#my brain is fried! I’m tired! my appetite is fucked! I don’t want to do ANYTHING!

[floral-hex]

So this is my thing now, I’m afraid to go to sleep. This is kinda bullshit, brain.

[taeslovehandles]

IF I WERE YOU CH 1 - LOVE 

What if your significant other had the ability to switch body frames with you? What if you were too big to ride your favourite roller coaster or couldn’t fit in some old clothes you wanted to wear today? Well, Jungkook could do literally that. Switch Jimin’s and his body frame to help his boyfriend love himself the way he was while never feeling insecure or like he was missing out in life due to his big appetite and wide body.

[read on ao3]  

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Click “read more” to read this story on tumblr!

“Sooo, just to get this right. Why exactly are we going to the beach again?” Jimin asked as he held his swim trunk in front of the mirror. It was looking a few sizes too small by now which caused the man to slightly frown. Calm down Jimin-ah, it’s just the beach. It’s okay.

“Because you keep avoiding going literally anywhere with me and your boyfriend wants to visit nice places with you once in a while.” Jungkook pouted. His voice coming out of the bathroom.

“You know why... I mean-” They had this conversation almost every week and honestly? Jimin had no idea how Jungkook hadn’t given up on them yet. But he always talked to Jimin, reassuring him that he was beautiful no matter his size. But to Jimin it was a bit different. 

You see, Jimin and his weight had a pretty complicated relationship. Jimin wasn’t a feedee but rather a foodie. He just loved to eat good food. Most of that food was deep fried and coated in a thick crunchy and oily layer of seasoning dipped in mayonnaise or ketchup but he loved that shit. But eating what he wanted, all the time, had done significant changes to his body. Jimin had always been a bit on the chubby side but he definitely did not count as ‘chubby’ anymore with reaching 500 pounds soon.

His wide bottom was mostly if not always in the way of things. Just yesterday one of his favourite cups shattered and broke as he turned around to grab a cube of sugar to go with his coffee and -smack-. It was a des-ASS-ter. Yeeted that cup right off the counter with his ass.

Anyway, you could say that Jimin loved to eat a lot and he was fine with his body and his changes. Didn’t even mind that he often was out of breath or began to huff and struggle by the most simple tasks like getting socks on with his big belly in his way. But the issue was society. Jimin hated being outside and surrounded by people. He didn’t like the looks he got, the muttering and chatting behind his back. It made him feel anxious and that is why he and Jungkook were not often outside. Of course Jungkook respected Jimins decision but he also believed that his boyfriend often thought things that were straight up wrong or not true.

Just the other day ago, when the young man had finally talked Jimin into going outside with him to go grocery shopping, since he wanted to bake a cake and needed Jimin to come with him to pick the toppings for it, he had noticed that Jimin had began to stiffen up, his muscles tensed and just like that he was like switched out.

Jimin behaved differently when they were in public, didn’t even kiss Jungkook or hug him in fear he would embarrass his boyfriend. Obviously this was a thought the large man had never told him. It would definitely end in a long debate and conversation Jimin simply didn’t want to have.

Back to the story, so Jungkook was going down the aisle to search for what they needed when he noticed two girls talking about a really good show he had recently seen an ad for online. They walked by and spoke about the funny trailer which ended in giggling. After that Jimin had been even weirder.

It got so bad that Jungkook had to literally beg Jimin to tell him what was wrong and why he had gotten so annoyed and irritated until he finally spat it out. For some reason he had thought the girls were talking bad about him and his figure and were laughing about him. Which was ridiculous, Jungkook had heard what the two had spoken about. But nothing he would say, eased Jimins mind.

You could say Jimin himself was his biggest enemy. He heard things no one said and just created this illusion of others judging him the moment they saw him, which wasn’t true either. But Jungkook was tired of repeating himself daily. He just hoped he knew what to do to help Jimin out. Some way to ease his pain in a way that would make him feel better and more self aware and just happy? Because god, Jimin was gorgeous to Jungkook. Who cares what Karen behind the counter thought? Fuck her then.

“You know I am not forcing you to go right?” Jungkook made sure once more. Yes he sometimes came off as very demanding but he just wanted Jimin to be happy and live his life without being stuck inside all day.

“I know, I know…” Jimin sighed as he pulled his shirt off. He grabbed for his lower belly roll and heaved it upwards. “I don’t think this thing will fit in my old swim trunk anymore Gugg.”

“Mhm, did you try it on yet? Maybe we can buy a new one before we go? I’ll go grab the suncream real quick.” As badly as Jungkook wanted to see Jimin put on the tight swim trunk, he wasn’t someone that stared. Of course he was allowed too and Jimin was more than okay with it but the young man always made sure that Jimin never felt like an object to him. They had talked about Jungkooks preferences about his ideal body type and what he liked. So it was important for Jungkook to always make Jimin feel loved for himself and not his fat. Obviously his fat was a big turn on for him and Jimin knew that, but it was Jimin himself that Jungkook had fallen in love with back in university.

“I’ll try...  Remind me once I become president to make a new law of no clothes needed outside. And charge anyone that wears socks.” Jimin joked. He really hated to bend down and do literally anything clothing related there. His belly was always in the way of everything and it was exhausting.

“I’ll note it down.” A chuckle came from the room nearby together with some rustling through some bags. Where had they put that damn sun cream. “Do you know where we put the sun blocker Babe?”

“Uhm- if it’s not in one of the -huff- bags it should be -huff- in the bathroom...oh fuck these -huff- pants man…” Jimin was getting frustrated.

“Do you need help?” Jungkook peeked into their bedroom with a worried face.

“I- Can you just pull these up while I lift my gut?” Jimin huffed out of breath.

“Sure can do!” Walking over and doing what he had been told, Jungkook made quick work of the tight swim trunk. “Oh boy…”

“That bad?”

“I mean, you can feel it right?”

“You mean that my thighs are too fat for the trunk to get all the way up?...Yup.” Jimin tried to catch his breath as he sat down on the bed and let himself fall on the back. “Why don’t we just buy one online and not go today?” 

“But tomorrow will be rainy…” Another pout from Jungkook. God damn it, these stupid pants seriously. Now that Jimin FINALLY had agreed to go out. IN THE SUMMER HEAT, it was the pants ruining it.

“Okay listen- uhm. Don’t take this the wrong way okay?”

“That only sounds like I will take it the wrong way, but say it.” Jimin was already annoyed, so he might as well hear what Jungkook had to say.

Said man was fumbling with his hands. “So- uhm… since- uhm. Your gut hangs so low… technically no one would see anyway? A-And we could just go to an area without as many people? I mean it is covering your ass… or uhm. Actually, nevermind this is a dumb idea.” 

“I mean. The first one is already dumb, might as well spit it out. And no. I won’t wear pants that don’t fit, are you nuts?” He crossed his arms.

“I told you, you’d get mad…” The young man scratched the back of his head as he went and pulled the pants back down from Jimins legs to throw them away. Not like Jimin would slim down anytime soon and they’d magically fit again.

“Tell me the other idea…” He insisted.

“No seriously, my mouth spoke before my brain gave consent. I do-”

“Well I want to know though.”

-Sigh-

“Promise me you won’t get mad?”

“I promise.” 

Jungkook fumbled with his fingers when he said it. “We could just go to the naked area at the beach… then no one cares… Ouch!” Jimin had kicked him in his side slightly.

“Are you- I can’t believe -THIS- was even an idea you had!? After I can’t even stand being anywhere other people clothes you think THAT would make it easier!?” Jimins nose was flaring. Sometimes he wasn’t sure if Jungkook even understood what he thought, no matter how often he explained it.

“You promised to not get mad!”

“I am not mad, I kept my promise.”

“You just hit me!?”

“Deserved. Dumb ideas get smacked.” Jimin gave him an eyebrow wiggle and heaved himself up. “Now what do we do?”

“I don’t know…” Jungkook really wanted to go to the beach with his love.

“I wish I could just like.. Snap my finger and switch body size with you. Because I bet you, you’d go to the beach with me, if you didn’t have the issue of others watching you right?” He added.

“Well yeah obviously. I’d even go naked.” He joked.

But that was exactly what was about to happen. The moment Jungkook had snapped his finger and spoke out his wish the both of them felt hotter than before.

“Did it- just get warmer in here or-?” Jimin asked, confused. His skin was tickling slightly, what was going on?

“No, I’m hot too… does your body tickle like mine do- what the… Babe do you see this!?” Jungkook held his slowly expanding stomach as it bulged out, looking more and more like the man had swallowed a beach ball. “Uhm… what is… going on?”

“I don’t know? Oh god, my body tickles too though…” Jimin since he was a lot heftier did not notice a few pounds missing, so he didn’t notice how his thighs and belly were slowly decreasing in size as he sat on the edge of the bed.

“I- I’m swelling up! Wait, wait Jimin are you losing any weight can you feel anything?” Jungkook didn’t believe it but at the same time what was happening right now seemed out of a movie.

