusty corners. The boys advance slowly, and Ringo, their leader, raises one perfectly curled fist. “Heard you’ve been pretending to hang out with the Chosen One,” he sneers. “Whatever you’re planning to do to him, it won’t work. We’re one step ahead, fag.” He’s toe to toe with Baz now. “What’d you have to do to convince him? I bet you spread your legs, didn’t you, slut –” “Hey!” Ringo jumps back with a start, and Baz turns to find Simon standing behind him, face contorted with rage. “Who the fuck do you think you are?” He snarls, shoving Baz sideways. Ringo can only gape in horror. “S-Simon, I didn’t realise –” “What kind of pathetic, snivelling worm is still stuck in fucking highschool? I’m not your Chosen One, and Baz isn’t a slut.” At this, Ringo finds his voice. “He’s tricking you! Can’t you see it? The faggot’s a whore, his legs are never –” Ringo cuts off with a cry, as Simon’s ringed fist drives into his stomach. The boys behind him stumble backwards in shock, shouting apologies. Ringo gapes up at Simon in betrayal, and Baz finds that his blood is thrumming with adrenaline. The moment of satisfaction doesn’t last however; Ringo’s face twists, and suddenly, Simon is on the ground. “Simon!” Baz cries, but it seems he isn’t needed. In one swift movement, Simon has flicked Ringo off, and is on his feet, driving a booted foot into the boy’s ribs. There is a howl of pain, but Simon is already marching towards Baz, breathing hard. “Did he hurt you?” He gasps. Baz shakes his head quickly, and allows himself to be pulled back to the main road. Simon is slightly terrifying like this, all dark power in denim and leather. (He won’t admit that it is also unnervingly sexy).

Simon is strolling past the library, relieved to be done with classes for the day, when a hand flies out, and drags him behind a bush. He blinks into the darkness, momentarily confused, when a fist punches into his stomach. “I’m really disappointed in you, Simon,” the voice above him drawls, and then there is a hand in his curls, tugging him upwards. “Your father said you were easy, but I didn’t think it would be this simple.” Simon feels his stomach drop. Of course it was. There had been something odd about that day in the alleyway, and now it all makes sense. Who else could be so underhanded, if not his father? “Now,” Ringo sneers, and digs his nails into Simon’s scalp. “You’re going to listen to what I have to say.”

“Basilton, to what do I owe this pleasure?” Baz’s father leans back in his chair, one eyebrow raised. Baz knows this look. It is the look that his father often tries to create with him; he supposes it is his attempt at love. Baz straightens slightly. “Father. I have been thinking about my future, and I think it’s time I told you the truth.” Malcolm’s lips thin, but he remains silent. The office air is stale and cold; Baz shifts slightly in his leather armchair, and the sound echoes awkwardly. He takes a deep breath to regain his composure. “I want to switch majors.” Malcolm laughs, shocked. “Don’t be so ridiculous, Basilton. Are you feeling quite well?” Baz has never wanted to scream so badly. “No, father we are not going to do this. You don’t get to pretend I don’t exist; you are not allowed to sit there and create your perfect fucking son. This is who you’ve got, and I know it’s fucking hard to look at me when I look so much like her –” “Don’t you dare speak of her like that!” “– not to mention, I’m gay, or that I’m in love with –” Baz cuts himself off sharply, heart racing. His father is staring at him in horror. He looks as though he’s aged several decades in the space of a few harsh sentences. “What I want, father, is to switch majors. I want to be a violinist, I don’t want to sit at a desk all day, surrounded by numbers, and god-awful people. I want to be me, father. Don’t – don’t you think mother would have wanted that? For me to be happy?” The office is torturously still for several, tense seconds, and then Malcolm is rising out of his chair, face returned to its former mask. “I think it would be best if you left now Basilton. In return, I will continue to fund your economics education at Watford, and you – you will never talk to me of this violin garbage again. You will do as I say, or I will cut you off.” His father pauses, and turns to gaze out the window, across the Thames. His final words are flung over his shoulder. “And don’t come home for mid-term break. You’re not welcome.” Baz stumbles out of his father’s office, chest roiling with acid. Barely ten minutes have passed – mere minutes for his dreams to become splintered match sticks. As Baz tears down the corridor, he is faintly aware of the tears falling steadily down his cheeks, and the acrid sting of self-hatred burning a path down his throat.

Simon says nothing. He could easily have this idiot on the ground in a matter of seconds, but he needs to know what his father wants. “Mr. Mage has been watching your roommate for quite some time now, and he really isn’t comfortable with the level of association you have with him.” At this, Simon snorts, which earns him a hard slap, cracking his head sideways into the brick wall. “Mr. Grimm-Pitch has an unsavoury background, and Mr. Mage thinks that he may be exerting this influence on you. Now, I think we can both say that Mr. Mage is a man who only cares for the best – he brought you up singlehandedly after your mother abandoned you at that nasty care home – and he’s really worried of the impact Basil may be having upon your future.” Simon’s had enough. “What’s it to you?” he snarls. In the dim light, Simon sees Ringo’s face curl into a leer. “Mr. Mage is a very gracious and benevolent leader, who awards where it is due.” A hand falls onto Simon’s inner thigh, and begins to slide upwards. Ringo leans in to mouth at Simon’s ear. “You know, I really like this punk getup. I think maybe we’ll have to keep it for private enjoyment.” Simon enjoys making mincemeat of Ringo. When the boy has finally stopped trying to make a witty comeback, Simon bends down to whisper in his ear. “Tell my father that a Salisbury fights back.” He shoulders his way out of the bushes, leaving Ringo groaning in the dirt. Simon’s good mood is entirely ruined; he storms towards his room, lungs scratching for the burn of cigarette smoke.

It is only when he’s three dormitory blocks away from his room, that Baz becomes aware of the students staring at him strangely. He lifts his head, and makes eye contact with one – a girl with dark hair looped low upon her head. She steps forward hesitantly, and lays a hand on Baz’s arm. “S-sorry to bother you Basil, but how is Simon?” Baz throws her hand off angrily. “I wouldn’t know,” he sneers. The girl blushes, but doesn’t step back. “It’s just – we heard he’d got into a fight with some second year, and Ramone said she saw him walking this way, with this really awful limp, and blood all over his face, and we were all just hoping he was okay?” “He fucking what?” Baz is already striding away before the girl can reply, tugging his phone out of his jacket. Simon doesn’t pick up on the first call, or the tenth. Baz’s increasingly angry and expletive-loaded texts go unread, and by the time he reaches the foyer of their block, Baz is half deeply afraid, and half ready to punch the absolute fucker of an idiot in the face.

Baz slams their door open to a pitch-black room. He falters, heart pounding. As his eyes slowly adjust to the darkness, he sweeps them over the moonlit floor, the shadowed walls – and catches on a glowing red circle, floating in the dimness above Simon’s bed. Baz stumbles towards Simon, lowering himself cautiously onto the bed. The cigarette tip flares in the shadowy light of the room, followed by the soft exhale of smoke. Baz can smell it almost instantly, though he refrains from telling Snow how much he hates it. Simon says nothing, as Baz slides back to rest against the wall beside him. For several long, tense seconds, there is simply the catch of Simon’s cigarette, as he inhales. Finally, Baz speaks. “Simon…I know about the fight. What happened?” Simon flicks ash out the opened window, muttering, “It doesn’t fucking matter, Baz.” Baz clenches his jaw. “Of course it fucking matters, Snow.” Simon laughs, coldly. “Snow, huh? Are we back to that already?” Baz feels as though his stomach has turned to stone. “I-I don’t understand, Si –” Simon snorts. “You’d better keep away, Baz. I’m a murderer.” Baz’s patience is holding on by a few, very thin strands. “Look, Simon – just tell me what the bloody hell is going on, alright? I care about you, you stupid idiot.” Simon turns sharply, and lobs his cigarette out the window. He remains frozen there, half twisted away from Baz. The room is silent for a few moments. Simon doesn’t move. Baz sighs, running a frustrated hand through his hair. “Simon,” he begins, laying a hand on the boy’s shoulder. It is the last chink in his armour. Simon turns abruptly, and Baz has half a moment to see the tears glinting in the moonlight, before the boy buries his face in Baz’s stomach, arms wrapped tightly around his waist, shoulders heaving as he sobs. Baz tries to ignore the sudden flush of warmth through his chest, as he lifts a hand to stroke through Simon’s curls. “Si, please just tell me what’s wrong,” he whispers. Simon lets out a noise that may have been a half-sentence, or a growl. It’s hard to tell. Baz shakes his shoulder gently. “Si, I can’t hear you with your face in my stomach.” Simon huffs at this, and rolls onto his back, so that he is blinking up at Baz in the pale moonlight, head nestled in his lap. His face is shadowed, and haggard. “I think it’s time I told you about my summer.” Baz stares back quietly, waiting. Simon’s eyes drift towards the window, and he curls several fingers around Baz’s wrist. “It-it began with a phone call actually. I was going to go out and buy some groceries, when I heard him. My – my father.” Simon’s voice is laced with a hatred so powerful, Baz begins to feel the first wavers of fear. “He’s my father, Baz.” Baz lets out a small snort at this. “Of course he is, Simon. How many times have I heard you growl it?” Simon’s face shifts into a scowl. “No, Baz. I mean – he is my father. Do I need to spell it out for you?” Baz feels something within him fall away. “Oh,” he whispers. “My mother went to school here, did you know? She was best friends with your mum. And Penny’s, actually.” Baz sucks in a breath, but finds he has no words in him to respond. For a moment, there is only the quiet softness of the night curling around them. “Only, she fell madly in love with him. He wanted what she had – money, connections, charisma. And – well, we all know my dad. What he wants, he gets. Mum was so blindly in love with him, she didn’t realise what he’d done until it was too late.” Simon breaks off with a snarled sob, and Baz resumes stroking a hand through his curls. “I hate myself for all the things I said about your family, for believing in what my father said. I was the perfect little puppet. Just like he planned. He – he fucking planned everything. But he forgot Baz, I think, how powerful love can be. She discovered his files one day, and he came home to her knowing everything. She knew that he’d tricked your mum, and cost her her job. She knew everything, Baz.” Simon sits up roughly, and slumps against the window, away from Baz. His face is anguished. “They had a legendary fight, that night. She was going to leave him, make a new life for us, and do all she could to help your family – only, only she went into premature labour.” Simon buries his face in his hands. “I killed her, Baz. She died bringing me into this world.” Baz makes a noise of disagreement, and Simon shakes his head violently. “No. Please, Baz. I don’t deserve your empathy.” Baz opened his mouth to argue, when he remembers something. “But how did you end up in care? It doesn’t make any sense.” At this, Simon tilts his head back, to lean against the wall. His eyes are wide, full of mirthless laughter. “You see, even you Baz, can’t comprehend the wondrous ingenuity of Davy Mage. He had to tell everyone my mother had vanished in the night – it was the only explanation he could give. But he was ruined. Who would want a man who couldn’t even keep his own wife?” Simon’s voice is bitter. ‘He left me on the steps of the local care home, the very same night she died. Lucy wasn’t a good person any more, you see? She’d stolen Davy’s son. And when he rescued me, at age 15 – well, no one could get enough.” Simon begins to laugh, and the sound is horrible; dry-boned and mocking. “I went through hell for that bastard – and I came out a golden beacon of my mother’s blood.”

Simon’s eyes blink closed. His face is brushed with shadows, so Baz can’t be sure where Simon ends and the gloom begins. Baz feels searing rage for a man that had hurt Simon so efficiently; feels cold horror at the callousness that is Davy Mage. “Simon,” he begins, and his voice could be the flight of an owl, it is so soft. “That man is a despicable, absolute vile smear of a human being. He might be your father, but that doesn’t mean you are him. You are so much,” Baz breaks off with a cough, finding his throat suddenly cotton-wooled with emotion. “You are so much better than he could ever be. And I’m not just saying this as a half-hearted attempt to make you feel better. I mean it, Si – I, I know it to be true. My own father thinks being gay is a sin, something that can be fixed through harsh education, but I’m gay, and I know it isn’t true. I don’t dole out affection like golden grains of rice, I don’t believe in making money over fostering compassion – I’m not my father, Simon, and neither are you.” Baz feels as though he has just run a marathon. How long, he wonders, have these been words nestled in his chest, waiting? He feels as though his insides have been dusted with moonlight and set aglow. “Have you ever really looked at yourself, Simon? Seen what an empathetic soul you are? People don’t flock to you because you’re the Chosen One, they flock to you because you care, and you care that they can feel that too. No one else would have thought to ask me what I really wanted to do. Everyone else would have assumed that I was just a carbon copy of my father. Don’t you see what you did, Simon? You believed that I was more than my father. And if I am, then so are you.” Simon is staring at Baz in shock by the time his mouth closes abruptly. His eyes are wide, face smeared with tears, but there is a slight upturn at the corners of his mouth, and Baz finds that there is no better reward.

The boys are interrupted from their dazed staring when Baz’s phone vibrates its way off the bed. He scrambles to pick it up, and his voice is breathless when he answers. “Hello?” “Basil.” Fuck. Of all the people, it has to be his father. How bloody fitting. “What do you want?” He snaps. He’s tired. He’s emotional. (Why not hug Simon, and bury your nose in his hair? What about your li-). On the other end of the crackled line, his father sighs. Baz can picture him sitting by the fire in his study, a glass of something particularly strong and awful in his hand. It’s where he always goes to make official calls. “I’ve been thinking…about our little talk this afternoon. Some of what you said really stuck with me, I have to say.” “Oh, I am glad,” Baz snarls. “Have you finally realised you’re not the only person on this planet?” He’s startled when a rough, warm hand slips into his, a golden thumb stroking circles across his skin.

“I-I’m sorry, Basilton.” It sounds as though Malcolm swallowed gravel, but Baz can’t find it in him to respond. He’s too shocked. “Your mother wouldn’t have wanted it to be like this. I know it’s been hard, especially when you’re so unfortunately, ah, alternative, but you’re right, Basilton. Your mum would have wanted you to be happy. And I do too, though I may not act like it.” “W-what are you saying, precisely?” His father draws in a breath. “What I’m saying Basil, is that yes, you can do your violin degree. I’ll continue to fund your education.” Baz can barely stumble out a “Thank you,” before the phone falls from his grip. He is vaguely aware of Simon drawing him into a hug, mumbling something into his shoulder, a hand curled against the back of his neck. They sit there for a while – whether it be mere moments or hours, Baz really couldn’t care less – until the tang of cigarette smoke draws him back. “Don’t fucking smoke, Snow.”

Four days later, a hashtag begins to circulate on social media - #davyhateclub. The responses to it are immediate, and it is mere hours before it has gone viral. 

“He put my brother on the waiting list because he was worried about the reputation someone ‘of his colour’ would have…”

“I got banned from the swim team because I was ‘distracting’ to the other members.”

“He told me he wouldn’t let me into Advanced Chem bc apparently I didn’t look like I was suited to it.”

“I heard he doesn’t actually treat his son all that well.”

           “Omg it’s totally weird, right? I always thought Simon’s story was off, somehow.”

“Why tf does he dress like a hipster Robin Hood?”

“lmao has anyone seen how hot Simon is these days? He’s my chosen one.”

           “Seriously????”

“Dear Mr. Mage. We fight back. -S.”

Baz reads the last message several times, to make sure he isn’t imagining it. That bloody gorgeous, wilful idiot. The thread has taken over the school, and beyond; social media is akin to gasoline, in a way. Once the hordes of angry students began sharing their stories, news stations around the world picked up on it with glee. No one has seen Davy in days, and there are any number of reporters prowling the grounds each day, questioning anything that moves.

Simon has also been mysteriously absent for the past few days. He wakes up in the greyness of dawn, applies makeup rather noisily, and clatters out the door, throwing a wink over his shoulder. (Snow, as he is in almost all areas of his life, is a terribly clumsy winker). He returns late into the night, showers, and collapses into bed, with little more than a few sleepy words to Baz.

Baz stumbles into him rather suddenly on Thursday morning, walking through Hyde Park. Baz had been looking for a place to search for repertoire in peace, and stumbles upon Snow strolling with another boy. The two are smiling at one another, clearly in their own little world, and Baz’s chest suddenly feels as though it has been stuffed with ash and cinders. He attempts to disappear into the fading greenery, but Simon spots him. His face lights up with a smile. “Baz!” He calls excitedly. Baz walks over reluctantly, hating that this is all he’ll ever get with Snow, hating that he had so easily allowed himself to believe they could be something more. The boy standing beside Simon is devastatingly handsome, and from the way his eyes drift over Baz, Baz knows he can never compete. “Hey, Snow,” he replies quietly, and pretends not to notice the way Simon’s face falls slightly. “I haven’t talked to you properly in days, Baz. You should come with me and Milo! We’re having a picnic.” Another stab to the heart. Baz can feel his face falling into his all too familiar, implacable mask, lips curling into a sneer. He hates it, but he can’t seem to control it. He feels vulnerable, and from the curve of Milo’s lips, it is all too obvious. “I’d rather not interrupt your date,” he drawls. Simon’s jaw drops, eyes glancing wildly from Milo to Baz. “This-this isn’t – it’s not –” Baz cuts across him, sharply. “I’ll leave you two to it. See you later, Snow.” He’s gone before the idiot can attempt to call out to him. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Milo place a hand on Simon’s waist; the boy quiets immediately and turns to bury his face in Milo’s chest.

Baz doesn’t care where he’s going, as long as it is away from here. With every step he takes, the faster his blood swirls. His mind flashes back to every soft touch Simon has granted him over the past two months, every stare that he foolishly hoped might mean something more. He can still feel phantom fingers applying makeup across his skin, and oh, how he wants.

Simon wills himself not to cry, but it’s a futile attempt. “I’ve fucked up so, so bad, Milo.” 

Above him, Milo chuckles. “It certainly wasn’t very smooth, Si, but it isn’t unfixable.” Simon blinks up at him blearily. “It isn’t?” Milo smirks, running a hand down his back. “I don’t think the two of us cuddling helped very much, but yes, it can be fixed.” Simon falls onto the grass heavily. “I’ve fucked up everything!” Milo sits down beside him with a good deal more grace, sighing. “Simon, Simon, Simon. Have you learned nothing? Your beloved Basil is never going to unwind until you tell him everything.” Milo rolls onto his stomach, smiling conspiratorially. “It was an unfortunate first meeting, but I’m so glad I finally met him. He’s so delectable.” “I don’t think I have a chance anymore, Milo.” Milo tugs Simon into a hug. “Now you’re just talking stupid. That boy looks at you like you like you hung the moon.”

Simon returns to the university in the pale golden reaches of that last good autumn afternoon, to see his father being led away by an officer. He stands by to watch them pass, hoping Davy won’t see him, but today does not seem to be his day. “Simon!” Davy throws himself at his son, momentarily avoiding the grasp of the policeman. Simon dodges his grasp, eyes wide. “Simon, sweetheart! Please, tell this man I’ve done nothing wrong.” Davy looks deranged, eyes sunken into his skull, fingers clawed. For a moment, Simon feels the customary shame and self-hatred that his father inspires, before he remembers Baz’s words. This isn’t who he is. And so, Simon Salisbury steps back, face calm. “I do not understand, sir.” Simon Salisbury stands to the side, and watches quietly, as Davy Mage is taken away.