“Wait. I am! I- my belly is shrinking… what the… Why though? Because of what you said just now? Is this actually happening!?” Jimin was speechless as he watched how his entire body was getting slimmer and slimmer. He had lost at least 200 pounds by now. The shirt he was wearing was so loose on him now it looked like he had accidentally taken a pillow or blanket and mistook it for a shirt.

Which also meant that someone else was about to gain all of that. “Wait, if I am losing the weight and you are gaining it we should-”

-Rip-

“Take your clothes off…” Jimin finished his sentence.

“Well- too late for that now. And this was my favourite jeans man…” Jungkook watched as his thick thighs began to grow out of the holes his clothes began to create as the fabric kept ripping open more and more. 

-tear-

“Shit, Gugg, get your shirt off, hurry!” Jimin stood up and almost fell over, he wasn’t used to getting off that easily and had used too much strength to get up which almost catapulted him forward and towards his boyfriend who was struggling to get his shirt off. It had already cut into his double belly and was now rolling itself upwards until his big moobs were stretching the fabric too much and the shirt ended up tearing apart as well.

“Oh man… oh wow…” Jungkook was so speechless right now. He kept inspecting himself and watching intrigued how his entire body was swelling up in fat. How each and every body part was slowly engulfed and swallowed by fat. “Jesus there is so much of it!?”

“Welcome to my club, Babe.” Jimin joked and smacked Jungkooks big belly. “How does it feel being that heavy Gugg?” He was actually interested.

“It feels…” Jungkook swallowed thickly as he held his own belly up just to let it fall again, causing a loud smack of skin on skin. “Man, I mean- I knew the jiggling part would cause an ocean of jiggles but I had no idea you could feel ALL of that. Even the little ripples afterwards…” This was amazing. Jungkook was amazed.

“Oh you thought I was faking my moans when you began jiggling my fat to get me off? Hell nah- that shit feels amazing.” Jimin stood there proudly as he kept losing more and more weight. He was beginning to get bulky with some muscles. 

“Well… it just sounded so unreal? I believe you now- Oh shit, oh god…” Jungkook didn’t even know where to look anymore. Each part that grew needed to be explored but the weight was getting to him now. Jesus he was so heavy… he.. He couldn’t stand that much anymore. “Damn, this is how bad your legs hurt from just standing?” 

“Yup.”

“Wow… I would carry you everywhere if I could then. I guess I understand why you love things to sit or lay on.” He giggled...well attempted too. But just giggling was exhausting while standing, so the man waddled. “Oh god, I- I have to walk with spread legs like that…?”

“Yeah. Can’t walk normally if there is fat in between. But you’ll get used to it.” Jimin soothed.

“Woah… -huff- Okay this is really exhausting.” Jungkook could feel his massive bubble butt jiggling as he waddled to the bed and sat down. His body sank deep down into the mattress as he caught his breath and just touched himself all over. 

“Hey, if you need a minute I can let you be alone with your body you know.” Jimin pulled another joke.

“Excuse me for being amazed by this and have to investigate my own body that literally just swelled up 400 pounds.” The other poked out his tongue towards Jimin.

“Well, how do you like it?” Jimin was curious. Because he himself felt great right now. He began jumping and sitting on the ground with his head resting on his knees. Wow, it’s been so long since he could do any of that. 

“I feel great! Well, I feel sweaty and exhausted but besides that I really like it. What about you muscle man?”

“I can see my feet.” Jimin grinned.

“Been some decades, Huh?... Ouch! God stop hitting me. Now it’s unfair, I can’t even reach you!” Jungkook pouted with his cute, thick and chubby cheeks.

“You look so cute with a round moon face Guggie, Naw! And you deserve every slap you get. No taking back.” Jimin had to giggle as he effortlessly got up standing and smiled. “So, are you going to the beach now or what?”

It made Jungkook happy, that Jimin seemed so eager to go now. “Well… I’m pretty sure since we switched bodies that your old pants won’t fit me either.”

“We could go naked.” Jimin grinned and gave his boyfriend a kiss on his forehead.

“I- I mean… but-” 

“What? How did you say? Your belly hangs so low, no one can see anything anyway!” Jimin repeated in a mocking tone.

“Okay I admit it! It was the dumbest idea I ever had! Happy? Let’s not go naked…” Jungkook felt betrayed by his own self. How could he have suggested something so dumb.

“Glad we agree now. So. I got an idea-” Jimin opened up their cupboard in the search of big pants he knew would still fit. Or at least should still fit. Since the man was always or most of the time at home he also didn’t wear a lot of outdoor clothes. “Try these on.” He threw a pair of sweatpants at him.

“They shouuuld fit. I’m not sure. They did fit last time.” Jimin sat down and began helping Jungkook who seemed to struggle. “You don’t know how to get this on, do you?”

“No…” He pouted. “How do you even… it’s like my belly is an End Boss!? How am I supposed to reach my feet and get these damn pants on? How do you do it?” Now that Jungkook was 500 pounds he realized that most things did not work the way he may thought they would. He couldn’t simply bend down and get his feet into the damn sweatpants. There was just too much fat in the way.

“Rule number one. Don’t bend down without taking a deep breath. So, see you grab the legs of the pants here and then you have to sway them like this and catch them at the right time with your foot. It’s really hard to do and sometimes you sit there for 15 minutes trying to get your pants on but I am here to help you. But I want you to try it out first.” Was Jimin enjoying the view and how his boyfriend struggled with all of his weight? Yes, yes he did. His cheeks were slightly red and his loins were tingling.

“-huff- Okay… okay I- I think -huff- Ah damn it! -huff-”

“-huff- ah so close! -huff-”

“No! Pants! -huff- get -huff- back here!”

“Do you want my help?” Jimin asked with a smirk.

Jungkook just looked at him in disbelief. He was beyond exhausted. “I -huff- yeah. If we want to -huff- go soon, then yes…” He huffed out. Jesus this was all so exhausting.

His boyfriend grabbed the pants and pulled them over one swollen leg, up to Jungkooks knee. Then came the next pant leg. “I never realized how fat my cankles were actually.” Jimin notifies as he pokes and grabs at said body part.

“I love your cankles. I love everything about you…” Jungkook jumps in.

“Well, now you got my fat. Make out with yourself, you don’t need me anymore.” Jimin was joking but his boyfriend did not like these kinds of jokes and Jungkooks next sentence came out sternly.

“No. Because I love you Jimin. I love you for you and not just your body. Don’t make such jokes.” He slightly smacked him on his shoulder.

“Ouuch, Okay, Okay! Party pooper.” But Jimin smiled. He’d respect not making such jokes again.

…

After half an hour Jungkook was clothes with his sweatpants, a shirt and Jimin had decided to already out suncream on him because it would be harder to do it later because he knew Jungkook would maybe not admit it, but standing just to get suncream on you was also exhausting.

They had prepared blankets, some fruits and food together with fresh water yesterday, which Jimin shuffled around to get in their bag as well. Some sun hats and of course a beach ball to play with. The older hadn’t been so excited to go out since forever. He simply didn’t feel the weight of eyes staring at him anymore and it was a refreshing experience.

Jungkook simply didn’t care if he got looks. Their house wasn’t far from the beach but it was definitely exhausting to waddle there as a 500 pounder, that Jungkook figured out quite fast.

“Oh jesus… -huff- and you went -huff- grocery shopping -huff- with me…” 

“Stop talking, it’ll make it worse. Just concentrate on putting one foot over another and walk. We are almost there!” Jimin tried to help. He was the ‘heavy people’ expert anyway.

For once listening, his boyfriend stopped talking and just concentrated on walking. It probably looked a bit weird that he was not wearing an actual swim trunk but they’d have to order one online for next time. And it’s not like it wasn’t allowed to go swimming in sweatpants.

“Are you okay?  Do you need a break on that bench?” Jimin knew how exhausting it was and wanted to help as much as he could as he gently grabbed for Jungkooks arms and squeezed lightly.

“Y-Yeah.. -huff- rest… Phew…” Jungkook turned right and waddled towards the bench as he sat down slowly with a loud creak of the wood. He took a deep breath. “My god -huff-. I mean -huff- I heard you breathing -huff- but I had no idea -huff- THIS is how it feels… -huff- for you.”

“It’s quite a task for people like us to get literally anywhere. That’s why I often asked you how long the walk from the car to the restaurant would be, back when I still fit on those chairs because I didn’t want to end up there breathing like an exhausted and sweaty pig for everyone to look at.” Jimin kissed Jungkook on his lips. “Do you want me to get you a drink before we go down? Or Ice cream? I know I always get hungry walking, so…” Jimins smile was genuine.

“A soda sounds -huff- amazing actually. Let’s get ice-cream later? I -huff- really want to swim. I’m all -huff- sweaty.” Jungkook tugged on his shirt with two big dark circles between his arm and torso. His back was probably darker grey too from all the sweat. “Alright, I’ll get you some. Just stay here and get some rest Babe.” With that Jimin jumped up and swiftly walked over to one of the food carts to grab some soda.

That’s when Jungkook noticed it for the first time. How people were watching him, or speaking about it. How they took a glance and turned their head as soon as he locked eyes with them. How some spoke so loud that he was meant to hear their jokes or how their noses crunch up in disgust. It wasn’t a nice sight to see but Jungkook had the self esteem of a diamond. Nothing could cut through him, so he simply smiled back or waved when people did what they did. It didn’t bother him the slighted as he watched his boyfriend grabbing the soda and three HotDogs.

“Hey, sorry it took so long. Here is your soooda-” Jimin held it out for Jungkook to grab. “And I wanted to eat a HotDog, so I got two for you as well.” Another kiss on his forehead.

“Thanks Minnie.” Jungkook began chugging down the soda until it was half way finished when he bit a big chunk off of the HotDog. “Man I love these HotDogs they sell here.” Another big bite.

“Yeah, they are great!” Jimin wiggled his legs up and down as he sat on the long bench next to his love and looked around when he began to frown. “Hey uhm… we don’t have to sit here. We can just go down to the beach and ready everything up you know?” It were the stares Jimin noticed. They weren’t directed at him but at the person he loved the most, which almost felt even worse. He just wanted to punch them all.

“It’s fine Babe. I don’t care.” Jungkook was half way through the second HotDog by now.

“I know you say that, but we really can just-”

“No I mean it. I don’t care. I know you often say you don’t care but you do. You are thin right now, just enjoy it and ignore the others? Who are you living for?” Jungkook asks with a bit of sauce on his cheek. 

“Myself…”

“Yes and that means?”

“It doesn’t matter what others think about me…”

“Exactly! Now let them stare at my hot ass body and be jealous. I feel amazing Minnie. So please enjoy the day okay? I am so excited to go swimming with you.” Jungkook gave him a lovingly squeeze to his thigh and kissed his cheek, with a bit of a huff, before finishing his HotDog and chugging down his soda.

“Alright, I’m ready. Let’s go!”

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A fluff one. Yay! Remember the snippet I shared? Kinda got more chapters now. I have some ideas. But this one will be written in my own pace, how I feel fit. Anyway enjoy my fluff readers <3

If you are wondering why I posted this one on tumblr as well to read. This is one fluff and doesn’t need trigger warnings. The hardcore stuff only goes to my ao3. So enjoy <3

[cinnaminsvga]

🌸 social media au where y/n posts a fake boyfriend application on twitter as a dare but ends up seeking something real in the long run (aka how to fall in love the zillennial way) 🌸

A/N: This... fried my brain cells. I don’t know why it’s so hard for me to WRITE... I’m not sure if any of this flows properly but it’s 5AM right now, I am tired, I am jetlagged, I’ve forgotten how to speak English, but this is the best I can do and I guess that’s all that matters. Anyway, RIP Y/N you’re about to have a bad time. *megalovania intensifies* || W.C. 2.7K

prev // part 27 of ? // next masterlist here.

[updates every 6PM PST]

Despite the summer heat already dwindling as the cooler months start to settle in, the sun still shines strongly in Ilsan. Sweat drips down your back like a faucet, the shade of the trees doing little to protect you from the midday heat. Namjoon had offered to relocate to one of the small air-conditioned cafes just outside of the park, but you chose to bear the heat instead, more interested in enjoying the packed lunch his mother had prepared for the two of you and observe the people milling about.

“Your mom is a cooking goddess,” you say with a large grin, moaning unabashedly as you chowed down on her homemade kimchi. Completely immersed in the pleasure that is Mrs. Kim’s food, you forget all semblance of dignity as you make it your goal to get all the food into your body as quickly as you can. “God, her food is so fucking good. How can you even bear leaving home?”

Namjoon chuckles, eating at a significantly more humane and dignified pace. “Believe me, it was hard choosing to study in Seoul for university, but it was a sacrifice I had to make. I’m just lucky that I live relatively close, so I can visit them every once in a while.”

“Then you oughta invite me over again some time. The dinner last night? I dreamt about nothing but her galbitang,” you say with bits of food still in your mouth, but Namjoon doesn’t seem all that phased. He’s gotten used to it, or so you hope. Habits die hard when you’ve been stuck with animals (read: boys) as friends for the last ten years.

“You can come over anytime. Though I’m not sure if you would want to, since then you’ll have to keep pretending to be my girlfriend if we do…” Namjoon trails off, his gaze lowering back to his food. His lips purse, brow crumpling in that way you’ve come to realize was he was overthinking again. “N-not that you’d have to. Pretend to be my girlfriend, that is. I can p-probably just bring home some packed lunches to Seoul whenever I come over, or something then you could—“

“Namjoon,” you call out to him, snapping him out from his rambling. You place your container of food down on the grass, raising your hands up as if in surrender. Confused, Namjoon is about to ask what you’re doing before you promptly smack him (gently), grabbing his cheeks and squeezing them together until he looks like a cute (and incredibly bemused) pufferfish.

“Huwah?” Namjoon tries to speak, but your grip on his face prevents him from moving even an inch. “Y/N?”

“Namjoon, I know we’re fake dating and all and I did agree to go with you to see your parents just this one time, but is it that hard to get it through that thick skull of yours?”  you say, eyes boring into his as you try to communicate your feelings. After a few moments of staring, you sigh tiredly when the look of confusion refuses to leave his face, his eyebrows raised in both astonishment and uncertainty. This fucking idiot, you think tiredly to yourself, but it’s hard to stay annoyed at him, not when he looks so cute with his cheeks squished between your hands.

You continue, “Aren’t we friends? Doesn’t that mean I would do anything for you, even if that means pretending to be your fake girlfriend as many times as I have to?”

Realization finally dawns on Namjoon’s face, but it is quickly replaced by sheepishness. “Oh, I guesh sho…” he says dejectedly. “Showwy.”

“Good. Now stop being so insecure!” you huff, pinching his cheek for good measure before you release him. He rubs his jaw gingerly, pouting like a child who had just been scolded.

“Okay, I promise… Sorry,” he repeats, rubbing his neck in shame.

But even then… you aren’t satisfied. Not until he can really get over his insecurity, but you suppose this is going to have to suffice for now. You can tell that Namjoon still has some ongoing conflict happening inside of him that he doesn’t seem willing to share with you as of now. You desperately want to pry, but you know more than anyone how frustrating it can be when someone tries a little too hard to help you, even if getting into right up in your business comes from a place with good intentions. He deserves to set his own pace, and you are more than willing to be patient with him (most of the time, at least. Some pinching and prodding may be useful along the way.)

“I’m not gonna leave you, you know? You’re stuck with me for life unfortunately, so you’re going to have to deal with me for the rest of yours. That was my only condition when I agreed to be your fake girlfriend, remember?” you say, giggling lightly at his dumbfounded expression. “Unless you’re tired of me already? I can always leave,” you tease.

“No!” Namjoon exclaims suddenly, nearly slapping himself in the face when he brings his hand to his mouth. A few families also eating at the park look at the two of you in alarm, but Namjoon can only bow to them apologetically. When he turns back to you, his cheeks are reddened slightly, though that could also be from being under the sun for so long. He scratches his nose: another nervous tick of his. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to scream like that. I just… No, I’m not tired of you. I don’t think that’s even possible. You’re one of the greatest people I know and I like hanging out with you.”

“I…” You’re shocked by his sudden proclamation, stuttering as you try to formulate a response. You cough in embarrassment, shifting your gaze elsewhere, anywhere, away from Namjoon’s earnest expression. It’s a complete 360 from the shy schoolboy persona he had just moments ago. “Thank you… I guess? I’m just… Wow, how do you do that?”

“Do what?”

“Switch modes so quickly like that? One moment you’re a bumbling buffoon and then the next second you’re saying sweet shit like it’s nothing!” You huff, hoping that your own cheeks aren’t heating up. “Seriously. Are you sure you don’t have a girlfriend?”

Namjoon lets out a short guffaw; the sound familiar to you as the one that he makes when he doesn’t know what to say. You don’t know how or when you had gotten so adept at differentiating his multiple ticks, but it makes you feel… special, for lack of a better word. You wonder if he notices things about you, too.

“I think I would be the first to know if I had a girlfriend. I suppose you’re the closest thing I have,” Namjoon says. When you look back at him, you can see that he’s smiling, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Well, at least my parents think you’re the real deal. You were really good last night, by the way. My mom wouldn’t stop gushing about you when you went to bed.”

“Oh God, you guys talked about me when I went to bed?” You gasp in horror, worst-case scenarios flying through your head even though realistically, you know you had been perfectly normal during the entire evening. You had even practiced in front of the mirror the week before, rehearsing the lines you’d have to say should his parents ask the usual relationship questions. You memorized the story the two of you came up with: how the two of you had met, how you’d gotten together, how long you’d been dating… It was all so ingrained in your brain that it almost felt real, sometimes.