Baz pretends not to notice, when Simon finally returns to their room. He doesn’t want to know how the stupid date went, doesn’t want to hear how Snow and Milo had made out at sunset, or whatever sappy romance bullshit couples did. Behind him, Simon clears his throat. Baz ignores it. Simon repeats the motion, and once more, Baz ignores it. The third time, Simon makes an odd choking sound and dashes for the bathroom. Baz slams his pen down with a snarl. “What do you want?” He snaps. Simon returns from the bathroom, curls in a spectacular state of disarray. There’s saliva on his cheek, and Baz finds himself imagining licking it off. (You’re disturbed). His eyeliner today is curved with blue, and his jeans have a hand giving the finger embroidered on one knee. “Sorry,” Snow wheezes. “I’m not very good at being subtle.” Baz snorts derisively. “You’re not fucking subtle at all, Snow.” Simon’s eyes dull a little. “I wish you wouldn’t call me that.” “What, Snow? What else would I call you?” Simon sighs, and collapses onto Baz’s bed. Baz notices that he has small red flowers, twined into his hair. Simon seems a little more tired than usual, a little thinner at the edges. Like thread wound too tightly. “It’s been a long week, Baz. Just…just don’t bite my head off, please?” “Why can’t I call you Snow?” Baz knows he is being an arse, but he can’t have it any other way. This is how it will always end; he was stupid for thinking it could be anything more. He wants to hurt Simon the way the boy did to him, and he’ll take any pathetic argument. Simon’s eyes shift downwards, and the room is quiet for several, long minutes. Baz raps his hand upon the desk impatiently. “Well? I’m waiting.” Simon looks up several moments later. His eyes are cold, flinted blue. “Because in the care homes, that was all I was. Snow. I didn’t have a first name, and I wasn’t a person. I was just another number. Every time they called me Snow, I was reminded of who I was – nothing. No family, not even a real name. Just Snow. Then I came here, and found I had a real name, but it didn’t matter, because the Salisbury’s were dead. So no, Baz, I don’t like it when you call me Snow. It’s a reminder of a loveless, god awful childhood that I do my best to forget.” Baz sits for several seconds in shocked, horrid silence. Sn – Simon has never divulged the secrets of his childhood; Baz has never loathed himself more. “Simon – I’m so sorry. Fuck, I had no idea.” Simon looks away, shifts backwards slightly on Baz’s bed. “Just come over here, will you? Milo and I – we’re not like that.”

The party is loud and hazy with hormones and sweat. Simon is right in the thick of it, drunk and swaying to the beat. He has never felt so invigorated, so free. Rebelling against his father is deliciously exciting he finds, and Simon feels as though he is truly becoming himself. He isn’t ‘Davy’s Simon’ anymore, he’s just Simon. He’s just a boy. A hand appears suddenly, drifting across his arse. Simon turns, and finds himself face to face with a gorgeous, fucking fit guy. He can feel himself blushing, and he giggles as lips slide across his jaw; “Let’s get out of here, hmm?”

Milo, as he introduces himself, turns out to be a godsend. Davy hates him violently, which only serves to make Simon like him more. Milo is unabashedly himself – he knows who he is, and gradually, Simon begins to discover his own person. Milo spends hours teaching him the correct way to apply makeup; drags him into an op shop one afternoon and demands he “Find something that actually sat right.” He teaches Simon how to fight for what he wants, and one long rainy afternoon, delves further than any social worker had ever reached. “What were you thinking would happen, that night we first met?” Milo asks casually. He’s sprawled across his bed, and Simon is perched on the window seat, watching rain drip down the pane. Simon shrugs. “Don’t know, really.” Milo laughs, and Simon turns to him in confusion. “Sweetheart,” Milo says, “have you ever thought that perhaps you’re not straight?” Simon jerks at the question, feels his cheeks begin to heat. “W-what?” Milo slides upright, and slopes across to Simon. “Let me ask this a better way: how would you feel if I kissed you right now?” Simon’s face is scarlet. “But aren’t we – aren’t we just friends?” Milo smiles warmly. “Of course we are. But I’ve heard you talk about your roommate countless times now, and it really sounds to me like it might be something more.” “I-I don’t understand.” Milo settles himself down across from Simon, drawing the boy’s legs into his lap. “Our relationship is purely platonic, yes, but I’ve noticed you’re quite a physical thinker.” At Simon’s look of confusion, he elaborates. “I think the reality is usually quite easier for you to see, if it’s happening right before your eyes. Simon, you don’t hear the way you talk about Baz like I do. I want to show you what being with a boy is like.” Simon’s mouth is uncomfortably dry. “O-okay.” Milo smiles gently. “Don’t be nervous, sweetheart.” He tugs Simon’s legs around his waist, pulling the boy into his lap. Simon’s heart beat is thrumming in his ears, as Milo draws him in.

The kiss is altogether different to being with a girl, though how, Simon cannot say. Milo is a fantastic kisser; he does this thing with his tongue that makes Simon feel as though his chest is made of fairy floss. When they break apart, Milo trails his lips down Simon’s neck, sucking a bruise into his collarbone. His hands slide under Simon’s shirt, fingertips ghosting across his abdomen. Simon shivers and lets out a moan. He draws Milo back upwards, dragging him into an open-mouthed kiss, slightly messier than the first. Simon had no idea how fucking hot it could be with a boy. When they break apart once more, the two are breathing heavily. “Fuck, Simon,” Milo breathes. “You’re a really good kisser.” “Likewise,” Simon pants, and Milo chuckles. They sit there, foreheads resting against one another. After a while, Simon breaks the silence. “Milo,” he says seriously. “I think I like Baz.” Milo starts to giggle, and once he’s begun, Simon can’t hold it in any longer. They’re both laughing, light on air, and the rain drips steadily down.

How could he not notice it before? How could he have been so blind? Milo says he was afraid, and confused. Simon still can’t seem to find a label that fits, but Milo says that’s okay too. One didn’t necessarily need a label. But, fuck. Baz was beautiful. The way his hair looked so much better when it wasn’t gelled back; the way several strands always fell into his face when he was studying. Simon loved Baz’s long, golden-red fingers. They were delicate and slim, and Simon could remember more than one occasion where he’d lost all train of thought at the way Baz practiced his violin. He was so fit, too. Especially when he was playing football. Christ, Simon can’t wait to see Baz again. He feels reborn.

Baz returns to their room after a long day of wrangling with new professors, to find Simon curled up on his bed, staring out the window. They were friends again, though it was everything was slightly more awkward, at least for Baz. Did Simon realise Baz’s true feelings now? Surely, Baz had thought, after the way he’d reacted to Milo, the boy had to have realised. But Simon was as much the same as ever; indeed, it seemed to Baz that perhaps the whole incident could be left to rot in the dust.

“Hey Si,” he says, throwing his bag down on his bed. “What’re you looking at?” Simon shifts slowly, as though he is in a trance. When he turns to look at Baz, his eyes are wide and dazed. “The stars,” he replies softly. Baz feels a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “The stars, huh? Don’t tell me you’re planning to become an astronaut.” Simon chuckles softly, patting the coverlet beside him. “Come sit.” Baz crawls onto the bed, and settles himself beside Simon. Their shoulders brush as he shifts to peer out the window. The two are silent for a few moments, drinking in the dark soup-bowl sky, and the high, cold points of light. There is not a wisp of cloud to be seen, and Baz knows that tomorrow morning there will be the first proper frost of the season. “What is it about Space that you love so much?” He murmurs. Simon contemplates the question for a moment, peering wide-eyed at the sky. He turns towards Baz with a smile. “There’s so…so much possibility out there, Baz. So much to learn and be discovered, you know? There’s so much we don’t know, and the things we do know are so wild, so powerful, so untameable.” As he speaks, Simon’s eyes drift towards the window once more. Baz watches the way starlight sparkles in Simon’s eyes, the way it hangs, glittering, in his curls. (How is it possible that it can reach so far?)  He’s so powerfully distracted by the galaxy that is Simon Snow, that he loses all sense of reality. They’re just two boys, swirling on a bed in the midst of soaring darkness and starlight. Simon’s eyes shift to him in that moment, and Baz realises he’s been caught staring. He can feel his cheeks beginning to flush pale pink, but Simon just smiles. “I always thought, you know, that your eyes looked a little like stars, in the dark.” “You did?” It is a typically whimsical and Simon kind of statement, that really doesn’t make much sense. To Baz, it feels as though his heart is a hummingbird, laced beneath bones and blood. Simon slides forward; so close that Baz can feel the warmth of his breath, ghosting across his face. There is a pause, in which the moonlight takes the chance to slip into the room. Simon is glowing now; this, Baz thinks, is why starlight can reach so far. Who wouldn’t want to touch the boy who has the galaxy in his chest pocket? Baz has never seen anyone so beautiful. “Simon,” he breathes, and that is all it takes for the boy to close the gap.

The kiss is Baz’s first, and for the first few seconds, his mind is wired, collapsing. Then Simon does something with his chin, and Baz forgets all thought. He leans forward into Simon, winding one arm around the boy’s waist, grazing the other hand across his jaw, feather-soft. Simon moans into the kiss, sliding a roughened hand into Baz’s hair and across his scalp. 

Baz breaks the kiss when oxygen becomes too hard to find, trailing his lips down the line of those god-damned moles that have been taunting him for far too fucking long. Simon’s hand snakes between the buttons of Baz’s shirt, and Baz loses all control over his voice. He lets out a breathy groan, against Simon’s collarbone, and the boy above him grins. Simon’s legs come around his waist, and suddenly, Baz is on his back, blinking up at Simon. Simon’s eyes are dark with lust, and Baz thinks that this must be a dream, because surely Simon doesn’t feel this way? Then Simon shifts onto to his elbows, grinding his hips down against Baz, and suddenly that doesn’t seem to matter anymore. “Bazzy,” Simon whimpers, burying his face in his neck. 

Fuck. The name shreds Baz’s last vestiges of control, and he lets out a hungry moan, thrusting upwards to meet the boy above him. “S-Simon,” he gasps, calling out, responding. Simon catches at his bottom lip, tongue sliding into his mouth. Baz’s entire body feels as though it has been sparked with stars; the feeling is so fantastic, so powerful, he doesn’t know how he’ll be able to go on without it. Their pace becomes frantic and messy – for a moment, the two are dangling on an ever-growing branch. Then suddenly, they are falling into bursts of colour and a sensation that makes Baz’s toes curl, his eyesight whitening momentarily. When he comes to again, Simon is changing his pants; Baz rolls sideways off the bed, and removes his own swiftly, replacing them with his silk pyjamas. Simon slips under the covers, dressed now in his standard track pants (bloody shirtless, as always), tugging Baz inwards. The boy pulls the covers tight around them, and entangles his body with Baz’s. “That was, um – it was amazing, Baz.” He smiles softly, dipping his forehead into the crook of Baz’s neck. “I’ve liked you for so long.” Baz’s heart leaps into his throat. “Really?” he whispers. “You have no idea how I feel about you.” Simon looks up, cheeks flushed. “Be my terrible boyfriend?” Baz thwacks him on the arm. “Be your terrible boyfriend? The only terrible one in this relationship will be you, Simon.” “Is that a yes, then?” “Is that a – Crowley Simon, yes.” Simon giggles, and tugs Baz further into his embrace. His hand slides Baz’s shirt upwards, rubbing a slow, warm pattern into his stomach. Baz allows his eyes to drift shut, body thrumming with warmth. Who knew stomach rubs made him so weak? Simon snickers. “You’re like a cat, Bazzy.” Ah. There it is again, that name. Baz concentrates on breathing. Everything is fine. Everything is fine, at least, until Simon draws closer and whispers, “Bazzy.”

[mosylufanfic]

The Grandma War

I’ve been working on this for a couple of months now, and when I heard that the last daily theme of Killervibe Week was going to be AU, I knew it was the kick in the pants I needed to finish this piece of silly fluff. Hope you enjoy.

Thanks to @killervibedaily for hosting this great week and reminding me why I love these two and how much they feel for each other, whether it’s canon or all in my head.

The Grandma War

 "I'm telling you, honey, she's a scourge."

"You mentioned that, Grandma," Caitlin Snow said patiently, matching her pace to her grandmother's as they walked in the front doors. "A few times now."

Her grandmother sniffed. "Well, she is."

"Okay," Caitlin said, smiling at the attendant at the front desk as she signed them in.

"You have a tiff with Luna, Charlotte?" the attendant asked. "I'm sorry to hear that."

Tiff was putting it mildly. From the sounds of it, Charlotte Snow had loathed her roommate from the moment they'd met the week before, and the sentiment was returned with equal if not greater fervor.

Caitlin had gotten an earful about Luna Aguilar from the day her grandma had been transferred to the rehab home from the hospital. She was just waiting to get called to either the police station or the morgue, because one of them had killed the other.

Charlotte grumbled about Luna all the way up the elevator. As they stepped into the hall on her floor, Caitlin asked, "Can't you at least try to get along with her? You two are both going to be here for months, recovering."

"I'm not the one who started it, darling."

Caitlin sighed. "She's an old lady with a broken hip, Grandma, and the worst thing she's ever actually done is get the bed by the window."

"She's a demon."

Caitlin dropped it, since they were getting close to the room and she didn't want Luna to overhear. Not that her grandma ever had such qualms herself - and neither did her roommate. Caitlin sighed to herself, wondering how two women with a combined one hundred and sixty-eight years on the planet still managed to act like squabbling children.

"Hey there, Mrs. S," someone said as they worked their way into the room. It was a young man sitting on the end of the bed up against the window. He had Luna's golden skin, and shiny black hair that fell in waves to his broad shoulders. He glanced at her, interest in his dark eyes, and gave her a quick, bright smile like a burst of sunlight. She smiled tentatively back.

"Good afternoon, Cisco," Charlotte said. She narrowed her eyes at the woman in the other bed. "Luna."

"Charlotte," the other woman said coldly.

"Hi, Mrs. Aguilar," Caitlin said politely. "How's your hip today?"

"Hello, Caitlin. It's better. How are you, mija?"

"I'm fine, thanks for asking."

There was a little pause, while Caitlin looked in between her grandmother, Mrs. Aguilar, and the young man - Cisco. He seemed to be doing the same thing.

"Well," he said, hopping to his feet, clearly having come to the conclusion that they had to be in charge of their own introduction.  "Hi. I'm Cisco Ramon." He held out his hand. "I'm Luna's grandson."

"Caitlin Snow," she said, shaking it. His hand was warm and firm around hers. "Charlotte's granddaughter."

"Nice to meet you."

"You too."

"You guys have a good day out?"

"Pretty good, and how was yours?"

"I owe Nana about seven thousand dollars," he said cheerfully. "So a good day for her."

"Were you playing bridge?"

"Hell, no, Texas Hold'em. And she cheats."

"Surprise surprise," Charlotte muttered.

Caitlin hissed, "Grandma," at her. It wasn't like Charlotte didn't cheat outrageously at gin rummy every chance she got.

"What was that?" Luna asked.

"Nothing," both Caitlin and Cisco said at once.

Luna looked suspicious, but she started scooping the cards on her tray table back into their box without comment.

Caitlin narrowed her eyes at her grandmother, who looked innocent. "Time for my nap, I think," the old lady sighed, settling into her bed.

Caitlin frowned at her, all her bad behavior forgotten. "Grandma! You should have told me you were getting tired. You can't overextend yourself. You had a major heart attack not that long ago. Do you want to go home soon or not?"

"Darling, stop fussing." Her grandma squeezed her hand. "I was doing perfectly fine. The day I overextend myself at minyan isn't here yet. It just hit me all of a sudden just now."

Well, that could happen, especially since this was the first time she'd gone to temple since her heart attack, and they'd stayed a long time afterwards, talking with her grandma's friends and sharing the gory details of the episode. She gave her grandma a hug. "Okay, I'll get going and let you rest."

Luna said clearly, "You'd better get going too, mijo, or that one will say we're keeping her up on purpose."

Caitlin looked up and found Cisco's eyes. His cheeks had reddened, and he grimaced an apology at her.

When her grandma said, "Well, if it'll stop you from talking all the time - "

Caitlin flushed in her turn, and grimaced back.

"Yeah, I should go." He muttered something in Spanish that Caitlin couldn't understand, but she guessed meant something like "play nice."

Luna replied something in Spanish that made Cisco rear back in shock.

"Nana! I'm gonna wash out your mouth with soap." He gave her a kiss anyway. "Te quiero, okay? I'll come see you in a few days."

She patted his cheek fondly. "Te quiero, baby."

They found themselves walking out to the parking lot together, with all the awkwardness of two people who had just met. "Well," he said, gesturing at a beat-up Honda in the parking lot, "Uh. So, this one's me. Nice meeting you."

"You too," she said, and found herself blurting, "I'm so sorry about my grandmother."

"Oh my god," he said, whipping around to face her fully. "No. I'm sorry about mine. The way she's acting, it's not cool at all."

"Does she complain about mine?"

"All the time. I'd show you the text convo but I don't want you to hate us. Even though you probably already do."

Caitlin rushed to reassure him. "I don't hate you, or her. She's always been very nice to me."

"Well, you're pretty nice to her, even though I'd totally get it if you weren't."

"She's interesting! And she likes to talk about you."

"Aw, shit," he said, ears going red, a little smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "Did she show you baby pics?"

"As cute as that sounds, no. But she brags about you. She said you have a fancy degree and a fancy new job."

"Well, your grandma definitely showed me baby pics, so you know. Fair warning there."

Caitlin blushed, trying to remember if the family photo album her grandmother had insisted on bringing to the rehab home had any naked baby pictures of herself.

"Anyway, she's pretty cool, your grandma. She actually found this Star Trek t-shirt for me and wanted to tell me all about the website where I could get it. I kind of didn't have the heart to tell her I already had it."

"You're lucky she didn't buy it for you."

He laughed. "I thought she was gonna, for real." Then he sighed. "No, but really. I don't know why they hate each other so much."

"At least they're not trying to fix us up or something," Caitlin said.

"Shyeah," Cisco said. "Nana should know better by now. Every time I ever went on a date she fixed me up with, it was awful."

A blast of cold wind whipped down the street, and Caitlin shivered.

"Whoa, look at me, keeping you out here in the cold griping about Grandma War '17," Cisco said, fumbling for his keys. "Sorry."

"No, it's okay," Caitlin said. Then, surprising herself, she blurted, "You know, maybe we should try to figure out what to do about it."

He looked up, blinking. "About our grandmas?"

"Yeah. The stress of this constant feuding can't be doing their recovery any good." She looked around and spotted a diner on the corner, the kind that served their coffee in thick white ceramic cups with a blue stripe around the rim, and had never heard of a mocha latte. "Should we go get a cup of coffee or something?"

He let his hand fall from his car door. "Yeah, sure, I'd like that."

The diner was bright and warm and smelled of fried food. They got a table by the window and ordered two cups of coffee.

"So how did this happen?" she asked, peeling open a little cup of half and half and dribbling it carefully into her cup. "Do you know?"

Cisco finished shaking three sugars into his cup, tossed the little paper packets onto the saucer, and turned his hands up to the sky. "Got me. The first I heard about it, your grandma was already Public Enemy Number One."

"She's not like this normally," Caitlin said. "My grandma."

"Neither is mine,” he assured her, reaching out to play with the wire holder full of jams and jellies. “When I found this place and I heard it was double-occupancy rooms, I figured, cool, cool, Nana'll be lifelong cronies with her roomie in under ten minutes. This whole thing is way out of character."

"Right! Right. The only thing I could ever get out of Grandma was that yours got there first and grabbed the bed by the window."

He snorted. He’d started stacking the jelly packets up into a pyramid. "Well, yeah, it is a sweet spot, what with its gorgeous vista of the parking lot and everything."

She sipped her coffee. "Of course, who wouldn't want to wake up to that? But it's such a silly reason for a feud, especially with someone you're sharing living space with."

He set the last jelly packet on top of his structure, considered it, then started pulling it down and making it three-sided. "It doesn't make sense, but you know, I figure it's like true love."

She made an incredulous face. "I don't think this is anything like true love."

"No, but it is," he said. "You meet that one person, the person you're gonna loathe and despise all your life, and you just know, right? Your nemesis."

"But which one is Lex Luthor and which one is Superman?"

He grinned at her. "Hard to say, but A-plus reference."

She blushed and smiled back.

"No, but seriously. I'm tired of hearing about this. You think we can request, like, a roomie swap?"

"I've suggested that. Grandma refused. Something about, then she would win."

"They do have single rooms."

"All full," Caitlin said. "And even if one does open up, Medicare won't cover the extra cost, and I'm not so sure I could afford it."

"Aren't you, like, a fancy doctor? That's what your grandma says when she's bragging on you."

"With fancy medical school loans," she said. "I'm going to be in massive debt until I'm eighty."

"I hear that," he said, and held out his fist over the table. After a moment, she realized she was supposed to bump it, and did. He laughed gently at her. "I got loans out the wazoo myself, so I couldn't swing the extra either," he admitted. "And I'm pretty sure Nana would eat nails before she asked for a roommate swap."

"So here we are."

"Yep," he said, drinking his coffee. "Here we are."

As a first attempt, they agreed to visit their respective grandmothers more often, in hopes that most of the squabbling was due to boredom.

"Just as long as we don't exhaust them," Caitlin fretted. "They've both had major health issues. The last thing we want is to set their recovery back."

"It'll be cool! I'll play poker with her, lose like half a dozen shirts. She'll teach me all the old songs I never had time to learn when I was in school. I'll take her to lunch on the weekends and she'll bitch about how people can't cook anymore and eat everything on her plate. She'll have a blast, trust me."

He worked for an engineering firm, a 9-5 job, so his visits were pretty regular. Caitlin's schedule at the hospital was far more variable, but when she could, she tried to time her visits with his - just so her grandma wasn't sitting alone in the room while Cisco and Luna were out, she told herself, or listening to them have fun.

Still, whenever she saw his beat-up Honda sitting in the parking lot, with its bi pride sticker and the Rebel Alliance decal in the back window, she walked in with a little more spring in her step, a smile ready to answer his when he looked up.

After their visits, they fell in the habit of walking together to the diner on the corner and getting a cup of coffee as they tried to figure out how to make two stubborn, prickly old ladies get along. They'd worn themselves out on apologies within a couple of weeks, or had started taking them as given, because they both just sort of sighed and made faces at each other in their grandmas' room, and said things like, "I can't believe she said that!" afterwards.

The day Cisco spent an hour and a half patiently teaching Charlotte about her new phone, Caitlin was impressed and told him so. He shrugged. "It's just tech, you know? She'll be texting you selfies in no time."

Caitlin doubted that, but even so, knowing her grandmother had an up to date phone with all her health information on it made her feel better. "Did you teach your grandma?"

He laughed and shook his head. "Man, Nana was texting all her comadres when I was still a kid. That's how I knew something was up the day she fell and broke her hip, because she hadn't texted me all day. And her selfie game is on point."

"Grandma refuses to take selfies," Caitlin said. "She says they're vain and nobody wants to see an old lady's wrinkles."

"Nana says she earned those and anybody who doesn't want to see her can look away."

Caitlin thought about that. "I think I like that attitude."

The day Caitlin had skipped lunch and her stomach growled audibly as they walked into the diner, Cisco insisted on getting a giant basket of fries for them to split with their coffee. He watched with scrunched-up face as she dipped them in mayonnaise. "Okay. That's - I try not to harsh on folks and their tastes, but that's just wrong."

"Don't knock it 'til you've tried it," she said.

He reached over, stuck his fry in her cup of mayo, and bit the end off. He chewed thoughtfully, swallowed, and said, "Yep. Still wrong." He swirled the half a fry in ketchup as she giggled.

After that, fries became part of the routine, and then Caitlin found herself ordering dinner more often than not as their conversations roamed beyond the grandma war and on to the rest of their lives.

She told him stories from the hospital, censoring the more disgusting ones until he said, "Don't hold back on my account. I have a strong stomach." He took a big bite of spaghetti. "Tell me the weirdest thing you've ever found up a dude's ass."

She laughed and launched into the story of a plastic Buddha statue that unfortunately for the erotic adventurer, had turned out to be both hollow and brittle.

He shared stories of his family, including cute pictures of his brother's kids. His mom had moved to Starling City to be closer to her grandchildren, which was why Cisco was the only family member left in Central City to look after Luna.

"Is it hard, being so far away?" she asked.

"Mmmm, hard to say," he said, drizzling syrup over his waffles. She'd side-eyed him, but he'd insisted that breakfast for dinner was the best ever. "Sometimes. But we never exactly were best buds, so in some ways this works for us. We text each other when we've got something to say, and I get to be cool Uncle Cisco on Skype for the kids, sending awesome presents, and - " He shrugged. "It's better than when we were growing up. I feel bad about it sometimes, though."

"Why?" she asked.

"I mean. He's my brother. I'm supposed to love him and stuff."

She mushed her fork into the little mountain of mashed potatoes she'd gotten with her meatloaf. "I think that when it comes to family, we mistake loving somebody for liking them," she said slowly. "I mean, it's possible to love someone and care what happens to them, and not really want to spend time with them."

He studied her, his eyes altogether too sharp. "That sounds like you're speaking from experience."

"My mom," she said. "She's - we've always been - I mean, I love her. If she ever needed me, I would go. She's my mom. But I recently gave myself permission to stop working so hard to like her, and to stop trying to make our relationship something it's never going to be."

He mouthed the words - gave myself permission. "You're pretty smart, aren't you?"

She shrugged and scooped up a heavy forkful of potato. "Or maybe I'm just a cold person."

"Nope," he said. "I've seen you with your grandma. You're not cold."

She ducked her head shyly. "Listen, if you want to be closer to your brother, then it's worth trying. But if you're both okay with the way things are now, then . . . Then that can be okay."

He pushed a bite of waffle through the puddle of syrup on his plate and looked thoughtful.

Another day, after he told her a few dating disaster stories, she found herself sharing her catastrophic romantic history. He listened and let out a low whistle. "So hang on, first you lost your high school sweetheart in a car accident, and then your college boyfriend turned out to be a psycho who practically kidnapped you to keep you from going to med school?"

"He was a mistake on many levels."

"Yeah, no shit. And then - ?"

She shrugged. "Julian was. . . . Well, I wasn't head over heels for him, but that was actually nice after Jay and his whole whirlwind romance thing. And I sort of felt like it was about time to have a boyfriend again, you know?"

He hummed in his throat, dripping more cream into his third cup of coffee. "Were you worried about getting stuck on what Jay did to you, and never trusting a guy ever again?"

Caitlin went still, her grilled cheese sandwich halfway to her mouth. "You know," she said. "I think I was."

She studied Cisco, wondering how he'd so quickly and easily picked up on something she hadn't even been aware of herself.

He raised his brows at her and stirred his coffee.

She shook herself and continued the story. "Anyway, with Julian, we both realized that we wanted different things." She made a face. "He wanted to propose to me on my birthday with the Jumbotron at an Atoms game, and I wanted to be single."

"Oh," he said, dropping an entire sugar packet, unopened, into his coffee cup. "Oh, damn. That was you."

She clapped her hands over her mouth. "You saw that video?" It had gone viral for a very bad week and a half.

"Yep," he said, using his fork to fish the soggy sugar packet out of his coffee. "Man, I remember feeling so bad for both of you."

"He was nice," she tried to explain. "Just not for me. And it's amazing how that can be just as wrenching as the other ways things ended."

"So have you sworn off love now?"

She shook her head. "I focused on my residency after that, but someday I'll start dating again. Only when I find someone I really, really like, though. No more boyfriends just for the sake of not being alone."

He nodded a few times. "I, um. I respect that, Caitlin. I really do."

It was a strange response, she thought, and opened her mouth to ask him why he'd said it like that.

But he twisted away, flagging their waitress down. "Hey, can we get another cup of mayo for my friend here?"

The day Charlotte and Luna got in a squabbling match that they almost had to get the nurses break up, Caitlin said, "Nothing's working."

"Nope," he said, shaking his head over his cheeseburger. "I thought Scrabble was a decent idea but wow, did that backfire."

"We could lock them in their bathroom until they bury the hatchet."

"In each other?"

"Grandma Thunderdome," she sighed, cutting into her pancakes.

"Two grandmas enter, but only one can leave," he agreed. "What about a get-along shirt?"

"From what I hear, that doesn't even work on actual six-year-olds."

"Yeah," he agreed. "The more I think about it, the more I think it's gonna take something drastic."

The next time their visits coincided, Luna and Charlotte seemed to be especially snappish and petty with each other. Luna sniped about Charlotte taking the last slice of pound cake at dinner. Charlotte sniped back that there was nothing to whine about, there had been plenty of ice cream.

"Oh my god!" Cisco yelled, making them all jump. "Would you two knock it off already?"

"Mijo, did you hear - "

"I don't care!" Cisco said fiercely. "I don't care what she said, I don't care what you said. Caitlin and I are sick of all our dates starting with 'I'm so sorry about the way my grandma's acting!' Would you cut it out?"

Caitlin felt like a pit had opened up beneath her feet. Cisco's eyes went wide, as if he'd just realized what he'd said.

"Dates?" Luna said.

"Dates?" Charlotte said.

Then, in perfect unison, they both turned their heads to look at Caitlin.

"Mija, are you dating my grandson?" Luna asked her.

She met Cisco's eyes. They were still wide and astonished, but there was something in them. A plea.

Drastic, he'd said. Well, this was drastic, all right.

She swallowed. "Yes." She got up, on legs that wobbled like a new fawn's, and crossed the room to take Cisco's hand in hers. It closed tightly around hers. She felt herself steady. "Yes, we're dating. And we didn't want to tell you because we didn't want it to become some ridiculous Romeo and Juliet scenario."

Cisco picked up where she'd left off. "But you know what? We're all adults here, and you guys can deal. I'm sorry for yelling, Nana and Mrs. S. But Caitlin's my girlfriend, and I want to enjoy that without worrying about what kind of crap you two are talking about each other."

It was Charlotte who asked, "Darling, are you serious about him?"

She swallowed. "I - I don't know," she said. "It's early yet. But I do know that - " She looked over at Cisco. "That I always look forward to seeing him, and no matter what, the time we spend together is the high point of my day."

Cisco's lips curved in a slow, sweet smile, and she smiled back. Her legs felt wobbly again.

She turned back to the two old ladies, still sitting in their beds gaping at her. "Which is why we're asking you - "

"We're begging you," Cisco said.

"Please, if you love us, figure out some way of getting along before we come back next time."

There was a little silence. Finally, Charlotte said, "Well. I suppose I could make an effort."

Luna sniffed. "I'll do my best."

"That's all we're asking," Cisco said. "And on that note, I think it's time for us to go."

"Do you have to?"

"I think so, yes," Caitlin said, reaching out to grab her coat and purse. She had to let go of Cisco's hand, and her own felt cold and lonely without his wrapped around it. She kissed her grandmother goodbye and followed Cisco out the door.

They stepped into the elevator at the end of the hall. Instead of hitting the button for the ground floor, they both leaned against the walls and stared at each other, gobsmacked by what they'd just done.

"Well, it did work," she said after several moments. "Sort of. They certainly weren't fighting anymore."

"Because they both practically had strokes from the shock."

"Don't even joke about that," she begged.

He pinched the bridge of his nose. "I don't know how that happened," he said, eyes closed. "I - my tongue slipped, and then all of a sudden - " He opened his eyes. "You're a champion, Caitlin, for real. You rolled with it so well. And what you said - that was perfect. Like, that was so much more believable than if you'd gone, 'oh yeah, we're totally in love and running away to Vegas.'"

She managed a shaky smile. "I'm not exactly the getting-married-in-Vegas type. Which my grandmother knows."

He laughed a little, a high-pitched sound.

The elevator jerked and starting rolling downward, and they both realized where they were. Cisco reached over and hit the ground-floor button, but they still had to wait for an old man to get on at the fourth floor. Caitlin smiled politely at him and wished him at the ends of the earth. He got off at the third floor, which was far enough.

"So what do we do now?" she asked Cisco, worrying at one of the cuffs of her coat.

He let out his breath in a whoosh. "I - uh. Well, I guess we could pretend break up."

Her throat knotted up, for some reason. "Right now? Right away?" She swallowed the knot down. "That just seems like an invitation to more battling."

"Oh, man, you're right, and this time they'll have righteous indignation on their side. Okay. So." He folded his hands on top of his head a moment, then dropped them with a deep sigh. "We, uh, we'll hold hands a lot, I guess? And make up stories about our dates. And stuff. I don't know. Pretend to be crazy in love in front of our grandmas for the next couple of months."

"Yeah," she said as the elevator dinged for the lobby. "We'll think of things."

They were suddenly as awkward as they'd been that first day, walking out to the parking lot together in silence. Worse, she thought.

Instead of hooking a right, toward the diner, he turned left, toward his car.

"You're going?" she said. Her own voice sounded wistful and sad in her ears. "You don't want to get dinner?"

"I forgot to tell you," he said, avoiding her eyes. "I have a thing tonight. So I gotta - " He hooked his thumb over his shoulder. "You know. Take off."

"Oh," she said.

"Yeah," he said.

She mustered up her courage. "Before you go, can I ask you a question?"

He eyed her. "Sure," he sad cautiously.

"You said your tongue slipped. Why did it slip in that particular direction?"

He shut his eyes and mumbled, "I was hoping you wouldn't ask that."

"Well?"

He met her eyes again. "Hey. Look. It was a mistake. I was annoyed and I said something I didn't mean to say and - " He shrugged. "Let's forget about it. I mean, as much as possible considering it's gotten us into a whole mess of trouble."

She considered him. Her heart was beating very fast in her throat. "All those times we went to dinner, were you - Um. Were you thinking of those as dates?"

He let out his breath. "Honestly? I was starting to. But you were very upfront with me, which I appreciate. You don't want to date anyone right now. That's cool." He dug around in his pocket for his keys. "So, yeah, I'll text you, okay?" He started for his car again.

She said, loudly and clearly, "What I said was that I didn't want to date anyone until I found someone I really, really liked."

He stopped and turned. "I - "

"I really, really like you."

His mouth fell open just a little. "I - " He blinked. "I'm confused?"

"That wasn't meant as a brush off. That's what I've been saying ever since I broke up with Julian, to explain to people why I wasn't dating. It just comes out on automatic now. And what I said upstairs? The reason it sounded so good was because it was true. Every word. You really are the high point of my day." She took in his slow-dawning smile and felt her heart begin to beat normally again. "Of my entire week, actually."

His hand reached out and wrapped around hers. "Mine too."

She let her breath and smiled at him. "So we can pretend to date to fool our grandmas. If you want. Or - or we could - "

"Really date?" he filled in.

"What do you think?"

He tugged at her hands until she stepped toward him, and then he kissed her. She leaned into the kiss, luxuriating in it. Her last kiss had been a long time ago, but she didn't think that was why this felt so incredibly good.

When they pulled apart again, he said as if there'd been no interim, "I think it's an awesome idea, but are you sure? This isn't just for your grandma?"

"If I were in the habit of dating people just to make her happy, I would have gone to Lily Stein's bat mitzvah with her best friend's great-nephew. I didn't," she added. "This is for us."

"Us," he said. "I like that."

She felt the smile spread over her face, and she leaned in to kiss him again. "Me too."

Upstairs, at the window overlooking the parking lot, Charlotte reported, "They're still kissing."

Luna chortled, shuffling cards like a Vegas card shark. "If he's anything like his grandfather, your granddaughter is verrrrrry happy."

Charlotte smirked at her roommate. "If she's anything like me, your grandson's very happy."

Luna swatted at her. "Ayyyy, sucia!"

The other woman laughed raucously and turned away from the window, settling down onto the end of Luna's bed. "Well, it took them long enough to admit it," she said, holding out a hand for the cards Luna passed to her.

Luna sniffed. "As if we couldn't figure out they always wanted to visit us on the same day, and they spent half the time talking to each other, and their cars stayed in the parking lot for hours after they left."

"We may be old but we're not stupid." Charlotte surveyed her hand, discarded two, and drew their replacements.

Luna discarded one and drew. "And you doubted me." She reached over to the bag of M&Ms Cisco had brought and tossed four candies onto her lap tray.

"I didn't doubt you, Luna, I just thought your plan was awfully convoluted." Charlotte saw her four and raised her five more, absently eating a few candies. Cisco kept them both well-supplied.

Luna rolled her eyes. "If we tried to set them up, they would both fuss and kick their heels. But give them a common goal, let them think it was all their own idea, and - " She pointed out the window. "Look at that. Married in two years, I bet you."

"A year and a half," Charlotte said.

"And you had fun, didn't you?"

"Almost as much fun as you did. I still don't know half the names you called me in Spanish."              

"I'll teach you." Luna studied the pot and then her hand, eyes narrowed. "Do you fold?"

"Not on your life," Charlotte said, and spread her cards out.

They had seven aces between them, but Charlotte had the higher hand anyway. She raked in her stash of candy. "My deal."

"Before that, come over here," Luna ordered. "Triumph selfie."

"Oh, Luna!"

"Come on, come on! The hell with your wrinkles, you've earned them. Don't you want your great-grandbabies to know how beautiful their nanas were?"

Charlotte pushed herself up from the end of the bed and went around to press her cheek to Luna's. "They're going to see for themselves," she said, and smiled for the camera.

FINIS

[meltingalphabet]

The Reunion

This happened two years ago, yet, I can still remember it as if it were yesterday. I’ve told the cops what happened, I’ve told reporters and friends, my therapist... But I feel like I’ve never been able to tell the whole story to them. These people weren’t just victims, they were my friends. They were a huge part of my life. Their deaths weren’t simply the visceral manifestation of insanity, but an accumulation of the lives they had lead, ending prematurely at the hands of someone who misguidedly felt betrayed. I’m getting ahead of myself. Let me start, not at the beginning, but in the middle.

When you’re in your late thirties, you find that you’ve become distant from friends you were once really close with. In college, my wife Victoria (my friend and soon-to-be girlfriend at the time), and I were part of a tight-knit group of undergrads: Nick, Addison, Heather, Leann, Jacob, Ricky, Bianca, and Tom. The last time all ten of us were together, before the incident two years ago, was at Victoria and my’s wedding, back in 2012.

Nick and Jacob lived together in New York City. Nick moved there to be a big shot on Wall Street. He worked at some company named after three old white men, making much more than any of the rest of us. Jacob was focusing on his music, performing as lead guitarist in a Heavy Metal band that, based on social media, was actually gaining some notoriety in the city. Jacob and Nick had been best friends in college, and were still best friends. They had one of those bromances you see on television. They met in college when Nick passed Jacob’s open dorm and heard the sound of guitar. Nick ran to his room to grab his bass, and the rest, as they say, is history.

The other pair of best friends, Heather and Leann, had moved to the Bay Area after college, but unlike the guys, they eventually moved apart. Both were still on the west coast, Heather had moved to a smaller town outside of the city where she worked in publishing, and Leann had moved to Portland to work as a social justice lawyer.

Addison was living with her elderly parents in Boston while she worked on her nursing degree. She had recently divorced her husband of six years, and had become a bit elusive, so that was all I knew, really.

Ricky had moved the furthest, leaving the U.S. all together and living in London with his wife, where he became a fairly successful television writer for the BBC. I had watched all of his shows, though Victoria avoided them. They were filled with suspense, illicit affairs, and kidnapping. She preferred romantic stories or the Great British Bake Off.

Bianca and Tom got married a year before we did. They stayed in Hanover, not too far from Dartmouth, where we all went to school. Bianca owned her own pilates and yoga studio, and Tom, unable to leave college life, worked in the Administrative Department of the school.

Victoria and I moved to Connecticut after graduation so I could work at my father’s architecture firm. Victoria had been working in web development, but was taking a few years off to focus on our daughter, Molly. We had been dating for almost twenty years, cohabitating for fifteen, and married for ten. In that time, the two of us had grown from just two adults, to two adults, a three year old, a loveable, bossy Corgi named Rufus, two fluffy and infuriating cats named Ham and Cheese, and our most recent addition: a curious rabbit named Princess Twinkle (Molly had chosen that name).

Two years ago on a frosty February morning, I opened my email to find an invitation to a weekend get-together from Tom:

Hey Chuckster!

Long time no talk, man. Hope you guys are faring this hellish winter alright. We moved into our new house a few weeks ago (sidenote: I would not recommend moving in January), and we’re already having issues with the roof. Bianca has been busy renovating this baby since last May! She promised me it’ll be habitable any day now. This place is much too large for the two of us, but we’re hoping to fill it soon, if you know what I mean ;)

Speaking of kids, I saw the pictures you posted online last week of Molly opening her Christmas gifts. Man, she is huge! I hope Bianca and I get down to your neck of the woods soon to finally meet the little bugger.