Namjoon rolls his eyes, poking you lightly on the nose. “No, it was nothing bad. You were perfect, like always. I doubt my parents could ever hate you even if they tried. You were wonderful.”

You nod slowly, still slightly unconvinced. “Okay… If you say so. I just don’t want to mess things up for you, you know?”

Namjoon slings an arm around your waist, inadvertently causing you to scoot closer to him until you could comfortably lay your head on his shoulder. You tilt your head upwards, your breath hitching when you realize how close your faces were to each other.

“I suppose we’re both dummies then, huh? I know this is hypocritical of me to say, but don’t be so insecure, okay? We got this. We’re fine.” Namjoon’s voice dips into a whisper, his forehead nearly touching yours. When he’s close like this, you can smell the kimchi in his breath; not an unpleasant scent by any means, but you do wonder if he’d taste good if you’d leaned in right now and kissed him—

“Y/N, you have rice on your chin,” Namjoon interrupts your train of thought, catching you off guard. You yelp, sitting straight up and separating from him like you had been shocked. Namjoon doesn’t seem to notice, as he seems more intent on wiping away the stray rice grains than anything else. When he flicks them away, he smiles at you endearingly, his dimples on display for your mortal eyes.

“Um,” you stammer, rubbing your chin belatedly. “T-thanks…”

“Y/N, are you okay? You’re getting kind of red. Maybe we should head back? We’ve been under the sun for a while.” He grabs his phone from his pocket, nearly dropping it as he fumbles with it before he finally manages to take a look at the time. “Oh, damn. It’s already almost 4. We better head out if you want to go look around the shopping district,” he says, packing up his mom’s containers. “Do you want to finish your food?”

You still had a bit of food left, but your appetite had strangely disappeared. So instead, you help him pack up, ready to get out of there and get your mind off of weird things. This is fine, you’re just being weird because of the bad week you had. Let’s try to relax, you remind yourself, but even you think your words sound weak.

Disgruntled and shaky, you trail after Namjoon in silence, content to just listen to him explain certain landmarks to you as you walk towards the nearby shopping street.

“I don’t know if I ever mentioned this, but if we have time, we could probably visit my old high school on our way back. There’s a small park near it where I used to hide whenever I didn’t want to go home,” Namjoon says, chuckling at the memory. “My life used to be a constant cycle of going to school and coming home to study some more, so my mom would throw an absolute fit whenever I came home late, but she could never figure out where my hiding spot was.”

You snort, smiling at the thought of a rebellious Namjoon. It’s hard to imagine, especially with how hardworking he is with all his side projects that you’ve caught glimpses of when he had shown you his workshop. “Are you sure you want to show me your spot? What if I tell your mom?”

Namjoon laughs, eyes crinkling from the sheer force of it. The sight of him laughing causes you to pause for a moment, caught off guard by how… good he looks, when he looks so honest, so vulnerable. Namjoon smiles a lot, but you’ve never seen him this cheery, like the sun had come down to earth for the day. You like it a lot; you want to be able to make him express himself honestly like that all the time.

“If you tell my mom, then she’ll know for sure that you’re the one for me,” he jokes, the remnants of his joy still present in his eyes. He winks cheekily at you, making the tips of your ears redden ever so slightly. “There are many nooks and crannies I’d love to show you around Ilsan, but we only have a weekend here, unfortunately. If you could stay another day, I could probably show you around more.”

“I mean… I could, if you want me to,” you mutter, the words slipping out before you can stop them. You inhale sharply, both yours and Namjoon’s eyes popping out when you realize what you had said.

“I just! I don’t mean to intrude, of course—“

“Y-you don’t have to stay! It was just wishful thinking, of course—“

You both speak at the same time, talking over the other as you both try to explain yourselves. You both stop speaking simultaneously as well, causing the two of you to burst into laughter. You’re doubled over, giggling as tears of mirth slide down your cheeks at the sheer ridiculousness of it all.

“God, why are we so awkward together? I thought I was bad, but I guess pairing two socially inept losers really has doubled our power, huh?” you say.

“I know. You’d think we only just met yesterday or something.” Namjoon scratches his nose bashfully, but the same honest smile is still on his face. “But if what you said was true, then… I’d love to have you around for another day, if you want to stay? Like I said, I love hanging out with you. This is honestly the most fun I’ve had in a long while,” he says shyly. He coughs into his fist, pupils shaking as he stares resolutely at your chin.

“Me… me too. I’m having a lot of fun too,” you admit, your cheeks heating up involuntarily. You both turn to look away, embarrassed by each other’s sudden confession. What is going on with me today? you wonder idly, forcing your rapidly beating heart to calm.

“Er, well. We’re almost at the shopping district,” Namjoon clears his throat, trying his best to wave off the suddenly awkward atmosphere. He points ahead, where you can see rows of shops and booths of all shapes and sizes, selling anything and everything you can imagine. “You’re the guest here, so you choose. What shop do you want to head to first?”

“That reminds me. Jimin had asked me to buy this skin product from some store around here. Let me check the brand; he texted me the photo before we left,” you say, rummaging for your phone in your bag. Admittedly, you haven’t been using your phone all day asides from taking and posting the occasional photo, keeping it on silent and do not disturb to stop unwanted text messages from disturbing your time with Namjoon. You know you had a few messages from your group chat that you’ve left to read for later, but it’s only now that you realize that you had another message waiting from a person you would rather not speak to at all.

“Oh geez, what does that whore want?” You sigh, going against your better judgment and opening it anyway. “I swear, if Seokjin is using me as a booty call now of all times, I’m going to rip his ass in two the next time I—“

“Y/N? You okay?” Namjoon asks when he notices you have suddenly stopped speaking. He had been walking continuously, assuming that you were following behind him only to find that you were frozen in place a few steps away, staring holes into your phone screen. He walks over back to you, concern flickering in his eyes when he approaches you. “Hey, what’s up? Did you get an important text or something?”

“No, it’s nothing important. It’s…” You sigh, not knowing what to say. Your lips begin to wobble as your senses are assaulted by confusion, pain, and heartache all at once—all because of a single text message. Your eyes start to well up, but you blink them away. You’re quick to wave off Namjoon’s slow growing panic at your sorry state, not wanting to ruin his day with your stupid emotional breakdown.

“Y/N. Who texted you? What is it? You can tell me, I promise I won’t judge you,” he whispers kindly, taking your free hand in his own. He rubs comforting circles into your palm, his brow scrunched up in worry as he watches you fight to keep your tears at bay. “Y/N?”

You take a shuddering breath.

[yourdeepestfathoms]

You Say Stuff Is Way, Way Too Go, Go Away

five times Orla caused a disruption and thought she was messed up for doing so, and one time someone assured her she wasn’t

ft. Good Big Cousin Erin

also: title from Stuff Is Way

TW: Vomit

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

1.

  “I don’t like it, okay!?”

James’s outburst took everyone by surprise. His face flamed red as he began to shout in anger, spitting awful words about how terrible fried food was. Not that anyone expected anything less from a Brit.

  “It’s too greasy! It’s much, much too greasy!!”

Underneath all the yelling, there was a whimper. It went unheard by everyone, however, as all the attention was turned on James.

  “Even the smell of it makes me physically sick!!”

Silence.

  “I’m sorry you had to hear that, Fionnula,” Michelle said. Then, in James’s ear, she hissed, “You’re a fucking embarrassment.”

  “Get him out of here!” Fionnula ordered.

In a muttering, awkward heap, the girls (and Brit) began to file out--

  “Oi!” Fionnula barked. “You forgot one!”

The gang stopped, turned around, and that’s when they finally noticed that Orla was on the floor, huddled in the corner between the wall and the counter, with her hands clamped firmly over her ears.

  “Orla, let’s go.” Michelle said.

Orla didn’t move, though. She just scrunched her eyes shut and curled her fingers into her hair. She looked like she was in pain.

  “Oh shit,” Erin muttered, then darted down to Orla’s side. She didn’t touch her cousin, rather let her hands hover over Orla’s lanky body, which she realized was wracked with trembles. “Orla. Orla, hey, it’s Erin.”

Orla pried one eye open, glanced at her, then slammed it shut again. A tiny whimper escaped her lips, and a piece of Erin’s heart broke off.

  “It’s okay, you’re okay,” Erin told her. “Can I touch you, Orla? Is that okay?”

Orla nodded, and Erin had her securely in her arms a moment later. Orla nuzzled against her, but kept her hands placed firmly over her ears. James yelling must have set her off.

  “It’s okay, it’s okay,” Erin murmured, stroking Orla’s unruly curls the way she knew her cousin liked. “Everything is okay… James startled you, didn’t he?”

Orla nodded wordlessly and buried her face against Erin’s chest. Due to her height, she was having to lean down, practically laying on Erin, but neither cousin seemed to mind the position.

Fionnula, however, did mind, and did not appreciate the scene that was going on in her restaurant.

  “What part of ‘get out’ don’t you understand?” The woman said impatiently.