Anyway, I’m emailing you because Ricky called last night and he’s going to be in town this March, from the 23rd to the 30th. I guess he’s doing a few guest lectures at Dartmouth. He asked if he could stay with us, and of course we were thrilled at the idea. Ricky and I got to talking, and we decided it was the perfect opportunity to try and organize a little college reunion! We’re thinking an old fashioned shindig, Saturday the 28th.

I sent an email out to the usual suspects. We’d love it if you and Victoria could make it up! We have guest rooms to spare, so you can spend the night. Hell, stay the whole weekend!

Feel free to bring the kiddo, though keep in mind she’d be the only one under thirty since the rest of us have yet to reproduce.

Love you man,

Hope to see you soon!

Tom

Victoria and I didn’t have any other plans for that weekend, and my mom and dad happily agreed to babysit. The next night, I sent Tom a response saying we’d be there.

For the next couple of weeks, Tom would send me regular updates on the party. Heather and Leann were the next two to agree to the plan. They decided to make the trip together. Heather was going to fly to Portland, stay with Leann for the night, and then the two of them would fly to Boston, where they would pick up Addison and the three would drive up to New Hampshire. A week later, Jacob finally convinced Nick to take the bus up from New York with him.

By early March, we were all booked and ready. Victoria and I were ecstatic. We hadn’t seen anyone since the wedding, which at that time, had been three years ago. Not to mention, as the bride and groom, we really didn’t get much time to catch up with old friends. This would be the first time we all hung out, just us, in almost a decade.

Victoria and I left home early Saturday, dropping Molly off with her grandparents before heading out. The weather report told us to expect some nasty rain that night, so we wanted to get to New England before visibility on the road was bad. We were pulling into Tom and Bianca’s driveway at a little after one in the afternoon, the New England sun high above us, trying to warm the chilly New Hampshire air. It looked so nice, so calm and peaceful. But I could see dark clouds crawling menacingly towards us when I lowered my head to the steering wheel to look up at the distant sky past the edge of my car’s roof.

Tom and Bianca’s home was quite large. It was a classic New England Colonial home, painted a light sky blue with white trim and shutters. A wrap around porch, an addition that was tastefully designed to not contrast the classic structure, stretched from the front door to the side. We grabbed our weekend bags from the trunk, and walked up the front steps. The large white door greeting us warmly.

Victoria’s hand hovered in front of the doorbell, and she looked at me, a huge excited smile stretching from ear to ear. “Ready?”

I laughed at her giddiness, “just ring it, weirdo.”

She pushed, a large chime filling the inside of the house. We waited a few seconds before the door burst open, and Tom stood in front of us wearing khakis and a pink polo. His dirty blonde hair shaggy, yet neat, just like it had been ten years ago. His smiled was crooked on his face, but I noticed a few lines tracing the sides of his mouth. Otherwise, he looked the same: young and cocky. Ego and self-esteem in abundance. His skin was tanned with time spent playing and lounging outside, and the beer bottle between his right thumb and forefinger was as much a part of him as his kind, intelligent brown eyes. I thought of the slight gut forming under my sweater as I noticed that Tom had retained, not only the confidence, but the lean athletic body of his youth.

“Fuck yeah! The adult supervision has arrived!” He hollered before embracing both of us in a warm hug. I could hear a female whooping come from deep in the house, which I instantly recognized as Bianca. Tom and Bianca had always been the partiers, while everyone else joked that Victoria and I were the group’s official old folks. Victoria’s obsession with knitting and my bizarre love of creamed corn helped solidify that reputation fairly early on in our freshman year.

“Come on, come on, the party's already started!” Tom ushered us inside. We followed him into the living room where Bianca and Ricky were sitting, drinking beers. Several hands of cards lay forgotten on the coffee table in front of them.

Bianca jumped up squealing before proceeding to attack my wife with a huge hug. She wore her long light blonde hair in a messy bun on top of her head, and was dressed in dark blue yoga pants and a white t-shirt. Her lips were a light shade of pink, that suited her pale complexion well. Like Tom, she managed to maintain the fit body from her successful cheerleading career in High School and College.

Tom left towards the kitchen while Ricky stood, extending his hand to me. I laughed at the gesture, and pulled him into a warm embrace. As we parted, I eyed him from top to bottom. A wannabe-novelist in his youth, selling out his craft for television had not affected his style much at all. He wore the clothes of a writer: dark jeans and a mustard yellow cardigan that played well with his rich mocha skin, but Ricky was not your usual poet. While one might expect the writer of our group to be lean and frail looking, the clean-cut clothing looked strained again the large muscular body underneath.

“Oh my god! I’m so excited you guys could make it!” Bianca said, finally able to speak intelligible words as she released Victoria from her grasp and hugged me.

“We wouldn’t have missed it for the world! And thanks, Ricky, for visiting and getting this going!” I said over her shoulder.

“I am the proverbial snowball that lead to the avalanche.” Ricky said, bowing jokingly to me. Tom reentered, arms full of cold beers.

Victoria snorted, taking a beer from Tom’s outstretched hand, “poetic, but I don’t think that’s a common idiom.”

Ricky gave her a silent half smile in return, the closest thing he had to a friendly chuckle.

“Fucking English majors.” Tom rolled his eyes, smirking.

“I know, right? We suck.” Victoria retorted and pushed Tom’s shoulder playfully. I tensed slightly. Tom and Victoria had dated for a hot minute freshman year, before quickly realizing their incompatibility. And by that, I mean Tom dumped her after a month because he didn’t want something serious. It didn’t take long for Tom and Bianca to drunkenly hook up at a frat party, and ironically, the two became pretty inseparable for the remainder of our college years, and beyond.

It took Victoria almost a year to recover from the break up. I was waiting in the wings, though. I spent nights comforting her, bringing her ice cream, listening to her lament the loss of another guy. It was worth it in the end, but it still made me uneasy when they flirted like this, even if it was just friendly, and even after all these years. I tried to shrug it off. Tom did flirt with everyone.

I grabbed the beer Tom offered and took a swig. My body loosened instinctively at the familiar ice cold taste.

Looking down at my watch, I saw that it was now two. “When does everybody else get in?” I asked.

“Any minute now!” Tom said excitedly, turning away from my wife to face me. “I just got a text from Heather that they decided to meet Nick and Jacob at the bus stop. Their bus was scheduled to come in…” he checked the time on his phone, “now, I guess. The girls got there twenty minutes ago. According to Heather, she talked to Nick and figured they might as well give the guys a ride instead of forcing them to take a cab.” I smiled, Heather was always the planner of the bunch. If it wasn't for her organization and leadership, our group probably wouldn't have survived long. “With that many bodies, they’re lucky Addison owns an SUV instead of tiny sedan like you guys.” Tom laughed, as if our twelve year old Accord was a joke everyone was in on. “If everything's going according to schedule, they should be here in half an hour,” he finished.

The doorbell rang fifty minutes later. “Bolla bolla bolla!” Tom yelled, throwing both arms into the air excitedly, spilling at least half of a beer in the process. I chuckled. I hadn’t heard anyone say that since college, when we were dumb drunk kids. I wasn’t sure Tom had ever stopped being a dumb drunk kid.

Bianca went to the door, Tom following her, continuing his juvenile call, which echoed off of the high ceilings.

Ricky, Victoria, and I listened to the door open, followed by both male and female voices joining in. “Bolla bolla bolla!” the cries reverberated to the living room. Ricky rolled his eyes, beaming, and Victoria snorted with laughter. I looked at my wife’s face, glowing with a carefree happiness I hadn’t seen since Molly was born. I smiled at her.

Suddenly, a gaggle of late thirty year olds flooded the room with high-pitched squeals and hugs. “Sorry we’re late!” Heather called out, “Nick had to fail at getting the digits of a cute girl from the bus, and we had to watch!” Heather, Leann, and Addison fell into a fit of giggling at this. Nick scowled.

I greeted my old friends, shocked at how much they had changed. Minus Jacob, who, like Tom and Bianca, looked exactly as he had in college. He still wore those round glasses that only artists with oval faces can pull off, or Harry Potter. He didn’t even look like he had aged. He was wearing a band shirt for some band I had never heard of and his long blonde hair was cut exactly like it had years ago. He always had a very Cobain air about him.

I had seen photos of Leann, Nick, and Addison on facebook, and had noticed the subtle changes over the years, but in person, they took my breath away.

The stress of divorce and taking care of her parents while getting her Masters seemed to be taking a lot out of Addison. She had been the nerd of the group: smart, focused, shy, but now she also looked tired, as if she was fraying at the edges. In college, she’d often abandon parties long before the rest of us were ready to go home. She prefered movie nights to frat houses, art exhibits to ragers, museums to bars. She had always been a bit sloppy, but now she just looked… frumpy. Her face old and lined, her brown hair already slowly turning silver.

Contrarily, it was startling to see Leann, Nick, and Heather as polished, successful adults.

Leann, who had always been a bit of a hippie with her long flowing brown hair, unshaved legs, and long skirts, now wore a shorter bob, her hair cut close to the bottom of her jaw, and with much less frizz. She wore some makeup, though very subtle, and her jeans and t-shirt were neat, clean, and fitted.

Nick still looked like he was trying too hard to be cool, but now he had an air of wealth that had never surrounded him in college. His baggy t-shirt with holes at the armpits was now a form fitting striped sweater. He still wore his hair chin length, but instead of looking greasy with unwash, it was neatly cut, combed, and, most importantly, clean. His beard was trimmed close to his face, and he smelled like soap and a very subdued cologne.

Heather was the most drastic. She had never embraced the trend of social media which began late in our college years, and so I did not have any hint about her physical transformation until now. She was never grossly overweight in college, but she was definitely not what you would call skinny. Bianca always had, and still had, the body of a cheerleader. Victoria, even after having Holly, was a naturally very slim person, with a small frame. Heather was much broader and taller. Her hobby of weightlifting always contributing to her feminine but strong physique, her love of fast food giving her some extra weight. Heather was still tall and broad, but now her body was lean with muscle and little fat.

I hugged the slim Heather.

“Wow, Heather, you look fantastic!” I said, releasing her.

She blushed, “heh, thanks.”

She turned to Tom, who winked while handing her a beer. The red of her cheeks deepened, and I noticed Bianca roll her eyes.

“The whole gang, back together! This is insane!” Jacob exclaimed.  

Leann broke away from her hug with Bianca, “Damn, Bianca! Everytime I see you, I’m amazed at how young you still look!”

“Oh stop!” Bianca cried, waving her away.

“So, are you going to give us a tour of this ridiculously amazing home of yours?” asked Leann, gesturing to her surroundings.

Bianca smiled, pleased with the invitation, “of course! Follow me!” She and Tom led us from the living room into the large, modern kitchen, which shined with new chrome appliances.

Nick whistled. “Holy shit, this must have cost a fortune!”

Tom shrugged, “oh this? This was nothing.” He laughed. “This was all the beautiful Bianca’s doing!” He bowed to his wife, who beamed back. “Wait till you see the master bedroom!” And with that he bounded off.

“No, but really, Tom. How did you guys afford this?” Nick’s voice trailed behind him as he followed, leaving the kitchen behind, the rest of us slowly making our own way to the stairs.

“It might have taken a credit card or two to get this place up to snuff.” Tom admitted at the head of the migration.

Heather groaned, never one to hide how she really felt, “you know that's just asking for trouble, right?”

Bianca giggled, “oh, don’t worry about it, Heather. I’ve got it taken care of. Soon, Tom and I won’t have to worry about any of that.”

Jacob looked at Tom inquisitively, but he just shrugged.

Victoria leaned into my side, and I tilted my ear to her mouth as we walked behind the rest of the group. “This place is incredible.” She whispered, her eyes locking on mine. I felt a small twin pang of jealousy in the pit of my stomach. The place was fancy, clean, and immaculate. It was beyond impressive. Our own home was small, decorated in furniture that, if it didn’t start out as used, was now after ten years and a kid. Victoria and my’s love of animals and children made us give up on interior design, organization, and cleanliness years ago. Seeing homes like this always reminded us of our failings.

I put my arm around Victoria, squeezed her closer, and kissed her forehead. “Their place might be a palace, but we’re the ones lucky enough to be woken up at 7am every Saturday and Sunday morning by a small, bossy child and her equally small, bossy Corgi pal.” My wife snorted and pushed me away as we walked into the bedroom.

The room was almost as large as the kitchen. Hell, it might have been larger. The focal point was a large four post bed, draped with white silks. The furniture surrounding it was large, and made of a polished dark wood. In the middle of the ceiling was a small, but still quite grand chandelier. There was even a dark blue velvet chaise lounge in the corner.

“Check out the jacuzzi tub!” Tom cried, throwing open the french doors into the bathroom. Inside was a large round bathtub, with a glass shower next to it, containing many more shower nozzles than I ever thought would be necessary. Both the tub and the shower were surrounded with rich light brown marble.

Tom beamed at me expectantly. I nodded slowly, and said the only thing that came to mind, “wow.” Tom clapped me on the back, and then proceeded to jump onto the steps leading up to the tub. He raised his arms like a dictator about to give a speech.

“And this, ladies and gents, will be where the party ends tonight.” He winked again at Heather, who looked away, pretending not to notice.

“Sure thing, T-bone.” Victoria said sarcastically. “Can we like, not hang out in your bathroom anymore? It’s kind of weird.” Jacob laughed and we walked into the bedroom. Ricky, Nick, and Leann continued to lead us towards the bedroom door, but Tom interrupted the procession.

“Before we leave the luxury of the master bedroom, who wants to play the phone game?” Tom asked in a excessively sensual tone, an eyebrow raised.

“You mean that game kids play in preschool? You want us to get in a circle and whisper a sentence into each other’s ears until it’s gibberish?” Victoria asked, incredulously.  

Tom laughed at this, the alcohol making his gestures and sounds grander than usual. “Not that one, though I guess we can try that later. Seems like Vicky and Chuck’s party games have changed slightly since having a kid.” Everyone laughed and Tom continued, “No, this is a different game.” He walked over and opened the door at the side of the room to reveal a large walk-in closet, complete with a middle island. Possibly for shoe storage? Or something similarly unnecessary and ridiculous.

He walked to a large safe set into the wall, and began spinning the front dial, stopping and reversing it occasionally as he entered the combination. “This is the no-distractions-at-the-party cell phone game,” Tom said. There was a large click, and he stepped to the side, opening the safe door in the process. The door swung heavily, revealing a large dark space. “Everyone who wants to participate in the best reunion ever, put your cell phones inside!” Tom beamed mischievously at us.

“Fuck no.” Victoria said, crossing her arms sternly.

“Yeah, I’m not doing that.” Leann agreed.

“Can you maybe explain the point of this game, Tom?” Nick asked.

“Isn’t it obvious? It’s to ensure our fun night isn’t interrupted. No work, no other friends, no family. Tonight, this house is our world and nothing exists beyond it.” He grabbed his phone from his pocket, and placed it inside the safe.

“I think it’s a good idea.” Bianca said, and handed him her phone.

Tom laughed, “yeah, cause it was yours, babe. Remember? You suggested it at breakfast yesterday.”

Bianca thought back, “was it?”

Tom chuckled and kissed her affectionately on the cheek. He turned to Ricky, “the memory on this one,” he said gesturing to her with his thumb.

“Who needs brains when you’ve got a body like that, am I right?!” Nick whispered loudly to Tom, as he elbowed him in the chest knowingly. Bianca smiled sarcastically at him and I heard Victoria groan quietly beside me. Nick could be an ass sometimes. Heather gave him a small smack to the back of the head, glowering at him. Nick shrugged at her sheepishly.

“Eh, yeah.” Tom said as he put Bianca's phone with his. “Anyway,” he turned to the rest of us, quickly forgetting Nick’s comment and continuing, “haven’t you ever played that game, when going out to dinner where everyone puts their cell phone in the middle of the table, face down, and the first one to check theirs has to pay?”

“Ugh, fine.” Leann put her phone onto the pile.

Heather reluctantly pulled hers out of her pocket, and turned to Tom, “but you better write that combination down somewhere so when someone injures themselves while you’re passed out, we can get a phone.”

“Don’t worry,” Bianca reassured, “we’ve still got a landline in case of emergencies.”

Heather put her phone into the safe, followed shortly by Nick, Jacob, and Ricky. Addison twisted her mouth in frustration, looking from face to face, and begrudgingly handed Tom her phone. Everyone turned expectantly to Victoria and I, neither of us reaching towards our cell phones.

“What if something happens to Molly? What if my parents need to get in touch with us?” I asked.

“You gave them our number, right?”

I looked at Victoria, who nodded at me. Tom saw and continued, “see, they’ll be able to reach you. I promise!” I looked at my watch. It was three thirty.

“Alright.” I sighed and handed Tom my phone. I had texted my parents when we got in, and everything seemed to be going well. I didn’t see any harm in the situation. Victoria followed my lead, begrudgingly.

With all the phones accounted for in the safe, Tom swung the door closed with a loud click. “Trust me, we’ll have so much fun tonight, you guys won’t even notice you don’t have your phones.”

Everyone started out into the hall to continue the tour. I turned to Victoria, and winked, pointing to my smartwatch. She smiled, relief washing over her face. Even with my phone locked away, I’d know if someone was trying to get in touch with me.

Hours later, the beers swished and sloshed inside my stomach while heavy rain beat down on the glass doors beside us. I stood in the kitchen, arguing over the finer details of the most recent fan theory of Game of Thrones with Nick and Heather. Addison stood off to the side, listening to the argument while pulling on the sleeves of her oversized sweatshirt. Leann, Ricky, and Victoria were making a giant dish of nachos while Bianca whipped up a batch of margaritas. Tom danced behind her, trying his best to distract her from her task. She giggled as she leaned back into his body. They swayed to the music - a playlist of their own devising, made up entirely of music that was popular during our years in college. They had speakers set up in each room of the house, all connected to a master stereo in the living room, so no matter where you went, you couldn’t get away. But at least we could no longer hear the wind howling against the house. I watched Bianca move her hips side to side, her pilates-assisted ass pressing into Tom, whose smile was cheser-cat wide. They looked like teenagers. Even with this giant fancy home surrounding them, they acted like they were horny, nineteen, and in love. Just like I remembered.

“He is obviously only half Lannister and half Targaryen! Does he look like any of the Lannisters to you!?!” Nick gestured into the air enthusiastically while staring wide eyed at Heather.

“But does he really look like a Targaryen??” Heather asked, dubious of Nick’s argument.

“That’s because you only watch the show! You got to read the books!” Nick yelled, his face turning red with frustration.

“I have to go to the bathroom.” Addison whispered to the group, obviously uncomfortable with the heated debate, and left towards the stairs.

Nick rolled his eyes, and turned to Heather. “Oh look, we made overly sensitive Addison uncomfortable.”

“Shut up, Nick!” Bianca scolded, and turned to follow her.

He blew a raspberry and continued his lecture on true bloodlines.

Bianca returned several moments later, while Nick was describing the real heir to the Iron Throne in great detail. I turned to her, and she shook her head with a small smile, a sign I interpreted as meaning that Addison needed some space from the group for a moment. I nodded and returned the smile.

Once the nachos were done, we all went into the living room. Bianca placed a wide-brimmed margarita glass in front of me, full to the top with green slushy alcohol, the brim rimmed with salt. There was even a little yellow paper umbrella resting in it.

“Thank you, but I think I’ll pass on this round, Bianca.” I said politely, passing her back the large unbalanced glass, careful not to spill the contents. Bianca looked hurt, so I added “It looks amazing, but I’ve had a lot of beer. I don’t want to overdo it.” She reached for the drink.

Tom appeared behind her, “dude, come on! It’s a party!” He leaned towards me and lowered his voice, “Just one margarita won’t hurt, and Bianca put a lot of effort into them.”