  “Can you give us a minute?” Erin snapped. “It’s not the end of the goddamn world if we linger around for a moment! My little cousin is freaking out! Have some respect, will you!?” Then, in a quiet, soothing voice to Orla when she flinched and whimpered, “Shh, shh. Not you, Orla. I’m sorry for yelling. I didn’t mean to startle you.”

Orla made a tiny noise in response. Erin tucked her head underneath her chin and held her closer, rocking her in slow, gentle motions.

  “You still like being rocked, right?” Erin asked quietly.

Orla nodded.

  “Wonderful. Just making sure.”

They remained there on the floor for awhile, ignoring all the stares and whispers they were receiving. Erin might have cared a little more if it weren’t her baby cousin in her arms. 

  “Are you okay?” Erin asked after a few minutes of silence. “Feeling any better?” Orla slowly uncurled herself from Erin, pulling her hands away from her ears. She looked tired and shaken, but slightly less traumatized.  

  “We can sit a while longer if you need,” Erin told her.

Orla shook her head and slowly stood up. She nearly toppled right over, but Erin leapt to her feet and steadied her.

  “Take it easy, love,” Erin said, and the pet name slipped out without her even thinking about it. “No need to rush.”

Orla looked at her, blinking her bleary golden brown eyes, then latched onto her hand. Erin stroked her knuckles gingerly as she led her out of the building.

To their credit, Michelle, Clare, and James waited a moment before bombarding the cousins with questions. Unfortunately, “a moment” seemed to be more like a millisecond because there were suddenly a barrage of comments spewing out of eager mouths. Erin gave her friends an evil warning glare when Orla whimpered in distress at their volume.

  “Sorry, sorry,” Clare apologized for her and the other two. “We’re just worried.”

  “You sound like you want to hear the latest news,” Erin said.

  “Can you blame us?” James said. “That was the most eventful thing to happen this week! What was that?”

Orla shifted uncomfortably. The discomfort on her face wasn’t an expression she usually wore, and when Michelle noticed it, she added for James, “He means you can tell us when you’re ready.”

  “Better.” Erin said. She squeezed Orla’s hand. “Maybe some other time, okay? I’m gonna get Orla home. She’s tired.”

Orla nodded and rested her chin on Erin’s head, letting her eyelids flutter shut. It wasn’t an act to get away from the questions, she genuinely looked exhausted- both mentally and physically.

There was a scattering of agreements from the other three before Erin began to walk Orla down the street.

  “Do you think Orla will be better by the time I steal that notice board from Fionnula’s shop?” 

Clare and James whip their heads around to Michelle.

  “WHAT?”

2.

Orla wasn’t sure what woke her up- her brain not wanting to stay asleep any longer or the buzz in her head. Probably both.

It took everything in Orla not to whine out loud when she realized that buzz was an oncoming migraine. Of course. 

She sat up and rubbed her eyes. She was in Erin’s bed, per usual (she never slept in her own bed) nestled in a burrow of blankets. Erin was still asleep, sprawled out on her back with her mouth open slightly. If that John guy saw her like this, snoring softly and drooling ever so slightly, he would probably run for the hills. Orla giggled softly at that image, and that small sound rebounded uncomfortably through her head.

Footsteps made Orla perk up a little. They were a little distant, but someone was definitely awake. After waiting a few minutes, Orla released her head from the grip her hands had on it and got up, too.

Simply walking down the short staircase was difficult with Orla’s increasingly intense headache. She stopped on the third step and had to take a deep breath before continuing on. Luckily, she got downstairs without any injury.

When she got to the bottom step, she saw the kitchen lights on and her Aunt Mary heating up a kettle on the stove. The woman looked surprised, but smiled warmly when she noticed the girl.

   “Good morning,” She said, “You’re up early.”

Orla waved and then shrugged, padding across the hardwood with her fluffy socks. She peered at the kettle curiously, like she was expecting a rose to sprout out from the lid. Mary studied her thoughtfully.

   “Do you have any preference for breakfast?” Mary asked.

Orla shook her head. She would eat anything. Although, right now, her head was pounding enough to make her lose her appetite.

   “Can I help?” Orla asked after a moment.

   “Of course!” Mary said, pleasantly surprised. “You can start the eggs.”

Orla nodded. Mary made friendly conversation with the girl as the two of them began to cook breakfast, though Orla wasn’t much of a talker. Even if she was, Orla’s migraine began to get worse and worse until she wasn’t able to pay attention at all anymore.

   “Orla? Orla!”

Orla reeled backwards, hissing in pain. She had no idea what Mary was yelling about until she noticed the egg in the pan was smoking. She ogled the pan with wide eyes, hands fumbling, and Mary had to turn off the burner for her.

  “Orla, what has gotten into you?” Mary said, looking at the girl. “Maybe you should sleep in some more?”

Orla shook her head and backed away. She lifted her hands and squeezed her skull between her palms, like she was trying to keep a headache at bay. Mary noticed, along with the fact that something was very wrong, so she helped the girl over to the couch so she could sit down.

  “Are you alright?” Mary asked, setting a hand on Orla’s back.

Orla shrugged. 

   “What’s wrong, honey?” Mary tried asking something else, keeping her voice low.

Orla hesitated, then gestured vaguely for her head.

  “Your head hurts?”

Orla nodded.

  “I see,” Mary frowned. She thought for a moment, then began to rub Orla’s head comfortingly.

Orla’s gaze snapped up at her with wide eyes. Mary quickly pulled her hand back.

  “Sorry.” Mary said. “I shouldn’t have assumed you wanted to be touched.”

Orla tapped the top of her head. Mary furrowed her eyebrows.

  “But I thought--”

Orla tapped more, so Mary put her hand back on her head, rubbing gently.

Orla pressed into the touch, closing her eyes in bliss. The pain from the headache began to melt away with each stroke over her skull, soothing her. She couldn’t help the content cooing noises she began to make.

Mary chuckled. “You like this, don’t you, sweetheart?”

Orla nodded. She keeled over into Mary’s lap and rolled over onto her back like a puppy seeking pets. She grabbed her aunt’s hand and placed it back on her head, even making rubbing motions like she was reminding her what to do. She sighed happily when the affection resumed.

  “So much for starting breakfast,” Mary chuckled lightly.

3.

The ride back to the house wasn’t very fun for anyone: Michelle, who was trying very hard not to swerve off the road because she was a tiny bit tipsy (don’t drink and drive, kids!); Clare, who was simply still reeling from what had happened at Jenny Joyce’s party; James, who was moping because he missed the one chance he would ever get to lose his virginity; Erin, who was stewing in embarrassment after all her accusations; and Katya, who had to sit with all of them in the same cramped car. But most of all, Orla, who could feel her stomach roiling as Michelle swerved haphazardly down a turn in the street.

  “Erin,” Orla leaned forward to the passenger seat and tugged on her cousin’s sleeve with one hand, holding her stomach with the other. “I don’t feel good…” 

Erin snapped her head around to her. “I thought you said you could handle it.” She whispered as if this discussion was some type of super secret spy mission, although Orla did appreciate her not shouting it to the rooftops.

  “Mm-mmm,” Orla shook her head. She moved her hand from Erin’s sleeve to her stomach with the other.

Erin looked around at the dark road the car was speeding down. “Can’t you, like, hold it in?”

Orla swallowed thickly, trying to reign in her growing nausea, but could only shrug as an answer because she truly didn’t know.

  “She doesn’t need to piss, Erin,” Michelle said not-so-secretly. “She needs to boke. There is a huge difference.”

  “Yeah, one is not so easy to hold in,” Clare added.

  “Thank you for your addition, Clare,” Michelle said. “We all definitely did not already know that.”

  “If you vomit on me I will bust your nose in.” Katya said coldly to Orla, who shrunk away with a tiny whimper.

  “Why did you eat so much if you knew you were going to be sick?” James asked Orla.

  “It seems she always eat that much.” Katya observed. There was a hint of cruelty in her words as she smirked slightly and said, “Like a pig.”

  “Oi! Don’t call her that, you bitch!” Michelle snapped, jerking around to glare at Katya (and not paying attention to the road at all).

  “Watch what you say,” Erin hissed.

  “What?” Katya said innocently. “I only say truth.”

  “THE truth,” Erin corrected. “And it is not the truth! Just because Orla likes to eat doesn’t mean she’s a pig.”

  “Erin…” Orla moaned, hugging her stomach even tighter. A sudden rush of saliva filled her mouth.

  “Sounds like the definition of pig to me,” Katya said. She peered at Orla, apparently not noticing how pale she had gotten. “She even has chocolate still on her face. And shirt. And hands.”

  “That means nothing.” Erin said dismissively.

  “Erin…” Orla called out weakly again, but it still went unheard.

  “Oh really? So you are allowed to insult me and call me prostitute, but I cannot say a word about your pig of a cousin?” Katya said.

  “Stop calling her that!” Erin growled. “She’s not! You aren’t allowed to talk about my family that way, ESPECIALLY my little cousin!”

  “Erin!!” Orla wailed.

  “What?!” Erin whipped around to Orla.

And that’s when Orla threw up all over herself.

Naturally, the rest of the ride was driven in silence. Nobody really knew what else to say, so they all just stared forward as if one of them weren’t covered in her own vomit. They dealt with the smell by rolling down the windows and spoke nothing of it until Michelle parked outside the Quinn house.

  “Night,” Michelle muttered. Clare and James echoed her phrase as Erin got out of the passenger seat and Katya climbed over James to go out the other door. Orla almost crumpled right out of the car, but managed to catch herself. Vomit poured down her legs from where it had been congealing in her lap for the past seven minutes.

  “Erin,” She whimpered, staring teary-eyed at her cousin.

  “It’s okay, Orla,” Erin told her. “Just get it out.”

  “It really is not.” Katya said helpfully and Orla threw up again. Erin shot Katya a burning glare.

  “Will you shut the fuck up?” Erin snarled. She went to Orla’s side and held her hair out of the way, ignoring how her fingers grasped tightly onto bile and digested chocolate marshmallow-soaked locks. 

  “No, because you did not at party.” Katya said. “Why should I?”

  “Because my little cousin is SICK and you are just a BITCH, and so help me god I will STICK MY FIST so far up your ass that you will TASTE the coconut lotion I put on a few hours ago!!” Erin roared.

That was what got Erin’s family (and some old woman she vaguely recognized) to come storming out to see what the commotion was. And, boy, was it a sight. Michelle speeding off down the road before anything could be linked to her, a very pissed off Erin and Ukrainian, and Orla, who was covered in vomit.

  “What is going on here?!” Mary yelled.

  “I couldn’t handle it,” Orla gurgled, and then threw up again.

4.

The gang arrived at the bus stop with Orla clinging to Erin’s hand like it was her lifeline. Orla had an expression of discomfort and uneasy on her face and she kept leaning down to bury her face against Erin’s hair like she was trying to hide. Something was wrong.

  “What’s up, fuckers?” Michelle greeted them. She had a wide smirk, but her eyes kept glancing over at Orla with obvious worry.

  “Nothing much,” Erin replied. “Orla’s going nonverbal today.”

Clare and Michelle nodded knowingly, sympathy suddenly oozing into their gazes. James blinked, looking slightly confused.

  “But she’s usually nonverbal?” The Brit said, then got elbowed in the ribs by Michelle. “Ow!! I was just asking!”

  “Shut the fuck up,” Michelle hissed lowly. She looked at Orla. “Ignore him, doll. He’s being stupid.”

  “Yeah, he didn’t mean it,” Clare added.

Orla nodded slightly. She buried her nose against Erin’s blonde locks and kept it there until the bus pulled up. When they all crowded inside the vehicle, she would shudder in an awful way when someone’s arm would brush against her side or back. She seemed uncomfortable when someone other than her cousin would touch her.

Orla curled against Erin when they sat down, sandwiched securely against her older cousin and the window. Erin eased her to completely lay down in the seat, her head resting in her lap, brown curls sprawled out all over her thighs. Erin rubbed her back comfortingly, humming softly to help soothe her further.

  “Is she okay?” James asked quietly when Orla had fallen asleep. Even with all the bumps on the road, the young girl didn’t wake up. 

  “She will be,” Erin answered. “I think it’s a burnout. So she’s pretty tired.”

  “What caused it?” Michelle asked.

  “I don’t know. Maybe nothing at all.” Erin sighed and combed her fingers through Orla’s hair. “Don’t give her a hard time today, please?”

The other three nodded.

The group soon fell silent for the rest of the bus ride, either staring out the window or watching the semi-peaceful face of the youngest in the gang. Erin’s hand never stopped stroking Orla’s hair for the entirety of the trip to school, and when they finally arrived, she was hesitant to wake her cousin up.

  “Hey, Ors,” Erin shook Orla’s shoulder gently. “Time to wake up.”

Orla’s eyes fluttered open. They looked darker than usual, weighed down by exhaustion and emotional fatigue. She blinked slowly at Erin.

  “We’re at school, lovely,” Michelle said. “Unfortunately.”

Orla nodded and sat up. Erin helped her out of the bus, squeezing her hand comfortingly, while Michelle, Clare, and James followed like protective guard dogs. They all walked into the main hall for announcements, and Orla was instantly set off by the closed space.

  “I know, Orla, I know,” Erin murmured when Orla whimpered in distress. “It’s going to be okay. It won’t last long.”

Orla stepped closer to Erin, practically pressed against her, but Erin didn’t seem to mind. She was more than happy to wrap her free arm securely around her little cousin to help her feel more protected.

Announcements soon began. Sister Michael’s voice boomed loudly through the microphone, causing poor Orla even more discomfort. Orla whimpered again and released Erin’s hand to cover her ears.

  “E-Erin…” Orla croaked. Her voice was tight and pitched with anxiety.

  “Breathe, Orla.” Erin instructed. “Breathe. It’s okay. It’s almost over.”

  “N-no--” Orla gasped. “It’s too loud-- Erin, it’s too loud--” She crumpled to her knees, keening a strange kind of distress call, and rocked back and forth.

Girls started to turn and stare at the spectacle. Sister Michael stopped talking and pursed her lips with a mixed expression of annoyance, confusion, curiosity, and concern. Erin lunged down to Orla’s side and clasped her hands over Orla’s own to further help muffle the noise. Orla collapsed against her, sobbing into her chest. The poor thing was shaking so badly.

  “Shh, shh,” Erin murmured. “It’s okay, Orla. I’ve got you. I’ve got you. I’m right here.”

Orla released her ears and clung tightly to Erin with her nails dug in. She was gasping and wheezing like she was having a panic attack, and she may as well have been with her symptoms. She kept whimpering and whining in elongated cries that cut Erin’s heart into tiny pieces. Erin held her tighter.

  “Try to focus on my heartbeat,” Erin instructed, pressing Orla’s head to her chest. “Can you hear that, Orla? It’s my heart. Use that to ground yourself. You’re going to be just fine.”

  “God, Erin,” Someone scoffed from nearby. Erin recognized it as Tina o’Connell. “Can’t you tame your retard?”

Michelle, James, and Clare froze in shock. Orla whimpered. Erin looked up slowly with an expression of murder in her eyes.

  “Michelle. Take Orla.” Erin said, not breaking eye contact with Tina. When Michelle swooped in and brought Orla into her arms, she stood up and then began undressing. First, her scarf. Then, her blazer, tie, necklace, and ponytail. And then she threw herself at Tina in a flying tackle, screeching like an enraged banshee and swinging her fists in a whirlwind.

Pandemonium instantly broke out inside the room. Girls began to shout, a large crowd formed, nuns and teachers rushed over, and Erin and Tina fought violently on the floor like a pair of pissed off cats. James, Clare, and Michelle watched with wide eyes and gaping mouths.

  “Your cousin is kicking ASS.” Michelle whispered to Orla. She began to tenderly stroke her hair like Erin had been doing. “You’re definitely gonna be okay, Ors. We’ve got you.”

It wasn’t long before Sister Michael broke through the crowd and ripped Tina and Erin apart with ease. Both girls were scratched up and Tina had a busted lip, but luckily there wasn’t much damage done. Unluckily for Erin, though, because she had wanted to beat that little bitch into a bloody pulp.

  “She came after me for no reason!” Tina exclaimed once they were all dragged into Sister Michael’s office. 

  “No reason?!” Erin barked a harsh laugh. “She called my cousin a--!!” She glanced at Orla hanging onto her and then lowered her sharp tone of voice. She leaned in to Sister Michael. “She called my little cousin a retard. Was I supposed to just stand there and let her get away with that? While Orla was having a sensory overload? It isn’t her fault she reacted that way!”

Sister Michael looked at Orla, who hasn’t looked up from the floor since they entered. Both of her hands are grasping onto Erin’s arms and she had her face pressed against Erin’s neck like she was trying to hide. Tear stains were still glistening on her cheeks from when she had been crying.

  “Is this true?” Sister Michael asked Tina.

  “I--”

  “Is this true?” Sister Michael repeated firmly.

Tina hissed underneath her breath and then grumbled, “Yes, Sister.”

  “You should be ashamed of yourself.” Sister Michael said. “Such language will not be tolerated in my school.”

  “But she and her friends say stuff like that all the time!” Tina cried.

  “They have never said such a disgraceful, disgusting, hurtful slur before.” Sister Michael said. “They may be hooligans out to drive me mad, but they aren’t savages. They know better. Unlike you.” 

Tina sputtered, but wasn’t able to come up with a good reply. Erin had to bite the inside of her cheek to keep from grinning.

  “A week suspension should give you enough time to think about what you’ve done,” Sister Michael said. “Now, out with you. Wait in the hall while I call your mother.”

Tina opened and closed her mouth several times, but wasn’t able to come up with something to say, so she stormed out in anger. Sister Michael waited a moment and then looked at the cousins. When she spoke, her voice was strangely soft.