I smiled, and brought my arm, and the margarita, back towards me. “Alright, alright!” I lifted my left hand up in surrender, “I’ll have a margarita.” Bianca’s face lit up. “But just one!” I said, raising my finger warningly at Tom, who smiled in return.

I brought the drink to my lips, and was pleasantly surprised. The margarita was sweet, but not too sweet like most fruity drinks. It was good, but after my first sip, I left the glass mostly untouched beside me as I joined the conversation of the rest of the group.

The years apart were long forgotten as old jokes were dredged up from the past, and shit talk passed from old friends without hurt feelings or damaged egos. We were just a group of carefree kids once again.

“Alright, piss break.” Nick slurred as he slowly got to his feet, stood for a moment, swaying slightly, and shuffled to the bathroom.

Ricky snickered, “wowzers, someone can’t hold his liquor anymore.”

The small black speakers above us began playing a pop song I recognized, but couldn’t name. “Oh shit!” Tom exclaimed, standing up and reaching for Heather, “this was my jam!”

Heather took his hand, and he pulled her up towards him. Ricky jumped off the couch, and shoved it towards the wall, creating more space for the impromptu dance floor. He offered his hand to Leann, bowing to her playfully, and she joined him. I turned to Victoria, who was sitting beside me on the other, larger couch. She smiled, and we joined in the party.

While Leann and Ricky danced awkwardly facing each other, but with an appropriate distance between them, Tom was hugging Heather to him, moving his body with hers to the beat of the music, much as he had earlier with his wife, but his face held a serious concentration that it hadn't before. Heather’s face was locked on Tom’s, her cheeks red.

I cringed internally at the way she was staring at him. It wasn’t unknown within our group that Heather had had a huge crush on Tom in college, but he never returned her affection.

I saw Bianca walk in from the kitchen. She stood, watching them dance for a moment, her face completely blank. Then, without warning, she turned and locked eyes with me. I felt the color rise in my face, and turned away. I figured that, along with all the jokes from the past, the drama was beginning to creep back into the group dynamic as well. We were all drunk, hanging out with people that defined our youth. It was to be expected that the juvenile feelings that marked these relationships in our memories would manifest tonight.

Tom and Heather’s faces were, at this point, only an inch or so apart, their eyes locked. I was about to suggest we kill the dance party when Ricky’s voice rose over the music, “man, Nick’s been in the bathroom for a really long time.”

I looked around, and noticed he was right, Nick was still gone. And so was Addison. Heather and Tom broke away. Tom’s eyes fell on his wife’s expressionless face, and he looked down in what looked like guilt. Uncomfortable, I thought Nick was a good excuse to separate myself from the situation. “I’ll go check on him. Make sure he’s not passed out in there.”

I let go of my wife and walked into the hallway next to the living room. If I remembered the tour accurately, there was a small powder room opposite the kitchen. Tom and Bianca had the decency to not but speakers in the hallway, so while I could still hear the music clearly, it was dulled by the wall. The hallway was dark, so I ran my hand along the wall searching for a light switch, but without luck. There was a thin stream of light coming from a thin, slightly ajar, door. The door I remembered as the small bathroom. Giving up on the light switch, I walked towards the light. I listened for a moment at the door, trying to pick up the sounds of urination, or the dull sounds of drunken snoring, but heard neither. In fact, other than my own breathing and the dull music, I heard nothing at all.

I knocked lightly on the door frame, “Nick? You ok, buddy?” There was no response. I reached my hand up, and pushed the door into the room. The door stuck on something. I pushed a little harder, but still it resisted. I leaned my shoulder into the space between the door and the wall, and craned my neck to look inside.

The door was stuck on Nick, who was sitting, passed out cold, on the toilet, his pants to the ground.

“Jesus, dude. Seriously?” I said, trying to force his feet back towards him so I could open the door wider, but I quickly stopped when I noticed that Nick’s eyes weren’t closed. He was staring at me. Staring at me with blank, glassy eyes. My heartbeat quickened, and I examined the rest of him: his face was bloated and purple, his tongue swollen, pushing his mouth ajar.

“Oh fuck, oh fuck!” I whispered under my breath, as I reached my hand out towards his neck. I tried to find a pulse, but it was useless. Nick was dead.

I pulled myself sharply out from where I had squeezed myself, bruising my arm as I did. I ignored the pain, and walked into the living room, past Tom, Heather, and Victoria, to the sound system, and turned it off. The sound of the storm surrounded us instantly, finally free of restriction. The wind and rain filled the air, thunder echoing into every corner.

“What the fuck, dude?” Tom asked. I could feel their eyes on my back as I tried to blink the burning tears away. I turned to face them, and breathed deeply, preparing myself.

“Nick is… Nick… Something happened to Nick.” I finally said.

They stared at me.

I felt frustration heating my body from the inside, “Nick’s fucking dead guys. He’s on the fucking toilet, and he’s fucking dead.” My voice cracked as tears began to flow freely down my cheeks.

Without a word, Jacob stood and ran out into the hall. Tom, Bianca, Heather, Leann and Victoria followed. I waited there, standing in the living room, alone. Where the fuck was Addison?

Last I had seen Addison was in the kitchen. But then she left to go use the bathroom. And she hadn’t been in the small bathroom, so she must be in the Master bathroom. I ran into the entrance way, turned up the stairs, and climb briskly, taking two steps at a time.

I ran into the bedroom. The room was just as it had been moments before, the french doors still open. I walked to them, and the view inside the bathroom made my stomach lurch with shock and horror.

Addison was in the tub, fully clothed. Her forearms rested on each side of the porcelain basin, her legs bent in front of her. She looked like she could be taking a bath, but the tub was dry except for the small line of blood leading from her body to the drain. Her face was twisted with horror. I felt myself begin to shake as I noticed the huge gash in her head, spreading from her forehead to behind her ear. I could see white skull through her injury. I looked down and saw blood, hair, and flesh on the corner of the lower step to the tub.

I stepped closer, my hand outstretched hesitantly to check a pulse, despite the obvious futility of the act. I had to check. I had to be certain. I placed my hand on her wrist. I tried to keep my face as far from her as possible, yet I couldn’t keep my eyes off of the crack in her head. From there, I could see the split in the skull itself, her pink brain visible under the blood that clumped into the roots of her hair. Her wrist was silent. There was no pulse, no life.

I looked at my friend. Shy, sweet, intelligent Addison. Her body limb. I stepped back and hastened to the sink, where I vomited. Nachos and beer splashed in the shallow bowl, falling on the counter and mirror. But I didn’t care. This was no time to worry about being a polite guest. I vomited again, then straightened and wiped my mouth.

Without turning back, thoughts raced through my mind. Maybe she slipped and hit her head? But the chances that both Addison and Nick died in horrible accidents was hard to believe. Plus, how could she have fallen to her death, then crawled into the bathtub to position herself like that? If this was an accident, she’d still be on the floor.

I turned away from the gruesome scene, and ran down the stairs. Everyone was in the living room. At least, everyone still left alive. Jacob sat on the floor, rocking back and forward, shaking his head in disbelief. Victoria crouched over him, her arms around his shoulders as she cooed words of comfort to him, but he didn’t seem to hear her. His platonic life partner was gone.

Leann had the cordless phone in her hand, tears streaming down her cheeks. She was frantically pressing buttons on the phone, getting more and more frustrated with every attempt.

“Goddammit!” She screamed, “what the fuck is wrong with this thing!?!”

I looked down, and saw that the base had been unplugged from the wall. “It’s dead.” I said, my voice sounded emotionless to my ears. I grabbed the cord, hanging uselessly from the phone’s base, and plugged it in. Leann placed the phone back down and the display lit up. I lifted the wireless phone, but it immediately went dead again. I put it back, and looked at Leann.

“We can't dial while it's in it’s base.”

Leann started sobbing harder. “We need to call an ambulance!” She cried at me, her body shaking uncontrollably.

“We need to call the police.” Leann’s son caught in her throat. She stared at me, her eyes wet and red. I swallowed. “I don’t think Nick died of natural causes.”

The sound of wind, rain, and thunder filled the room as everyone waited for me to continue.

“Addison was murdered. Her body’s in the bathroom upstairs.” I said, as calmly as I could despite my stomach performing somersaults inside of me and my brain shooting electricity through the sides of my head.

I turned to Tom and Bianca. Bianca looked ill and Tom was as white as a ghost. “We need the fucking cell phones.”

Tom nodded solemnly, and turned towards the front of the house.  

“There’s another landline in the office.” Bianca said quietly. She walked to Leann, placing a calming hand on her shoulder. “Come on, I know that one’s plugged in. Let’s go call the cops.”

Leann sniffled loudly and Bianca lead her towards the kitchen. The office was a sunroom extension at the corner of the house.

Heather leaned towards me and Ricky, her face between ours. “Do you know what this means?” Heather said, her voice lowered and horse.

I shook my head, looking at my wife and Jacob, who were still on the floor. Victoria's face was drawn into a pained mask, her lower lip trembling as it did when she was distraught. Jacob’s eyes were wide, but unseeing.

I felt Ricky shift his weight beside me.

“Someone has broken in, and is killing us, one by one.” Heather answered her own question.

Realization dawned on me. I completed the thought out loud, “there’s a killer in the house.”

Heather nodded and we stood in shock at what was happening. The large house loomed above and around us like a great weight. It had morphed from a luxurious suburban home into a death trap.

Our stupor was broken by loud music blasting through the speakers throughout the house. I looked at the stereo, but no one was even close to it.

“What the fuck??” Victoria asked, looking around.

I walked over and pressed the power button, the sound dimming quickly as the lights faded off. Instantly it sprung to life again, music pouring out around us.

“Fuck!” I yelled. The killer must be controlling it somehow.

“Leann and Bianca!” Heather screamed over the music.

Ricky ran out into the kitchen, the girls following. I looked down at Jacob, who hadn’t moved.

“Come on, we can’t leave you here alone.” I said, reaching my hand down to him. Jacob looked up at me, his eyes wide and empty. He shook his head slowly. I bent down and grabbed his hand with mine, forcing him up. He didn’t resist.

I dragged Jacob behind me as we ran to the office door. I saw Ricky throw himself at the white wood door. A loud crack of muscle hitting wood exploded into the kitchen and the door burst open into the room. A metallic scent hit my nose immediately. Ricky’s form took up most of the door, blocking the light from reaching me. Victoria and Heather stopped short behind him and simultaneously started screaming, the sounds harmonizing and mixing with the song playing over our heads. I put my hands on my wife’s shoulders, and looked over her to see the scene, the smell hitting my nose stronger. I recognized it then. It was the smell of blood. Lots and lots of blood.

Leann’s body was sprawled on the floor. I could only recognize her from the shirt she was wearing tonight. Her face was sunken, blood and bone protruding from broken flesh. Lines of red were splattered along the floor and walls, stretching out from her body like a twisted spiderweb. On the floor next to her was an old golfing trophy, I assumed from Tom’s more competitive athletic days. The tiny gold man, frozen in a perpetual swing, was smeared with blood from the violent hand the broke Leann’s body, over and over again.

Victoria turned away from the gruesome scene and rested her head on my shoulder as she sobbed. I hugged her, turning my face from the bloody office. I held my wife tight to me, comforted, if only slightly, by her physical touch. A terrible pop song from our youth ended, and the room was filled with the sound of the raging storm. Thunder cackled and I shook with the sound. Lightning illuminated the window beside me as a one hit wonder came on over the speakers.

Ricky stepped back from the doorway, and faced us. His face stoic, but with a hint of pained disgust. Ricky had always been a quiet lumbering giant. In college, our hockey coach, Coach Hutchinson, was practically stalking the guy to get him to try out for the team. Not for skill, but for his appearance/size alone. But Ricky always refused. He never excelled in his studies either - don’t get me wrong, the man’s not dumb at all, he’s just not interested in anything that isn’t writing. And it’s easy to see why, his short stories and poetry were amazing. I was always fascinated with him, this giant man who could write anyone to tears, love, or terror. If he hadn’t been an English major, I’m not sure how he would’ve graduated.

Victoria was always jealous of his skills. They were the first ones of the group to become friends. Victoria introduced herself to him on the first day of Introduction to Literature. Ricky didn’t talk much, but he seemed to enjoy her company, and Victoria enjoyed silence. They’d spend a lot of nights for those four years, studying and writing together. But while Victoria would spend days on a paper or story, only to receive a B, Ricky would whip something up the night before and get an A as well as public praise. She loved Ricky, but was frustrated by his effortless success. When we all graduated, Victoria tried to make a go of it as a writer, but it never worked out. Luckily, she had minored in computer information technology. When she realized her life as an author would be a long and tireless one without much success, she decided to take some additional classes in programming and web development. She was quite good with computers and that had always been her fallback option, but it wasn’t her dream. Ricky, on the other hand, was offered a professional writing gig immediately out of school.

I remember watching his hulking frame in the doorway and a part of my mind wondering what he’d write about after that night. Would the traumatic evening become a memoir? Or would that night influence a best selling novel? Maybe a new television show?

If he survived, that was.

I scanned the room behind him, trying to avoid looking directly at Leann. “Where the fuck is the other phone?” I asked.

Victoria looked around, “Bianca must have it!” She exclaimed, looking up at me, her eyes filling with hope.

I nodded, “I pray she was able to call for help.”

Victoria nodded, the hope petering slightly from her face.

“We need to search the house.” Heather said, her voice flat. I looked up. Heather’s face was stoic as she stared at Leann. They had been best friends. I untangled an arm from my wife, and reached my hand out, placing it on her shoulder. Pulling away and locking eyes with me, she repeated herself, “we need to search the house.”

Victoria stepped back and wiped her eyes. “You’re right,” she sniffled, “we need to find whoever’s doing this to us and find Bianca. God, I hope she’s ok. I don’t want to imagine what he might… what he might be doing to her.” Her voice cracked with a fresh sob, and she wrapped her arms protectively around herself. I rubbed her back, trying to push the same thoughts and violent images from my mind.

“Chuck and Victoria, you should check the upstairs. See if Tom has the phones. Ricky and I will check the basement, and then we’ll meet here and check the main floor.” Heather instructed.

I nodded, and turned to face the empty kitchen. “Where’s Jacob? He was here a second ago.”

“Goddammit!” Heather exclaimed, “we don’t have time for this. We have to get this situation under control!” Heather stormed off towards the basement door, Ricky following.

I gulped, and, using my hand still on her back, lead Victoria through the kitchen into the living room. The living room felt colder than it had when we first arrive. Even with the lights above us illuminating the room in a yellow glow, it seemed dark, like the corners were hiding secrets that threatened our very lives. I walked to the stereo and hit the large rectangular on/off button. The button popped up from the face of the stereo and the music faded. I breathed a sigh of relief, and we continued upstairs.

The two guest rooms were empty. We had checked the closets and under the bed, and even a large wardrobe in the larger of the rooms, but there was no sign of life. The rooms seemed oddly empty and void of the extravagance the other rooms possessed.

We walked into the exercise room, but the room was just a bunch of exercise equipment and an empty space for yoga and pilates. The closet was full of only yoga mats, bricks, and other assorted items I didn’t recognize.

Finally, we got to the bedroom. I wanted to make sure Tom was ok, but still my legs slowed as we approached the door, the image of Addison, dead in the tub, her skull and brains exposed making my feet heavier with each approaching step. If Victoria hadn’t been at my side, I don’t think I’d be able to go on. I pushed through the emotional quicksand, forcing my feet forward until I was at the open door. I looked in the room and noticed the closet door open and the light on. Straining my ears, I could hear Tom frantically muttering to himself, his voice wet with tears.

Trying to forget the bathroom, I ran to the closet. Tom was desperately spinning the dial of the safe. He looked at me, his face red with tears.

“It won’t fucking open!” He screamed, kicking the wall in front of him hard enough to leave a dent.

“Are you putting the combination in correctly?” I asked.

“Yes, I’m putting the fucking combination in correctly! Of course I am! It’s our fucking wedding anniversary! I wouldn’t fucking forget that!” The corner of Tom’s mouth were white with frothy spit.

I step up to the safe, “What’s was the date, again? I’ll try.”

Tom breathed deeply, and exhaled loudly, trying to calm himself. “It’s June 19th, 2006.” He said. “It’s a five number combination, left right left right. It was 61906.”

I turned the dial to the left till it reached 6, and heard a slight click within the safe mechanism. Then turned the dial to the right to 1, with a slight click. I repeated this until the small black arrow on the dial reached 6, once again. There was no click.

“Well the rest of the combination seems to be working, it’s just that last number. Maybe it’s no longer 6? Either way, it won’t take too long to try the nine other numbers.” I said. Tom nodded, slowly calming himself. I stepped back so he could reach the dial and begin the process all over again.

I lifted my wrist and looked at my watch. The menu had an option to send a text to one of my recent contacts. I could send a text to my mom and ask her to send help. I began to travel through the menu, looking for the option when suddenly loud rock music flowed from the speakers in the bedroom, making me jump.

“What the fuck!” I screamed. I ran out into the bedroom. Victoria was staring at the bathtub, her hand over her mouth, tears flooding down her face. She looked at me, her eyes wide with terror.

“We need to check on the others. We’ll come figure this out afterwards. Someone could be dying as we speak.”

I ran past my horrified wife, Tom following behind me. We flew down the stairs, and into the living room. It was empty. I slammed the on/off button on the stereo. Screams echoed throughout the house. It was coming from the other side of the stairs.

“The dining room!” Tom yelled, and ran, Victoria catching up to us and following. I listened closer. It wasn’t coming from this floor though. It was coming from upstairs. The floor Victoria and I just checked from top to bottom.

I ran to the top of the steps. The sound was coming from the exercise room. I ran in, my eyes registering Bianca and Jacob immediately. But the scene wasn’t right.

My brain tried to interpret the image before me, but it wouldn’t compute. Jacob was on the floor, Bianca above him. Both of them, along with the room, were covered in blood.

“Bianca! Are you ok?” I asked, “is Jacob!?!”

Bianca shook her head, “I’m ok, but… I think… I think Jacob’s dead.”

I rested my hand on my knees, my breath was coming in short gasps. I recognized the uncomfortable sensation as hyperventilating. How could this be happening to us? How could something so fucked up happen to us?

Bianca took a step towards me and I looked up. I noticed a bloodied weight in her hand. The murder weapon. But why was Bianca holding the murder weapon? Had she fought the killer for it?

She took a step towards me. Her face was twisted, not in horror or disgust, but in pleasure.

“Wh… What… what’s going... on?” I said between breaths.

She didn’t answer, but took another step towards me, her smile spreading across her face.

“I’m going to enjoy killing you, Chuck.” She said.

I shook my head in disbelief, stepping backwards.

“Don’t go, Charles.” She cooed. “Poor little pathetic Charles. How does it feel to have married Tom’s leftovers? Do you wake up every morning and remember comforting the love of your life over a basic douche like Tom?”

She took another step closer. My breathing was slowly returning to normal and my brain was clearing. I checked my peripheral for a potential weapon, but saw nothing. The house was immaculate, to the point of resembling a show house. There were no objects, I realized. I was surrounded by giant equipment I couldn’t lift, but no weights, not even a plastic water bottle I could use to defend myself against the petite blood-covered blonde slowly approaching me.

“You were such a miserable dope that first year. Pathetically waiting hand and foot on that stupid whore.”

Bianca took a step towards me, and I turned and ran. I ran down the stairs as fast as I could. I felt like I would fall forward with each step I whizzed by. I could hear Bianca running behind me, her breath ragged and sharp. Her footsteps pounding on the old wood, causing it to creak and groan under her weight. I jumped the last few steps, not looking behind me, not wanting to know how close she was, or to slow myself down. I slid towards the front door, hitting my shoulder into it with a thud. Pain shot through me, but I didn’t care. I twisted the knob, and pulled, but it wouldn’t budge. I threw the deadbolt, and pulled again, but to no avail. I felt a light hand on my shoulder, and the sweat on my forehead turned cold. I looked down and saw four long pink manicured fingernails.