  “Is she alright?” She asked.

Erin glanced at Orla, who didn’t glance back at her. She lifted a hand and cupped the side of Orla’s head protectively.

  “She will be,” Erin said. “The noise set her off. But she wasn’t having a good day to begin with.”

  “I see,” Sister Michael nodded. “Is she okay to go back to class or would she like to sit down for a while longer to recover?”

Erin looked at Orla again, who didn’t seem to be in any shape to learn anything.

  “I think we’ll wait a moment longer.”

Sister Michael nodded and gestured for the couch in her office. Erin guided Orla over to it and they both sat down.

  “Oh, and girls,” Sister Michael said. “If Orla is ever feeling unwell again, stop by my office. It’s quiet in here. She can stay until she calms down.”

5.

When it came to her issues, Erin, believe it or not, was the most patient. Erin repeated over and over, made Orla look at her eyes or her mouth, asked Orla to repeat, to show her that she remembered.

It was strange. Erin was sometimes the one to lash out the most, although she had her reasons and they were very good ones.

A lioness waiting to pounce. That was what Erin reminded Orla of.

(Orla tried to get herself to stop comparing to animals, but that sort of failed because she was still doing it. As seen here.)

Regardless, Erin was smart in a way Orla wished she could be.

(She tried not to think about that. She tried not to think about people being better at things than she is. She knew how those thoughts caught like hooks in her fish-mouth brain and tug and tug and tug and tug until she broke the surface, struggling to breathe.)

Clare and Michelle are usually good. They love Orla enough to not snap at her when she loudly goes “Huh?” for the fifth time in a row. They dealt with her strange mannerisms and comments as if everyone acted like she did. They played along with her when her brain made her skin feel like it was too tight. Michelle let her mess with her hair and jewelry for hours and Clare simplified things that might have been too much to take in.

They’re good with that. Orla loved them so much.

(She loved them enough to let them be, to pull herself away, to shut herself away in herself as best she can when she finds-- when she realized she’s not--

When she saw the clench of Michelle’s jaw and the twitch of Clare’s nose and the way they glance at each other, and it’s never mean, it’s never intentional, it’s just…

Orla knows herself enough to know when she’s too much, and she loves them enough to spare them the discomfort of having to actually tell her she’s too much, to figure out how to explain that she’s overstepped, to put into words that they have limits.

People have limits. Orla tried not to push them. She does.)

James is still new, and he’s doing his best, he really is, but it’s the adults who are the least patient. Adults try, they always try. Orla liked that they tried. But adults get a pinch between their eyebrows after the third time they repeat an explanation, like they’re starting to wonder if Orla is just being a little shit. Adults are quick to get annoyed, or to fake annoyance, and sometimes Orla can’t tell the difference. Sometimes it feels like there is no difference.

Still, she dealt with it. She always did. Always oblivious, air headed, Orla who doesn’t know better, who doesn’t know what she’s saying, who doesn’t know how to act like a normal person.

She didn’t know where this was coming from or how to stop it. She couldn’t. It was impossible. Impossible to ignore it, impossible to block it out, impossible to disagree with the things it made her think about.

And she couldn’t take it, couldn’t take it, couldn’t take it--

Everything became too much. Orla was too overwhelmed. She felt like she was drowning, suffocating, burning.

She felt like she was dying.

Erin had had enough of all of this when she found Orla collapsed in her bedroom, keening in pain. She kept saying over and over again that the lights were too bright, distant noises were too loud, her clothes were too tight. She had somehow managed to claw open her shirt around the sleeves and stomach before she was in her current position. Curled up and biting herself.

Before Erin came rushing in, noises from outside in the house were all encompassing, rattling Orla’s skull, eardrums threatening to burst. She squeezed her eyes closed, covered her ears, rocked frantically with her head bent to her knees in an effort to block it all out. But no matter what she did, she can’t, and that’s it.

Tears sprang to her eyes, and she let out a loud, pained, keening noise as she cracked her head back hard against the wall behind her, digging it in firmly when she sank to the floor. She clawed at her shirt like fire ants were crawling all over her, desperately trying to get it off but it won’t, it won’t, it won’t. The material tears, eventually, but it doesn’t help.

Fuck.

Her head shook hard, side to side, side to side, repeat. She swore she can feel her brain trying to detach and fly out her nose. Her hands snapped to her scalp, pulling harshly on her hair and god-fucking-dammit, it’s still not enough. Her fingers left her hair with one last tug, loose strands of curly brown hair stuck between them, and balled into tight fists to strike down on the sides of her head. She pushed her feet firmly into the floor, thrashed and squirmed in the corner.

Nothing is enough nothing is enough why is this happening nothing is enough--

She slammed her feet down harder, dug the heels into the floor until her thighs ached. Then, she lifted one arm and clamped down hard and firm on her wrist with her teeth. Her other hand found her hair again, this time not tugging but holding it in a death grip and staying there.

She stayed like this, rocking and writhing and biting at her wrist with tears rolling down her cheeks, for what feels like forever. All she knew is she can still feel it- the lingering, bone-deep pain of the noises, eyes sore like she’s looked at the sun too long.

That’s when Erin rushed in. She had heard the commotion from downstairs.

The sight terrified Erin, to say the least. Watching her baby cousin spasm and sob and bite herself like a rabid dog made her blood run cold with fear. She snapped into action almost instantly, practically gaining wings due to her panic.

Orla didn’t register Erin as Erin. She didn’t even register her as a human being, just a presence she felt nearby. The touch she began to feel on her body, however, made her whimper in fright. First on her stomach, grazing lightly over scratches she knew she had carved in the flesh, then her head, where strands of hair had been pulled out, next her shoulder, over more angry red claw marks, and finally her wrist, with blood dripping down freckled skin. The hand was gentle with each prod, which was the only reason why Orla didn’t scream. She even relaxed into it a few times, almost cooing through her painful sobs.

But then fingers wrapped around her wrist and she bit down on them.

Erin hissed on pain, flinching backwards a little. She definitely hadn’t been expecting that.

   “Orla,” She said softly, despite the pain. “Orla, let go. Let go. It’s just me.” She felt like she was speaking to a dog rather than a human being.

Orla showed no sign of hearing her. Her eyes were glassy, blank, and glazed over, which terrified Erin even more. Her cousin looked more dead than alive at this point.

   “Orla,” Erin tried again. “Orla, babes, it’s me. It’s Erin. I need you to let go.”

Orla’s eyes flickered up a little for a moment before darting back down. Her entire body shuddered and she bit down harder for some kind of grounding. Erin had to grit her own teeth to keep from screaming as it felt like her fingers were about to detach from her hand.

   “Orla--”

She winced at the increasing pressure. The skin broke open and blood filled Orla’s mouth.

That’s what snapped her out of her trance.

The girl lurched backwards with enough force to make the wall rattle when her spine connected with it. Erin ripped her hand back and shook it in the air to try and ebb some of the pain. There were marks left on her fingers, scarlet at the center and purple all around them. She hissed, shaking her hand again.

Meanwhile, Orla looked to be completely out of it. Her head was lolling back and forth across the wall, Erin’s blood still wet on her lips. Her tongue instinctively flicked out and her entire face contorted into a grimace. She blinked once, twice, then saw the bruising already forming on her cousin’s hand.

Orla was guilty, to say the least. She would not stop apologizing for two days and couldn’t even look Erin in the eye out of shame for what she had done. Erin, however, constantly told her it wasn’t her fault and she wasn’t mad. But it didn’t make it better. Orla still felt horrible for hurting her cousin.

That’s all she seemed to do. Mess up. Because SHE was messed up.

+1

While at the market getting groceries, Erin noticed Orla staring at something. She shimmied over with the heavy cart and realized it was some kind of toy in the window of a store. 

  “Like that?” Erin asked with a light chuckle.

Orla nodded. “It looks so soft…” 

Erin laughed.

Orla didn’t ask for the toy, rather just kept glancing back at it as they walked away. Erin watched her, and then a lightbulb lit up in her head.

  “Mammy, I need some money.” Erin told her mother when she got home.

  “Absolutely not.” Mary said instantly. “You already almost went over today.”

  “No, it’s not--” Erin looked around, then whispered, “It’s not for me, Mammy.”

  “Oh, is Michelle having you buy alcohol, now?”

  “It’s for Orla.”

Mary faltered. “Orla?”

  “Yes.” Erin nodded. “She hasn’t been well lately. I know you’ve seen it. And when we were at the market, she kept looking at this thing in one of the stores. I wanted to get it for her because it might cheer her up and--”

Some money was placed in Erin’s hands. Erin blinked in shock that that worked and looked up at her mother. Mary smiled.

  “Go get Orla’s thing.” Mary said.

Erin lit up. “Thank you, Mammy!!”

An hour later, Erin returned home from the market, barely able to suppress her giddy grin.

  “Orla!” She called. “Orla, where are you?”