“You’re not getting out that way, Chuck.” Bianca’s voice was calm and dark. I turned slowly to face her. She was only an inch away. I could feel her warm breath and I could see the glint of metal in her hand. A splatter of Jacob’s blood ran through the middle of Bianca’s face. She drew her face towards mine, passing me, till her lips rested against my ear.

“At least I’m beautiful, right?” She whispered.

“What’s going on!?!” My heart lept at the sound of my wife’s voice. Bianca turned, and I could see Tom, Victoria, Heather, and Ricky standing behind her, their faces twisted in confusion and shock. Victoria stepped back with the recognition of blood on Bianca’s face and shirt. “What the fuck is going on!?!” Victoria’s voice filled with disgust and fear.

Realizing what I had to do, I grabbed Bianca’s arms and held them behind her. She squirmed against my grip, “get off me!” She screamed.

“She killed Addison! And Leann! And Nick!” I yelled to Victoria, who looked at me uneasily. “I just caught her! She was standing over Jacob's body!”

“Let. Go.” Bianca cried between attempts to pull away from me.

“Body?” Heather asked hesitantly.

Victoria put her hand over her mouth, as if she might be sick.

Bianca dropped her right hand, the one holding the weight, hard. I jumped back without letting go, just in time to avoid having my hip smashed.

Tom was shaking his head in disbelief, his face lacking all of its usual charm and chipperness. He looked like he was in shock.

“She's still holding the bloody weight! Go look, if you don’t believe me.” I said, my voice strained with the effort of restraining Bianca. “He's in the gym.”

Tom turned and walked slowly up the stairs, hesitantly dragging his body towards the fourth of his dead friends. Victoria followed and Heather, not losing her go-getter attitude during the unreal friend-turned-homicidal-lunatic situation, ran past them and into the exercise room.

Her scream filled the hallway and entrance where I stood, trying to keep the Bianca from killing the rest of us.

Ricky, seeing my struggle, came and grabbed Bianca from me. I allowed him to take her.

“What should we do with her?” He asked.

I shrugged. What does one do when your friend becomes a psycho without reason?

I could hear the group return from upstairs, and I turned away from Bianca and Ricky. Heather looked ill, all of the blood completely drained from her face. Victoria ran to me, and began to sob into my shoulder. I hugged her tightly.

Tom was shaking his head, staring at his wife, who was still being restrained, in disbelief. “Sweetheart.” The word trailed out of his mouth slowly, “did you really?” A tear fell from his eye. Bianca glared at him silently in response. “But why?” He asked, his voice strained and weak.

Bianca stood, her arms held behind her, the bloodied weight still in her grasp. “Why?” She asked, “why!?!” She screamed. She pulled her arms easily out from Ricky’s hold. She stepped towards Tom, and threw the weight at his head. He ducked, and it landed against the wall and fell heavily on the steps, then rolled onto the floor behind us. There was a sizeable hole in the plaster where it had landed. We all stood in shock as Bianca ran into the living room.

I turned to Ricky, “what the fuck?” I exclaimed. Ricky shrugged, and turned to follow her. We could do nothing but watch him leave.

With both out of view, I shook my head clear and ran to the front door. I tried it again, pulling at the knob with all my strength, but it wouldn’t budge. I ran into the living room, luckily devoid of either Bianca or Ricky, and fell on the large window facing the front yard. It was barren of any lock mechanisms and wouldn't even budge when I tried to open it. I growled in frustration, completely losing what little rational thought I had been able to maintain. I grabbed a lamp from the side table and threw it against the window, but it bounced off harmlessly.

“What the fuck!?” I screamed, my voice rough with fear and desperation. My throat was tight and I had to force myself to swallow. I turned to Tom, Heather, and Victoria.

“I told you,” Tom said quietly, looking at the window behind me, “Bianca was in charge of the renovations. She redid the windows and door too. I guess…” He trailed off. But we knew what he was thinking. She didn’t just renovate the house, she created a cage. She planned to murder all of us.

“But why?” I asked. “So she could run away with Ricky?”

“I always thought he had feelings for her.” Tom said, his voice cold and distant. He was lost. Too overwhelmed and in too much shock to feel emotions anymore. 

“Jesus.” Victoria said. “What the fuck do we do now?”

“The most logical thing is to stay here, together.” Heather said, her voice calm and filled with the authority of one often in charge. “The phone will be charged enough for me to call 9-1-1 soon. Until then, we should stand in a circle, with our backs together. That way, we can see if they try to attack us. We outnumber them, they can’t kill all of us at once. That’s the safest thing we can do right now.”

We stood in silence for a second, thinking about the situation and mulling over what needed to be done to survive. A loud burst of thunder filled the room, and lighting illuminated the yard from outside. It was followed by a deafening crack, and the house was plunged into darkness.

“Oh fuck me!” I screamed, my eyes falling on where I remembered the now black phone was behind Tom.

I looked to the window, but the streetlights had gone out outside as well. We were shrouded in utter blackness.

“The cell phones!” Tom’s voice pierced the darkness beside me, “that bitch was the one that suggested we lock them up!” I felt him move beside me, and heard his footsteps as he ran towards the stairs.

“Fuck! Tom, stop!” Victoria called after him, but it was too late. We could hear the thud of heavy footsteps running up the stairs.

Realization hit me. “That fucking bitch must have changed the combination!”

“Probably after she killed Addison.” Heather's voice came from beside me, terror threatening to break the calm she had, till then, successfully forced into her tone.

“We know the combination is mostly the same. Tom just has to try the nine remaining numbers to figure it out. If we're lucky, it'll be one of the first numbers he tries.” Victoria reasoned.

I nodded, uselessly. “Worst case scenario, it won't take him forever to try nIne combinations.” I thought for a moment, surrounded in darkness, and added “I hope he has a flashlight up there.”

“Alright, whatever,” Heather said, “as long as the rest of us stay here, together, we still outnumber them.”

The house wheezed, and shook with the weight of the storm. We stood there in silence, desperately straining our ears to hear any sound around us in the black room. I reached my hand out tentatively to the spot I had last heard Victoria’s voice come from. I found her soft, small hand, and grabbed it. She squeezed my hand in return. I held my breath, the sounds of the storm were overpowering the loud pounding of my blood through my ears.

A crash echoed around us, followed by a streak of lightning which illuminated the room. Behind Heather stood Bianca, her arm raised, the stained trophy from the office hovering above her.

Victoria screamed as darkness descended around us once more. Despite thunder stretching across the sky with a low grumble that echoed in my chest, I could hear the impact clearly. There was a wet thud, and a crack that sent shivers down my spine. A thick warm substance landed on my face and arm. Something heavy began to fall beside me, and I heard the sickening snap of Heather’s bones as she landed, hard, in front of us on the wooden floor.

“That’s the original wood you know.” Bianca’s voice danced around in the dark, and I brought Victoria closer to me, wrapping my wet arm around her shoulders. Her body was shaking, and I could her her breath burdened with heavy tears.

With a sharp snap, electricity flooded the house once more. As the lights came on around us, I felt my stomach lurch and bile rise to the top of my throat: Bianca’s face was mere inches from my own, and she was smiling. Her arm raised above her head once more.

Without time to think or process much of what was around me, I pushed my wife away from me, balled my fist, and punched Bianca as hard as I could in the stomach. Her breath left her instantly, and her hand dropped as she curled into herself, hitting the side of my arm with the trophy as it descended. It stung, but the force behind it was weak and the direction off enough to cause little damage.

Bianca turned in pain, and I saw Heather. She lay on the ground, her limbs twisted around her. As with Addison, her head was split with a crack, but this one was much larger and more ragged than Addison’s. Blood and brains had exploded out of her skull, as if Bianca had destroyed a mere pinata. The room, as well as Victoria and I were covered in the remains of our friend.

I looked to Victoria, who stood motionless, staring at Bianca, her mouth wide open and a splash of blood staining her shirt and pants. Her face was pale, and I saw that she was now shaking more violently, her body trembling at the sight. I reached out towards her. “Victoria.” I said. I looked from her to Bianca, who was trying to stand up straight, her hands over her stomach protectively. She was looking from me to Victoria and back. My hand was almost to my wife’s arm. Victoria shook her head, and stepped back out of my reach. I knew what she was going to do, and I had to stop her with my voice. “Victoria.” I said again. Tears streamed down her face as she shook her head harder.

“No, no, no, no.” She said, the words barely leaving her lips, turning into sobs by the last “no.” She turned and ran to the kitchen. Bianca straightened, shot me a quick glare, and followed.

I stepped forward and grab her arm, “like hell I’m going to let you murder my wife!”

She snorted, “Oh yes, your wife.” She elongated the last word mockingly.

I tightened my grip around her arm and tried to swing her into the wall behind me, but she resisted, digging her feet into the floor and pulling on her trapped arm. I saw her look down at where the trophy had dropped next to Heather’s body, and I kicked her hard in the shin.

She screamed out as the leg fell underneath her, but she continued to reach towards the murder weapon.

Lifting my leg to stomp on her now bent leg in front of me, hoping to break her ankle as my foot landed on her thigh, I felt a hard thud against my head. I fell to my knees, barely missing Heather’s face, and looked up to see Ricky, standing behind me, lowering the weight that killed Jacob to his side. He returned my gaze, his face barely revealing a look of concern before straightening back into apathetic coldness.

Tears welled in my eyes uncontrollably. My head stinging where I was hit. Warm blood began to trickle behind my ear. “Why?” I asked, my voice strained with pain and confusion.

He didn’t answer. Recovering herself, Bianca stood. She looked down at me with disgust, then up at Ricky. In an annoyed tone, she said, “you didn’t fucking kill him, asshole!”

Ricky shrugged at her, “you’re the murderer in all this, not me.”

Bianca scoffed, and lowered herself so that she was level with my ear. “Do you ever think about Tom fucking your perfect wife? Do you ever look at him, goofing off and flirting with even tubbo here,” she gestured to Heather, “and remember with horror and shame that he was the idiot who took your precious Victoria’s virginity?” I could feel an old anger growing inside me, rising from beneath me until my body was alight with its heat. “Does it haunt you, to know that she told him she loved him, and he broke up with her in reply? The woman you were infatuated with, the woman you loved beyond all reason, was used and abused by an idiot. Her heart was torn and all Tom did was go and immediately fuck me. You know why?” She pressed her lips closer to my ear and continued, whispering, “because he thought of her as just a pussy to fuck. He never cared about her. He just liked having that pretty mouth around his cock.” I was shaking with rage. Bianca smiled. “You know, I’ve always suspected that, if Tom propositioned her, she fuck him in a heartbeat. I bet, if Tom asked her to leave you for him, she wouldn’t even pack her bags. She’d grab his arm and run out the door before you even finished taking a shit.”

My rage exploded and I swung the trophy my fingers had found as Bianca made her speech. Despite not aiming, I hit her squarely in the side of the head. Bianca fell to the side. Ricky lunged for me and I raised my arm and swung down, missing his head but hitting his left shoulder hard enough to slow him down.

I jumped up, the sudden movement making me dizzy. I swallowed and ran to the kitchen. Victoria was at the door leading into the backyard, desperately clawing at the sides, trying to peel them free of whatever Bianca had used to seal them. The white door frame was stained with red marks, my wife’s fingertips covered in blood. I noticed with a sickening feeling that one of her nails was missing.

I heard Bianca and Ricky getting up with groans. I grabbed Victoria’s shoulder, “quick, we have to get out of here! That door isn’t going to open, we have to try another way!”

Victoria looked at me, not stopping her attempts to open the door. Her eyes were wide with panic, her face barely recognizable. She was in a manic frenzy, and I realized reason wasn’t going to work. I wrapped my arms around her waist and began pulling her towards the garage door.

Victoria shoot out from my grasp, both of us slippery with our friends’ blood, and ran towards the office.

I went to follow her, but at that moment, Bianca came into the room. I froze and stared at her as she smiled wickedly at me. The trophy was in her hand again. She turned her head, smiled at me, and began to run to where I had just watched my wife disappear.

I lunged towards her, my heart pounding, and reached out, fast. My hand found blonde hair. I clenched my fist. Bianca kept running, but was stopped short by my grip. She screamed as her feet continued to move under her while her head and shoulders stayed where they were. Her legs shot out in front of her and she fell with a crash. I could feel the pull of her hair in my fist as the rest of her body fell too far away. A ripping sound echoed in the room as some of the hair grew slack in my hand. I let go, chunks of bloody flesh falling from my hand where they had pulled free from her scalp.

I bent down to grab her. She rolled out of my reach. I dove at her, but she was standing before I could keep her on the ground. Damn that pilates.

She raised the trophy once again. Instead of wasting time trying to stand, I cowered beneath her, raising my arms to protect my face. A choked sob escaped my mouth as I prepared for the pain. For death.

There was a dull whack, and Bianca’s body fell on top me like a thick heavy sack. I instinctively reached for her as she rolled off, stopping her from falling to the floor, and slowly lowered her. She landed with a soft thud and moaned in pain, putting a hand to the back of her head. I realized I was crying, and wiped my face with the sleeve of my shirt. I looked up to see Victoria, eyes wide, a pan in her hands.

“Are you ok?” Victoria asked. I nodded, relieved to see my wife shaken out of her panic. Hearing my cries and realizing I was in danger had snapped her back to reality and I had my strong Victoria back, but only for a second. Recovering quickly, Bianca reached out and grabbed Victoria’s leg. The back of Bianca’s head, only inches from my face, was bleeding quite badly, from both the pan and losing so much of her hair. Her arm was shaky, but still she was able to find the force she needed to pull her down to the floor.

I kicked at Bianca, and wrapped my arms around her shoulders to stop her, but I was suddenly aware of my body being lifted from the ground, Bianca sliding from my hold. I screamed and kicked as my arms were held behind my back. I felt the large bulk of Ricky behind me, and  I looked over my shoulder at him. His face was oddly calm.

I twisted in his clutch, but he just stared at Bianca in front of him, wrestling with Victoria as she tried to stand while keeping Victoria down. I kicked at his shin, but I felt like a child fighting against a parent, my feeble attempts to harm completely unnoticed.

“What the fuck are you doing, man?” I screamed at him, looking from his face to my wife’s losing battle with the murderer. “You’re married, you’re successful, you’re happy! Why are you helping this psychobitch!?!”

Ricky smiled slightly at Bianca, “because she’s all I ever wanted.” He answered.

I turned away in disgust, and watched Bianca. Despite Victoria being much less injured, she was struggling to overcome Bianca. I tried to pull my arms from Ricky, but his grip was too tight, too firm. Steeling myself, I pulled forward while raising my leg, determined to put every inch of power I had into saving my wife. I kicked back hard, trying to land the blow on his knee and force him down, but he moved back just in time, and twisted my arm tight. I fell to the floor with a scream. He lowered his knee onto my back, pinning me to the linoleum floor. I continued to fight fruitlessly, my eyes glued to my wife.

Bianca was now standing above her, smiling in glorious victory. Despite her efforts, Victoria couldn’t seem to keep her eyes open. I hadn’t witnessed Bianca hurt her yet, or heard any heavy blow. I couldn’t comprehend why Victoria was struggling so much. I watched her body fall limp as all her strength disappeared.

“What’s wrong with her!?” I yelled at Bianca. She looked at me, a small expression of disappointment on her face.

“You’re still looking quite perky…” She said, “you really should have had more of your margarita.” My stomach sank. No wonder she seemed to be recovering so much faster than anyone else.

Bianca raised the trophy, and I screamed, thrashing against Ricky.

“Please, no!” Tears stung my eyes. “Don’t hurt her! We have a child! Please! Stop!”

Bianca looked at me, and winked. Her arms began to descend down and I screamed, the pain and fear exploding out of my violently as I felt the weight of true ineffectiveness.

The trophy come down on Victoria with a wet heavy thump. Blood squirted above her, and fell in a line that connected me to her one last time. Bianca raised her arms and dropped them, over and over again. The sound of the metal hitting Victoria’s face and head made me vomit onto the floor between desperate sobs. She was so drugged up, she didn’t even scream, and soon the room was silent except for the dull thud of the trophy hitting her dead flesh, and the spray of blood against the wall and us. Some part of my mind reach out through the fog of shock and pain to realize that the storm outside had stopped. I fell, the struggle to win, to survive, dying inside me. I watched, sobbing, as my wife’s face was pounded into a mess of flesh, bone, and blood. She was soon unrecognizable.

“Why?” I asked, the word spitting from my mouth as a choked sob.

Bianca turned to me, dropping the trophy at her feet with a clash that rang in the quiet room. “Why? Why!? Why!?!” She repeated, each why growing louder until she was screaming. Her arms were covered in blood, all the way to her elbows, and her face and hair were now wet it. Bits of my wife’s tissue were falling from her clothes, and she took a step towards me, her feet sticking slightly to the blood on the floor. She curled her lip into a snarl as she brought her face to mine.

“Because, I am not just a body.” Her voice was low, almost like a growl. “I have spent my whole life being called dumb, but pretty. Useless, but gorgeous.” She spun away from me, gesturing to the empty room, yelling, “Simple, but at least I’m fuckable!” She turned back to me, “but look! Look at me now!” She yelled, raising her arms to the air. “Am I useless now? Am I nothing but a body now, Chuck? Look at me, look at what I’m capable of!” She lowered her arms, and locked eyes with me, “Now I’ll be remembered for more than being beautiful, more than just a nice pair of tits, more than an ass.” She lowered her face to mine again, and whispered, “I have affected you. Your life is ruined, because of me. You will die at my hands. Could just a body do that?” She smiled, and stood.

Walking towards the kitchen counter, she continued, “None of you ever thought much of me. Don’t try to tell me otherwise. I’m sick of listening to lies. I’m just the pretty face of the group. And for that, each and every one of you will pay.” She pulled a knife out of a drawer, and turned back to me, stepping over my wife’s mutilated body. “And now it’s your turn.” She looked up at Ricky, “pick him up.”

I began to fight, screaming, as Ricky lifted me back to standing. Bianca raised the knife.

A loud bang echoed off the glass surrounding us, making the room resonate with the sound. My ears felt as if they had begun to bleed, and a loud ringing noise filled my hearing. Bianca fell with a heavy solid thud. I felt Ricky’s grasp fall away and I dove to the side. Another bang and I turned to watch Ricky fall backwards, hitting his already bleeding head on the window behind him.

I looked towards the door to the living room. Tom stood holding a shotgun up to his eye. His arm fell, and the gun hung uselessly beside him. He looked from my dead wife to his, and then to the dead Ricky. His eyes locked on mine and I saw an intense determination within them. His jaw was locked in a stern expression I had never seen before. Slowly, a deranged smile grew on his face.

“That cunt didn’t know about Janet here!” He threw his head back and laughed maniacally to the ceiling. Tom had always enjoyed traditionally manly sports and activities. I wasn’t surprised hunting would be one of them. I guess Bianca hadn’t approved. Thank god that didn’t stop him.

“But… she drugged the margaritas… How are you still standing?” I stammered.

“I spilled mine before even getting a sip. And here I was, worried she’d be pissed I stained the couch!” Deep barks of laughter spewed from his body uncontrollably.

I jumped up, and ran to the living room where I had plugged in the phone, but it was gone. Tom was still laughing like a psychopath in the kitchen.

“Jesus, Tom. Shut the fuck up, will yea?”

Tom stopped laughing, his face falling to a frown. He walked to the couch beside me and sat down. All the energy that was there seconds ago drained from him. I didn’t care, I just wanted to get out of that damn house.

“Did you get into the safe?” I asked.

Tom shook his head solemnly.

“Was there any window or door she didn’t replace in the renovations?” Tom shook his head hopelessly. I clutched my head, trying to force the images of what remained of my wife in the kitchen from my mind. “Fucking hell, Tom, just shot the damn door open!” I growled.

“No more bullets.” He said, blankly.

I screamed in frustration, and sat heavily beside him. Putting my elbows on my thighs, I dropped my head into my hands, and began to sob. The salty liquid flowed out as waves of emotion washed over me. All of the stress, fear, and shock of the night was drowning me, and I had decided to let it.

And then my watch buzzed. I sniffled, blinking away the tears, and looked down at my wrist.

My smartwatch. It was 9:08pm.

The screen was illuminated, and in small font it read:

MOM:

Hope you guys are having fun!

Finally got Holly to bed.

She misses you!!

Xoxox

I sat there, dumbfounded for a moment. I hit the right button on the watch, and selected the Reply option.

From there, I had the option of Voice, Canned messages, or Emoji. I looked at the options for a moment mulling them over..

A scene floated in front of me, an image of me sending a kissy emoji, then going into the kitchen, turning on the gas, and kneeling in the oven until this pain was permanently erased. But then I thought of Molly. I thought of her smile, and her laugh. I thought of her red tear stained face as I put a band-aid on yet another skinned knee. I thought of her sleeping beside me, the look of innocence and peace. She had so much to learn, so much life ahead of her. A life of pain, loss, love, discovery. A full life, a life of value.

I breathed in, and selected Voice. A little icon of a microphone displayed.

“Send help.” My watch thought for a moment, and then the two words displayed on the screen. I selected the ok button.

Sent.

[howardlinkedin]

Group Project: Part 6

Running Title: Group Project. Part 6 Part 5: Here Part 7: Here (End) Sequel to Shelter Summary: Homecoming! (And Komui is a lovable mess, please keep him well fed). 

“Sometimes,” said Pooh, “the smallest things take up the most room in your heart.”

The brother would read to the sister, tucked away at his chest. She would yawn, signaling that she was halfway to dreamland, and the brother couldn’t help but agree.

---

Let it be known, to all who walk this earth, that Allen Walker is a troll.

His family, his friends, and even his fans; no one is spared. Especially his fans, whom the majority follow his instagram page.

The most recent? A photo of the family’s luggage being unloaded at Barcelona’s El Prat airport. Instead of three (Allen’s, Link’s and Lenalee’s), adult sized suitcases, there was another set of smaller, children’s sized cases as well.

“On our way home!” the tagline read.

Within the hour, multiple sources had the image posted on their networks, demanding to know all about the picture and its details.

---

“You really shouldn’t tease like that.” Link admonished, as his husband switched his phone to airplane mode. Said husband shrugged and grinned. “Everyone’s going to know eventually. I’d rather it be on my terms.”

“Know what?” Timothy demanded, more than ask, as he leeched himself at his dad’s side. Lala looked from over their Papa’s shoulder in curiosity.

Allen squeezed his son. “That I have the cutest kids in the entire universe!”

Lala rolled her eyes, while Tim preened. “Yeah, I am really adorable.”

The boy got embarrassing smooches all over his face in public for his ego.

“Blarg! Dad, stoppit!”

---

At 7AM, Cross knocked the alarm off his bedside table and burrowed deeper into the sheets. Atuuda, having become Allen’s small-white-haired substitute, leaped onto his back and began to kneed at it.

The Colonel cursed the creature to hell, but in his half awake state, it was more like his voice became a garbage disposal of words.

A tap sounded off his table, and Cross could smell the familiar aroma of black coffee. “It’s time for all old men to wake up.” Flirted a voice. Cross cracked open an eye.

Anita stood over him, already dressed for the day, a wheezing small dog at her feet. It took the man exactly eighteen blinks before his brain came back on, and he could actually focus on that beautiful smile of hers.

“I am not old.” He groused.

“Keep telling yourself that.” Anita tweaked his nose, then turned heel out of his room, Timcampy following with pattering feet. “Breakfast is ready, by the way.”

After glaring at his doorway with a very wrinkled and offended nose, Marian finally managed to get up and out of bed. Why was he always surrounded by morning people? It was a curse.

Sipping away at the perfectly brewed coffee (a perk of dating a cafe owner), he plopped himself down at the table, not before giving Anita’s crown a morning kiss and a very bleary thank you for cooking.

---

The first morning Anita stayed over at his, she laid down two ground rules:

After every meal she cooks, she is to be given a thank you. No gratitude meant all of said food will end up on your face, your ass on the floor, and the dog trying to eat the mess up.

Cross was not allowed to kiss her mouth until after he’s brushed his teeth.

Cross wondered if his morning breath was truly that bad, or if he just always ended up falling for people who were particular about dental hygiene.

---

Komui Lee was a prodigy. At fourteen he graduated high school, and soon after began taking college level courses online. By the time he was 17 (going on 18), he had gained three science degrees, (pre-med, microbiology, and biochemistry) and a sister.

Just after submitting his application for the forensic science track, Komui Lee held little newborn Lenalee Lee in his long awkward arms, and fell in love.

This was the moment he became a brother.

“As soon as I saw you,” he would read to her at bedtime. “I knew a grand adventure was going to happen.”

---

Making his way to his car, to hassle himself to work, Colonel Marian Cross stopped short to observe the moving trucks just across the street.

“Huh. Someone’s moving in.”

---

“Sir, you need to get off the floor.” Assistant Forensics Chief Reever nudged his boss with a foot. Said boss was laying face down on the tiled floor, spreadeagle.

“What if the plane crashes?” Komui asks, voice deadly serious, but its effect diminished due to his current, physical state.

Actually, it was always hard to take the man seriously, what with the pink bunny slippers and constant state of emotional disarray.

The Assistant Chief rolled his eyes up to the ceiling, as though asking for strength to handle the drama Komui would bring in this morning. “Okay, I’ll bite.” He crouched down in an attempt to look at his boss in the eyes. “What plane?”

Glasses flashing, Komui frowned something fierce. “Lenalee is coming home!” Reever felt a headache coming on, because this was the smartest man he knew, yet Komui insisted on sounding like a pouting child.

In an attempt to defuse the oncoming storm, Reever attempted a cheerful, “That’s great! We’ve really missed her!” Which was the truth. The science hub of the Precinct, and those affiliated with them were liken to a mishmash of family, Lenalee included.

“But!” The Lead Forensics Chief whined. “Thirty-six hours is sooooo looong!” The man squirmed on the floor. Reever wondered when it was last mopped.

“And what if the PLANE CRASHES?!” Komui bellowed.

“It won’t.” Deadpanned the other man.

This is when Komui grabbed his friend’s face with both hands and forced the man to lean down, nose to nose. “But what if it does?”

Reever deduced it was going to be a long thirty-six hours in both the Forensics Department and the Lee household.

---

“Komui, it’s my lunch break.”

“But Bak-”

“No.”

“BUTWHATIFTHEPLANE-”

Bak Chang turned off his cellphone.

Only for his classroom phone to begin ringing.

---

The second image Allen posted to his account was that of the back of Link’s dozing head. Another set of blond and a smaller blue-fading back into brunett heads pillowed on his shoulders. Allen’s own head peaked in the corner of the image, mirth in his eyes.

“Sleepy family waiting 4 our luggage!!!!!!!” said the tagline, followed by a string of emojis.

Later Allen would insist that, yes, that many exclamation points were necessary.

---

Lenalee was five and she couldn’t stop crying. Komui feels their world crash around them as he signs for full custody, and his heart mourns for them both.

Komui is 22 when he and Lenalee are orphaned, and suddenly simply being alive was a lot more dangerous than previously believed. He had just entered into his internship through the college.

Over the course of mere hours, he had become not just a brother, but mother and father as well.

His sister cried for the both of them.

Haggard and broken hearted, Komui read Lenalee to sleep- because even when distraught, the little sister always, always fell away to sleep at the sound of her brother’s reading.

“If there ever comes a day when we can’t be together, keep me in your heart. I’ll stay there forever.”

Only after Lenalee fell asleep, did he let his tears fall.

---

Chaoji served his ten-o’clock her mocha and cookies, and watched as she seated herself across from a very engrossed Kanda. Besides him, which was a rarity during his studies, was Alma.

At any given moment, whenever it looked like Kanda was about to bolt, scowl set across his mouth, Alma would yank their husband back. They would give him A Look, and Kanda would very wisely sit back down and continue working.

“Fucking hate math, why do I need this shit for this degree.” The man would grumble and curse, complaining that he was never going to use it.

Or less of a complaint, and more of a vow to never touch the math ever again.

Apparently, Chaoji deduced, Kanda Yuu hated math.

Miranda hesitantly slid her cookies over to the younger man, serious set in her shoulders. “W-work hard Kanda!” She stuttered and encouraged.

Kanda looked from the cookies, to his computer screen, to Alma’s unflappable gaze and let out a noise that Chaoji could only describe as a very angry cat. He watched as Kanda stuffed a cookie in his mouth (Kanda! Of all people! The man who hates anything sweet!) and continued to attack his computer with fever.

---

Staring at the armful of streamers that had been thrust into his arms, Bak arched his full eyebrows at his boyfriend.

“What, no welcome home kiss?” Bak asked, part sarcasm, other part insulted.

Komui pranced by the smaller male, kissed his forehead and flounced away, a long banner following after his tall form. “Welcome home boo-bear! Now put the streamers up in the hallway!”

For the boo-bear comment, Bak Chang dropped said streamers on the ground, because no. He crossed his arms and waited.

It wasn’t as though Komui needed his help anyway, what with the entire forensics hub crawling around his house, decorating the place from the ground, up.

Around the hall’s corner, Komui slowly slithered around, looking for all the world like a wounded child. “Baaaak.”

The middle school chemistry teacher stared the taller man down, waiting.  

“The most wonderful and brilliant Bak Chang, please use your amazing and magnificent knowledge and skill to help me prepare my humble home for precious Lenalee’s return.”

Reever, who was dutifully tying ribbons around balloons, snorted.

Suddenly becoming decidedly altruistic, Bak sniffed. “I guess I can help. You’ll be useless without me anyway.” “Yes!” Komui was practically sparkling.

---

At first, Reever just thought the greenhorn Forensics Chief was actually an idiot who got lucky.

The man always scrambled in through the elevator doors, just two second shy of being late to work. His hair was in a constant state of distress, and it seemed that he owned no shoes except pink, rabbit eared slippers.

When Chief Komui Lee wasn’t inhaling mug after mug of coffee, he was working. If he wasn’t doing either of those things, he was falling asleep at his desk, paperwork piled about.

If Assistant Chief Reever Wenham hadn’t witnessed his boss’ skill first hand, he would believe Komui only got this job through connections.

The rest of the forensics hub was of the same belief. Until they weren’t.

On one such day, when Komui had face planted at his desk, dead to the world until the next investigation, the elevator doors opened and closed. From his desk, Reever saw no one, and wondered if Cross was playing prank on them again. (Last time had resulted in the sprinkler system giving off orange spray)

Instead of Cross and his shenanigans, Reever heard the pitter-patter of little feet. Johnny, who was on the other side of the desk, looked downright delighted. “How cute!” his assistant whispered.

Peering over, Reever laid witness to a little girl, no older than seven, make her way to his boss’ prone form. She had a serious pout on her small face, and a determination in her gait. She was pretty adorable, Reever conceded.

But also. Why was there a little girl in their labs?

This was probably unsafe.

Said little girl had an equally little backpack over little her shoulders, and when she reached the slumbering man’s desk, she whipped it around and pulled out a lunch bag. Dutifully, but quietly, she slid it atop a stack of papers. Nodding, as if satisfied, she put her little hands on her hips and spun around to march back to the elevators.

Stunned, and unable to make heads or tales of what was happened, Reever made a move to follow the little girl. “Um.” He started.

Gasping, the girl jumped, and stared at the man, her dark eyes wide.

Huh. Thought Reever. She looks a lot like the boss.

After an awkward staring match, the little girl bowed. “Please make sure he eats thank you bye bye!” She gave in one breath.

And zoom! Out she went.

---

After that, Reever and the rest of the forensics hub made sure their floundering boss was well fed.

The second time they all were graced with the little one’s presence, her nose was red. Komui, who refused to look embarrassed, announced matter-of-fact, “This is my precious sister princess Lenalee and she has a cold.”

And that was how Lenalee Lee was formally introduced to the Forensics Department, and everyone began to understand why their boss was the way he was.

Apparently babysitters were hard to find on such short notice, and raising a little girl on your own was more than enough of an excuse to be Komui’s particular brand of loopy.

“We didn’t know we were making memories,” their boss had read, stuffed in his office chair, towers of files pushed off to the side, book and sister in hand. “We just knew we were having fun.”

And, okay. Reever decided they made a cute picture. Neglected paperwork notwithstanding.

---

Kanda stared at his computer, expressionless. Which, as far as Chaoji knew, was par for course for the other man.

“I’m done.” He announced.

Kanda Yuu, on this day in history, passed his final math exam. 

Ever.

Miranda clapped her hands, while Alma peppered kisses all over the man’s face. “I’m proud of you.” Another kiss. “So,” they punctuated with another kiss. “Proud of you.”

Kanda took each and everyone one of them like a man receiving a badge of honor.

“Goodness!” Anita rounded the cafe bar to the group. “Wasn’t that you’re last course?” The man grunted in assertion.

Clapping her own hands, the cafe owner looked pleased for Kanda. “Congratulations!”

“Wow!” Explained Chaoji. “You’re graduating college!” After watching the young man come in and out of the cafe, studying away, it was kind of a moving experience to know he had accomplished his goal. “What were you studying for, anyway?” Asked the barista.

With Alma practically in his lap, Kanda looked Chaoji dead in the eye and answered. “Special Education.”

That. Was unexpected. But also cool, in a totally Kanda kind of way. When Chaoji got to thinking about it, Kanda working with children, and helping them, well.

It made sense.

Miranda looked as though she were to cry. Kanda began to look horrified. “Don’t cry damnit!”

“I-I’m sorry. It’s j-just. This is a very happy day!” She wiped her almost-tears away. “Kanda is graduating after working so hard, and I just found ou-out this morning that I’m pregnant.”

Silence.

Then.

“WHAT THE FUCK.”

Alma let out a squeal. “I’m going to have a nibling!”

---

When Noise Marie got the news, he passed out on the lawn.

Daisya laughed at him for hours, while Tiedoll weeped for joy at his growing family.

---

The third picture Allen, singer/songwriter, posted on instagram, was of two little feet sticking out from under a pile of blankets.

“Little guy is all tuckered out. Can’t wait for our new home!”

Explain! The world demanded. We want to know! Blogs posted.

Link watched the internet virtually explode over his phone and harrumphed. His husband really knew how to cause a stir.

On the mattress stacked on their loft floor (a makeshift bed for all four of them until they could get settled in their new house) said husband was cuddled between their two kids, beaming. “A dream is a wish, your heart makes.” He lullabyed.

Crawling under the blankets, Link hoped and promised to make the dreams of  their children come true.

“When you’re fast asleep.”

---

Have faith in your dreams and someday Your rainbow will come smiling through No matter how your heart is grieving If you keep on believing The dream that you wish will come true.

---

“Welcome home Lenalee!” Everyone chorused.

Confetti popped into the air, and Johnny may have accidentally stepped on a balloon, and in the center of the commotion Komui held his arms out, looking as expectant and jovial as ever.

Lenalee laughed, heart happy. “I’m home!”

---

Timothy yelled in excitement at the sight of his new home. There was a yard!

And windows! Was it normal to be excited over windows? The boy decided it didn’t matter. They were HIS windows now.

He was going to have his own room!

“AAAH!!! This is AMAZING!” Timothy ran inside, eager to investigate.

Already inside, Lala avidly began to inspect every corner.

Across the street, Colonel Marian Cross gaped, shellshocked.

Link took pictures with his phone, while Allen waved. “Hello neighbor!” He sang and mocked, like the troll he was.

Seething, the officer demanded that the brat had better take the piano this time!

---

“ ‘How do you spell love?’ ” read the brother.

“ ‘You don’t spell it...you feel it.’ ” concluded the sister.

[beat-weightlosstips]

Weekend Adventures

Weekend Adventures

Hey, hey! An additional Monday previously – does any individual else truly feel like this weekend went by especially swiftly?!

On Friday night, the weather was warm so we decided to appreciate our grill and deck for dinner! Matt’s mom was in town for a weekend workshop so Matt whipped up foods for the three of us – grilled chicken + baked beans + grilled asparagus. Yummy mixture!

The chicken was tremendous so I’ll be eating some of the leftovers for lunch this week. 🙂

On Saturday, Matt and I slept in and then met some close friends for a hike. A cold front was on its way along with some storms, but fortunately they held off till we have been completed hiking!

We hit up Potomac Overlook Regional Park in Arlington with friends Shane, Matt, and Matt’s girlfriend Christine, and had exciting strolling around, hopping in excess of rocks, and chatting with them as we enjoyed the trails!

Christine’s canine Tucker was also along for the journey – this kind of a cutie!

We hiked about for a couple hrs just before heading to south Arlington to grab a late lunch at a spot called William Jeffrey’s Tavern. I had the BBQ pulled pork sandwich – it was tasty! Plus some of Matt’s fries. 🙂

It stormed whilst we were consuming and when we came back out the temperature had dropped about 25 degrees. Whoa!

Matt and I invested the rest of the afternoon soothing and then met up with his mom in Georgetown for dinner soon after her workshop. We hit up Mai Thai – I’d been there prior to and it’s constantly yummy! We all shared some of the fresh summer season rolls, then I had a veggie and shrimp dish with a garlicky brown sauce and brown rice.

From there, we headed to a friend’s birthday celebration for a bit!

On Sunday morning, we slept in once more and then I headed out to meet my girls Kathleen and Sarah for a late morning run. We are all operating the Cherry Blossom ten Miler and working on creating our distance back up!

We met at Kathleen’s spot more than close to the Capitol and did one of my favorite large loops involving the Capitol, the nationwide mall, and a bit of the tidal basin for good measure. 🙂 It was cold and a bit windy but sunny – sound running climate – and we have been having this kind of a very good time out there we ended up going farther than we planned! Time flies when you’re getting entertaining – I love these two. 🙂

I was rocking a new pair of tights (the Ghost Crop Working Tights) gifted to me by my buddies at Brooks as element of my ongoing ambassadorship, and they are my new fave. So cute (how enjoyable are the colors?!), Genuinely comfy, and greater waisted so they really do not move all around at all although you run (or give you awkward minimal rise muffin leading). They come in a cute lighter/pastel print, too! I hope they make them in solids as well in the long term – I’d love to get a bunch of pairs since they match so properly.

They are also a genuinely exciting texture – very light-weight and stretchy, despite the fact that they did not allow the wind by means of so I wasn’t cold at all. They have been also ideal from going straight from our run to brunch because they don’t display sweat and dry genuinely quickly!

We ended up covering 7.3 miles – great run! Also, this is Kathleen’s post-baby working distance record – way to go girl!!

Right after the run, we met up with Matt and Kathleen’s husband Zach + their child and all of us walked in excess of to Union Industry for brunch. I received a mocha from the cute coffee area and a biscuit, egg (x2), cheese, and bacon sandwich from Mason Dixie Biscuit Co.! You guys know I really like my biscuits. 🙂 This one particular was truly good – the photograph doesn’t do it justice!

Following relaxing back at property for awhile in the afternoon, Matt and I headed back out for dinner last evening, this time to Kapnos Taverna in Arlington for some Greek tapas with Matt’s mom and my mom! Enjoyable to have each the moms with each other. 🙂

We got a ton of things and shared – and I brought property some leftovers to enjoy this week! No leftovers of the baklava, although, sadly. )

I’ve received an additional hectic week ahead, although I’m hoping this one particular will be a tiny a lot more low essential than final week. 🙂

Have a excellent day guys!

What was the most scrumptious factor you ate this weekend? I cannot choose – we were spoiled by lots of enjoyable meals out this weekend and every thing was so very good!

Read More Recipes At NaturallyCurvy.com

[ecotone99]

[RF] Cappuccino

Hi! I'm Greg from Hungary! This is my first story in english. Enjoy!

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Now I understand all of it. I could not have wished for better. I don’t miss anything now. Well… maybe some aspirin. I’ve probably slept too much, I feel a little dizzy and have a headache, which is rather surprising considering my condition. Earth gently waves below my feet, and she’s with me and will stay with me. She leans toward me; she seems worried and tries to read my eyes as I’m waiting there breathless for the recognition in revealed in her eyes. She has to feel it, she can’t do it otherwise everything is pointless.

And yes, her lips move and I see the recognition in her eyes. Just like in her hands. This is strange again – I’m blinded as she puts the light toward me but it doesn’t hurt – and I’m overwhelmed by heat because her body is next mine. I want to reach out for her cheeks but I refrain. We have plenty of time – it’s a nonsense thought, however, it doesn’t seem to be impossible now.

I can hardly believe that she only came in the café the day before yesterday. On a rainy Tuesday morning. With the third coffee I try to overcome fatigue that waits for me in the service entrance each morning. I’m making a hot chocolate; the flat milk foam emerges in the cup whirling in a spiral, I make a nice heart out of it in the end. The older ladies are enchanted by that and sometimes the younger ones like it too. I also have my regular favorites – the meek blond who always looks above my head as if her tall boyfriend stood behind me. The French beauty, I assume she’s French because of her accent, who likes it sweet (mocha and pain au chocolat) and who can be as rampant as a rainforest under her sweatshirt. I handle their chilling detachment with the tactfulness of a espresso machine. My namebadge, in accordance with the cordial permission of my boss, reads coffee rapporteur and foam specialist. A small present for those who notice me.

I’m done with the chocolate, and the dragging working hours cast shadow on me. My workmate is mad, however, he doesn’t even know that this job can be a real challenge after earning two degrees. I’m making a face to this fact while wiping the counter, when I hear a considerate and low female voice asking for latte. Latte this time of the day? Have you ever been to Italy darling? You should drink espresso in the afternoon, cara signora. “Good choice,” I murmur the usual sentence and then I look up. A female physician about age 28 in a green surgical apron is standing in front of me. She must have jumped in from the hospital next door. Her reddish brown hair in a ponytail, her eyes grayish blue like the Irish Sea, her lips purple as she is shivering with cold. Her gaze locks with mine as if it was an underground atomic blast; as if an invisible hand slapped my forehead, I turn away and hide behind the espresso machine. This helps me; I realize why I’m here and I look up. My acoustic memory fails, I have to ask. “I’m sorry, what would you like to drink?” “Latte,” she says smiling and the information is lost again. I stare at her and she stares at me. Someone drops a teaspoon before the situation gets out of hand, and I wake up from my dream and set about heating up the milk. My face is red and I’m sweating, I see it in the reflection on the shiny espresso machine. What is going on here? The response to this question is the static noise compiled from the background noise. Transmission failure. The foam is too thick, it won’t be good for a latte, just for a cappuccino. It doesn’t matter though, those two are almost the same in this shop as we are far from being a decent café. I’m about to pour it when I realize that I’ve forgotten to make coffee. I only dare look up again when the brown fluid is slowly flowing from the machine. She was slow, I caught her eyes. She was looking at me! I should be more tactful while being clumsy.

The lights of the shop immersed in the blind spot and the girl’s silhouette becomes clearly separated from the background. The reality content of the 1.5 m meters distance between us has risen above the health threshold limit, at least based on the beat rate of my plunging heart. Love at the first sight? The bubbles of dried foam on the steam wand burst aloud. At forty years old? How could that be? It would be a miracle if I could cast anchor. Not to mention that pretty girls come in in every ten minutes and I’m in love with all of them for that two minutes during which they stand in front of the counter. What the hell is going on with me?

The coffee has been ready for a while, I pour in some milk and refrain from drawing a little heart on it. She thanks it with a curious gaze, I don’t say a word as I know I could only cough up some pathetic sentences. She sits down, almost turning her back to me; I only catch her sight scarcely, she looks out the window, no cell phone at all. Maybe she’s having a break between two surgeries and wants to have a good coffee. She’s got it, more or less; I calm down and turn to the next customer who has been begging for my attention for long seconds. I pay twice as much attention to serve the customer and the next time I look toward the girl I see that her seat has been taken by someone else. She has taken something with her though. It seemed as if the shop had been subject to slow decay; I felt the fresh plaster peeling off, the souring of the milk and the advancing mold on the sweets. The remaining three hours takes a heavy toll on me, I’m unable to do my job properly. At closing time, twenty euro is missing from the cashier; I throw in a twenty euro bill when nobody sees it and I go home. Fresh air wakes me up a little, I read about frequencies and resonance on the internet at home. The entire shook when I saw her, our resonance was fighting each other so fiercely that would lead to collapsing bridges elsewhere. I feel this strange vibration at night while I have a splitting headache; I have not drunk coffee since noon.

The following day I drink a double shot, my heart kicks back wildly. I get in work with unusual joy. I totally forgot about yesterday – the French girl wore no bra under her sweatshirt. I’m overwhelmed by strength and vigor, just in a rustic way. In the lunch break, I remember the vibrations I read about yesterday in some lady magazine. If it’s true, I’m already dead. According to the article, I don’t do what I like. Well, if it’s true, only the radio waves vibrate in a proper manner on this planet. There are exceptions of course, such as the author of the article and not to mention the female physician. Devotedness holds man together at the end of a long day, when a simple barista falls apart like a figure on a Picasso painting. Well, it is not right to expect a lot more from a person who gets up at six in the morning. In the morning, I’m able to do everything after my first coffee, it always occurs to what I should do with my life at lunchtime, I would read until dawn at two in the afternoon and I can only make it home at six if I drink my last coffee.

And then she comes, even smiling at the door. Latte. Suddenly all thoughts seem so inappropriate, however, they are not replaced by new ones. My heart is one drum solo, my movements are masonry work from a block of marble, while my common sense is able to climb that block and read out the name tag of the girl. Kyra. Kyra!!! Kyra…??? Now I realize that I’ve kept thinking about her as Elizabeth. It throws me off balance, so I’ll be able to make her drink. Too much foam again, but it will make a latte if we are not too hard on it. She sits down, turning her back halfway again; service is out of order and the outer world refrains from entering the café with unusual delicacy in the next fifteen minutes.

Upon seeing the arch of her mouth, I suddenly realize that I know how she kisses. Her lips are like Anette’s whose taste has just started to fade away. I make further investigations. Her hair is like Irene’s, my palm still preserves the silkiness of it. Her nose is like Norah’s, resembling the storms of our quarrels, her jaw is like Catherine’s whom I adored so much with words yelled in vain. Her eyes… it can’t be, I smile, but they are truly Martha’s whom I fell in love when I was six. This love was unrequited and beyond hope and I was already sixteen when I let myself be tempted by reality. The latte-drinking girl resembled all of them. Now she’s gone, I can hardly recall her face. It is in the corner of my eye but when I try to look at it, it disappears. Only the well-known details remain - and memories.

On the way home, I feel giddy, so I have to sit down on a bench. I drink way too much coffee. No matter what is happening to me, it came at least twenty five years later as it was supposed to. Now it seems that all my experience is useless, my heart was secretly turned on behind my back and it wants more than making me run. It wants to rule my world by a totally stranger who only told me these two word, “Latte” and “Thank you”. The city around me looks like a setting made of paper; shadows seem more real than the objects that cast them. I feel that I’m fighting for the sanity of my mind but I’m not sure whether I’m on the right side or not. Maybe I should submit to this ecstasy and then everything would be straighten out, like when you get back to the highway from a dirt road. But where does this road take me? I know a beer and a good talk would bring me down to earth, but I don’t feel like meeting with anyone. I’m like Voyager – I left the Solar System and I have to see the next star that would attach meaning to my existence, no matter how long it takes.

I managed to sleep eight hours. I feel good in the morning, only one flat white is enough. I’m waiting for the French girl or the meek blond. I’ll ask one of them out for a date. I don’t care what they reply, but I won’t be mad if they say yes, of course. But they aren’t here, instead Kyra is standing in front of the counter. Damn! I thought she would come later. “Latte?” I ask her in a broken voice. She nods smiling. I commence making her drink, while the ceiling of the café is being lowered. Alright then, I submit to my faith. I had different plans though… I ask her out. It will work. I set up band earlier because of some violinist girl. I want to open my mouth but my lips got stuck together. I clear my throat. I want to speak but she says hello to a friend of hers who is about to leave. I look down and realized that the foam is too thick again, it will be another cappuccino again. What should I say? Dear Kyra, we don’t serve latte today but I know a place where they make excellent latte. She is looking at me and I see expectation in her gaze. I have to say something, maybe confess that I’m not a barista, I just haven’t found out my next move. It is pity that my right arm went numb because of her stare.

She draws her brows gently, but that makes her more beautiful; she’s celestial. After this setting made of paper is blown, it’s only two of us on the scene, as it always should have been, in the original state. It was unnecessary to create time, space and other nonsense around us. My frequency is high in the skies, the journalist would probably be stunned; I would be able to spin the entire planet around its axis. I know that Kyra also perceives my strength – I’m king and she’s my queen. She might be a little afraid by that as I see signs of anxiety on her pretty face. Certain parts of the world appear, people gather around us, maybe to take part in the miracle. Even the chandelier on the opposite was moves toward us intrigued; I totally forgot about that it is there. Strange. Then everything is moved away, only she and I remain. Light comes out of her hand. I’m blinded but it doesn’t hurt, I see her face anyhow, and I don’t care if don’t see anything else anymore.

Nothing is missing. Only my head aches a little. I slept for long but I’m awake now. Nothing happens though. As if I was waiting for the punch line of a corny joke. Hahaha, very funny, I murmur into the light as a test but nothing carries my voice. What direction should I take now? I’ve never felt so well-rested before but I had something on my mind. Not always, just sometimes. On a regular basis. It just nails me to the ground. I hear muffled noise and feel two hands on my chest. Then some light is directed into my eyes. I’m blinded. The light disappears and I saw a familiar face, I’m sure I know this face from somewhere. This is beauty itself! It lifts me up to a place where similar ideas are born. It will be always with me. I know where I’m headed. I just would though as the manifested beauty pushes my chest back to ground with its palm. Then on and on again. What does she want? Push back the toothpaste to the tube? Deep and decade-long disappointment springs from the direction of my stomach. The forehead of the beauty is covered with sweat, her face is disfigured by determination. I would be very grateful if she stopped what she is doing and would smile again. If I succeeded, I would use my first breath to shout at her ear with the power of a newly born baby – I’m ineffably, desperately and irrevocably bored.

Dublin, 1 December, 2018

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[eddiejpoplar]

Sputtering from Bavaria to Serbia in a 1984 Yugo

The color was nicknamed “non-metallic pus” by the toothless gas station attendant with the red Partizan Belgrade cap. The turgid upholstery could have been cut from a wizened hermit’s bathrobe. The mocha brown all-plastic dashboard epitomized the fine Yugoslav art of brittle discoloring. So how come this frail-looking econobox on tricycle-like 13-inch tires got more thumbs-up, more video clips on Instagram, and more friendly pats on the roof during our 780-mile journey from Bavaria to Serbia than a gold-plated McLaren P1? Because for every Eastern Bloc truck driver and every Serbian expat, the Yugo brought back memories of Josip Broz Tito’s protracted effort to keep the multiethnic Yugoslavia together.

On the far side of the heavily guarded border between Hungary and Serbia, our pale two-plus-folding-rear-bench-seater awaited, an apparition that long ago earned its reputation for breaking down at random or rotting away at warp speed. Built by the former arms manufacturer Zastava, which only added cars to its portfolio of cannons and howitzers in the early 1950s, the Yugo was, shortly after its 1981 launch, almost unanimously rated as the world’s worst automobile, inferior even to that uncrowned king of four-wheeled craptacularity, the plastic-bodied Sachsenring Trabant. After a week at the helm, we came to fervently disagree with this gross misjudgment. True, the baby Zastava is not a quality piece of work, but it oozes affability, simplicity, and approachability. This car wants to be your friend, even if the odd specimen was, without a doubt, a habitual troublemaker.

Victor Hugo (our Yugo) was delivered new to Belgium, where a steadfast Serbian-born pensioner kept it for 32 years before selling it to me for 2,000 euros, or about $2,350. A couple of weeks later, I had collected additional bills running to roughly $3,350 for mandatory repair work, licensing, and third-party insurance. Although the retro-funky 55L arrived in Germany with a European Union declaration of roadworthiness, roadworthy it certainly was not. For a start, it needed new tires and fresh brakes—and a Saint Christopher plaque on the dashboard to protect us from evil, both within and without. When it tiptoed off the flatbed in the middle of the night in a bright yellow sheen and covered in ADAC (Germany’s AAA) stickers, it reeked of gasoline and soon misfired to a puffing halt.

Initially, the fuel gauge showed empty when the tank was full, and consumption worked out to a Porsche-like 23.5 mpg. But to be fair, things did get better by the mile.

Two hours later, the engine started. Three hours later, it actually ran, firing order 3-1-4-2 counting down. Four hours later, it even idled without stalling the instant you attempted to put it into gear. The first leg of this epic journey from Munich to Vienna was thus, kind of, OK. Initially, the top speed leveled off at an indicated 65 mph, the fuel gauge showed empty when the tank was full, wind noise challenged road noise for lead vocals, and fuel consumption worked out to a Porsche-like 23.5 mpg. But to be fair, things did get better by the mile.

As Vienna’s trademark Ferris wheel rotated into sight, top speed climbed to 80 mph, and with the engine having cleaned itself out a bit, the entire 59 lb-ft of pulling power was now on call to twist the driveshafts with something resembling mild urgency. Having said that, smoking was out of the question due to low-octane fumes that filled the cabin (and which took three washing cycles to clear from our clothes). As for the rest, the battery light warned of impending electrical doom, the aftermarket radio’s loose wiring sizzled the speakers to stubborn silence, aero drag kept flattening the door mirror, and the driver’s seat backrest adjuster had seized in an excessively laid-back position. Everything else worked spot-on, though, absolutely spot-on.

Other than the broken radio, balky seat back, battery warning light, and noxious gas fumes, all was well in the cabin. The fire extinguisher was a good call.

Austrians love to go shopping in Hungary, where salami is half price, a fresh hairdo costs as much as an iced coffee back home, and dentists charge market price for new teeth. On the A1 autobahn infested by bargain sharks, eastbound traffic eventually came to a halt, and the Yugo’s engine felt first inclined to overheat and then reluctant to restart. To avoid embarrassment, we fled the highway and followed Google maps on bumpy but mostly arrow-straight B-roads last surfaced when Hungary was still a monarchy. With a meager 54 hp at the disposal of a foot used to several times that, overtaking semis was an equation with multiple unknowns, including suicidal stray dogs, deep potholes, enormous speed bumps, and packs of motorbikes driven by MotoGP wannabes approaching from behind.

Contrary to the propaganda, we were actually rather impressed by Victor’s mile-munching abilities. Although the dodgy thermometer suggested cabin temperatures in excess of 104 degrees Fahrenheit, opening the quarter panes had almost the same effect as switching on an only mildly dysfunctional A/C. Despite their dilapidated appearance, the seats were upholstered with horsehair and real springs for what turned out to be acceptable long-distance comfort. Likewise, although aero efficiency was evidently not part of the design brief, the upright Pocky-like roof pillars barely cluttered the good all-around visibility. Lack of performance is only a problem if you ignore what’s happening in the rearview mirror. Keep your eyes peeled in both directions, and the narrow-track econobox displays an unexpected swiftness not unlike the original Mini.

Why the look of concern, Georg? Victor Hugo made the trip, um, interesting.

Stuck in a nerve-wracking three-hour traffic jam at the Serbian border, the featherweight Yugo preferred being pushed to the roadside as opposed to creeping along with the pack. When we finally headed for Belgrade a couple of heart attacks later, a monsoon put the wipers to the test. This should have been a piece of cake for the brand-new Uniroyal rain tires; unfortunately, the communist crate started hydroplaning at just 40 mph, a disconcerting trait encouraged by the bonsai wheelbase, which is closer to the Smart Fortwo’s than, say, the Toyota Yaris’. While it rained, the brakes were on strike, too, juddering and droning in protest.

But who cares? At the end of the 10-hour day, no more than 20 cars had passed our econobox en route to its birthplace. We had spotted about the same number of Zastavas stranded on the hard shoulder, waiting for DIY talent, professional help, or last rites. The Serbian Yugo population increases with poverty; there are precious few Zastavas to be seen in big cities, but they still splutter in droves through rural areas, ranking fourth in the mobility hierarchy, after donkeys, prewar tractors, and scooters.

The display near the welcome monument at the northern entrance to Kragujevac read 10:47 p.m. and 77 degrees when we finally arrived. Hot, exhausted, and a little wounded, the Yugo would now stall at every set of traffic lights, limping home on two or three cylinders to the bed and breakfast across the railway track from the Fiat factory located on the site where Zastavas were built. The morning after, the engine didn’t start, and that’s when local wrench Rocky and his team took over.

The stout Serbian spanner wrestler welcomed Victor like a long-lost son. Chewing consonants with an impatient mutter, Rocky held one ear close to the engine while fumbling with greasy fingers on the carburetor until the idle speed dropped from 2,000 to 750 rpm. While he was at it, he caulked the fuel tank, fixed some wiring, and adjusted the handbrake’s travel. In the meantime, his son had dashed to a nearby accessory store for an air filter and a distributor cap. Probably lured by the German patient’s charismatic pinging noises, other Zastavas started to creep out of their holes. Their owners marveled with emphatic gestures at our car, praising its original paint job, ultra-rare L specification, and the slickness of the notoriously balky transmission. This impromptu gathering stimulated the national pride to the effect that we agreed to meet again at 7 p.m. for food and drinks.

When things started to go south, former Zastava racer Rocky and friends all pitched in to help.

That evening we were introduced to Slato and his bespoilered one-off 600 (Fico) convertible, Aleksandar in a barely street-legal stealth 120-hp Yugo 55, and Vladan at the wheel of a Zastava 600 on steroids with bordello-red velour upholstery and a roof trimmed in black leather. Before everyone started hitting the sauce, the three Yugoista offered to give their newly found brother a thorough checkup. The next day at 8 a.m. sharp, the timing belt, distributor rotor, spark plugs, head gasket, and oil and filter had been changed in less than two hours. The charge? Around 100 euros, including parts. The labor rate came to 18 euros, which compares favorably to the average Serbian hourly wage of 7 to 10 euros.

When the Yugo plant thrived, some 30,000 employees worked three shifts, and in its best-ever year, Zastava built roughly 230,000 cars. But in April 1999, NATO troops attacked Kragujevac and almost completely destroyed the factory. Although the last Yugo rolled off the makeshift assembly line in 2008, the company never recovered from the aftermath of the war.

Fiat eventually bought the ailing carmaker, razed the old buildings, and erected a bespoke new assembly site where 5,000 workers put together the 500L microvan. Ten years later, Fiat pays workers 250 to 300 euros per month, and because the average pension barely comes to 200 euros per month, DIY is the name of almost every game.

When we told them that the original plan was to donate this mint piece of Serbian motor history to a local charity for auction, awkward silence spread. “Don’t take it personal, but in Kragujevac we have more than enough Yugos, and even the best ones are worth almost nothing,” said Slato Bataveljic, the chairman of the Zastava owners club. “I value your car at approximately 600 euros. After all, it is still possible to buy brand-new models for 4,000 euros or less. In terms of street cred, a Yugo ranks right at the bottom. Everyone who can afford it drives an import.”

Unloved, unwanted, and underrated in its hometown, Victor Hugo retained its German plates, made a U-turn with considerable steering effort, and headed back north to photographer Tom Salt’s Old Car Nursing Home in Ratzeburg, near Hamburg. Even though the actual mileage may after all be closer to 113,000 than the claimed 13,000 kilometers, and despite full-throttle emissions capable of knocking birds directly from the sky, the world’s worst car is still good enough to spend its second life as an economical, practical urban runabout.

There are plenty of better cars in the market than this oddball Zastava, but in the course of the pending paradigm shift from big engines to electrification, this light, compact, and nimble underdog doesn’t stray as far from the new road to the future as its banjaxed image suggests.

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