Orla peeked out from the kitchen and Erin hurried over with her hands behind her back. 

  “I have something for you,” Erin said excitedly. 

Orla tilted her head and Erin held out the ostrich beanie baby. Orla’s eyes went wide, mouth opening in a quiet gasp. She tentatively grabbed the stuffed animal and turned it over like she was trying to make sure it was real, then held it close to her chest. 

  “Like it?” Erin smiled.

Orla nodded rapidly. Erin laughed.

  “I’m glad! I hope it’ll help, Ors. I know you’ve been a bit unwell lately. I just wanted to get you something so you’ll know you aren’t a burden or something. Because you aren’t.”

Orla’s eyes glistened, and then she sprung forward and hugged Erin tightly.

Maybe she wasn’t so bad after all.

[rocket-remmy]

Taco ‘Bout It|| Morgan and Remmy

Don’t worry, Cece, they labeled the containers. 

It was a good thing Morgan came prepared. Deirdre’s brain offering, however dear it was to her in sentiment, was not preserved enough to keep Morgan’s mind from zeroing out into the vampire zone. But, she had picked up some pigs blood while on her grocery run and sipped it from her water glass as she fried the brains in one skillet and ground beef in another. Her vomit tupperware was also close at hand, but so far she’d only had a little dry heaving. The gray matter popped and sizzled like anxious hatchlings in her pan, too impatient to be somewhere, some thing else. Morgan added sriracha and stirred. She should be more excited about this. She should be brimming up with relief. Remmy was easy and uncomplicated to spend time with. Too earnest, too nice, too good to care about anything as long as it was meant well. But maybe that was just exactly the problem. 

Remmy was excited about today. Seeing Morgan was going to be a relief. She was nice and sweet and she cared about Remmy enough to cook them brains. And with what had happened with both Blanche-- though that was more of Remmy’s fault, and it still pained them to remember-- and Skylar, they could use a good, relaxing day. And trying something new was always fun! Remmy lifted their fist and knocked, pleasantly surprised by how much nice the house Morgan now shared with Cece was than the run down hotel room she’d been staying in. Maybe Morgan would be excited to hear Remmy had moved, too. Even if their reason wasn’t as nice. “Hi!” they said, giving a little wave when Morgan opened the door. “I brought um-- flowers. Sunflowers! And raspberry jam. I sort of….bought a lot recently and need people to give them to. I hope you don’t mind.”

Morgan wiped her blood stained lips and came to the door, summoning up a smile just as Remmy came into view. “Oh, Remmy!” She took up the flowers and jam. “This is so nice! Thank you. You know you didn’t have to do anything special, right?” She shifted the gifts and pulled her friend into a one armed hug. “Just you is good enough to bring. But, I bet these are going to look amazing in the place. Come on in and get cozy. I’m almost done with dinner.” She kicked the door gently shut behind them and went back to the kitchen, taking another big chug from her glass before turning her attention back to the pan.

Remmy leaned gratefully into the hug, realizing they hadn’t hugged anyone except Moose since the incident with Alain. No, since before that. Since they’d found out what they were. Morgan pulled away too soon, but they covered up their disappointment with a quick grin. “Um-- think of it as a housewarming gift, then!” They took their jacket off and hung it by the front door before following Morgan into the kitchen. “Wow, that smells-- really good. Which is saying something, because um-- you know,” they waved a hand at their face, “It’s not um-- weird, or anything, right?” Their eyes fell on the glass, bright red liquid decorated with flowers and frills. Must be tomato juice. Remmy had never understood why people liked drinking tomato juice.

“Oh, yeah? I guess there is something you can sense after all, it was just a matter of finding what speaks to your appetite,” Morgan said. “Oh, don’t come in here yet, I’m still working. Have to concentrate. I’ll come to you when it’s done!” And when she’d figured out what to do with her blood set up. That seemed like an exhausting thing to explain and she didn’t want anything else to worry about tonight. Remmy was here. Remmy was easy. And as soon as she finished dinner, maybe she could be easy too. “Why don’t you tell me about what’s going on with your girlfriend!” She called over her shoulder. 

“Oh, sorry!” Remmy said, immediately backing up and heading over to the living room. They sat at the table there and folded their hands into their lap, gazing around. Cece’s place was pretty nice, and they were sure Morgan must enjoy it here much more. It felt...homey. And safe. Remmy smiled, relaxing a bit more. “What-- we’re-- we’re not-- she’s not!” they stuttered out at the surprise question. “We haven’t even gone on the date yet! I, um-- I postponed it. Cause of uh, well…” they trailed off, “the whole being undead thing.”

Morgan flipped the brain bits over and promptly felt a twist in her stomach from her lad gulp of blood. Shit. She bent over the sink and heaved as quietly as possible into the tupperware. “What? Oh, but you’re still gonna go, right?” She called. “She really likes you, and I uh--sort of gave her the ‘don’t hurt my friend’ spiel.” Shivering, she turned back to the pan and flipped the brain pieces one last time. Charred on one side, damnit. Morgan turned off the heat and started assembling her handiwork. Red plate for Remmy, blue for herself, so no one got confused. She assembled the fixings the best she knew how, heaving a sigh of relief as the cumin floated up her nostrils. One last sip, to make sure she’d make it through dinner okay, and Morgan brought the plates over to the couch, too tired to think about the stain running down the side of her lip. “Here you go! You can say if it’s too burnt. I don’t have any more to cook, but I’ll know better for next time.” She curled up on the other side of the couch from Remmy and took a deep smell of the food. Her stomach wasn’t ready to take anything in yet, but when it did, she was sure it would almost taste like home.

Remmy heard a weird noise under all the crackling of the frying pans, but didn’t think too much of it. “Oh, um-- I-I dunno. I still need to...figure things out, about myself, a-and how I feel. But-- we’re meeting to talk! Because I sort of...blew up on her. But we’re okay now! Um...mostly.” They stopped, listening as Morgan turned off the stove and started plating the tacos. “Um, thanks again for doing this for me. I, um-- everything is still a little strange. And new.” They paused as Morgan finally came out of the kitchen, looking up at her and-- freezing. That wasn’t tomato juice. Tomato juice was usually orange, wasn’t it? Or orangeish. Remmy didn’t know how they knew, but they knew. That wasn’t tomato juice. “Umm...Morgan?” they asked, staring wide eyed at her. “Wha-- what are you drinking?”

“Oh, I didn’t realize,” Morgan said. “How long ago was this? When we talked the other night she didn’t let anything on. But it wasn’t anything long, just like, online.” She breathed the food in again. It seemed alright, but maybe it was time to chug some peptol instead-- “What?” She asked. What do you--oh!” Suddenly her mouth was the only thing Morgan felt aware of. Her plate clattered down on the coffee table as she got up and ran for her blood towel (this fucking town, turning her into someone with a blood towel) and wiping herself off before rinsing her mouth nearly straight from the faucet. Shit. “It’s nothing!” She called. “I’m fine, really. Just a weird...thing, that’s going on. Sorry.”

Remmy couldn’t help but follow Morgan as she raced into the kitchen, both worry and confusion wrought inside of them. “Morgan, what’s going on?” they asked, scuttling into the kitchen. Noticed the glass full of, well-- if not tomato juice, then-- noticed her rinsing her mouth in the sink. Noticed the tupperware in the sink. “Morgan, are you--!” They started. Stopped. None of this made sense. “Why are you drinking blood!? Why are you acting weird about it! What’s going on?” they said, bewildered. Was this just another person not telling them something? Another person hiding something important? Remmy stepped back. “Are you a vampire?? Or a-- like me?”

Morgan didn’t want to be doing this right now. Between Skylar and Deirdre and getting set back a week from her ghost summoning and her students who were too scared to learn anything new and still, still, being half frozen inside, she was not ready to explain to one more person how she’d screwed herself over and sucked other people into her screwy orbit. She didn’t have the energy to be chipper or self-deprecating about it. She wanted one thing to be right and uncomplicated. “I don’t mean to freak you out,” she sighed. “I am sorry, Remmy. Okay? Can we go back to the couch? Keep eating?” She looked at her friend, and saw her own pleading face reflected back in their expression. “It’s a long, stupid story, a story with a stupid magic TICK in it, but am not anyone or anything other than what I’ve said I am. I can absolutely promise you that.” She began to fix herself a fresh glass of water. Held it over her chest, soothing herself with the weight of it as she breathed slowly. “It’s--call it a temporary allergy! I only flared up because I was making you dinner! Okay?”

Remmy felt a little pang. Another pang. They wanted it to be a nice night, too. That’s what it was supposed to be, just a nice night. “I--” they started, then stopped. They what? Wanted to help? Wanted to know what was going on? They’re help only got people hurt or upset. They stopped talking. “I’m not freaked out. I was just worried, I guess.” They looked from morgan to the table, then back again. “Magical tick? I-- you know, never mind. If you don’t wanna tell me, fine,” they said, slinking back over to the table. “I get it. Okay? You’re going through some shit, I get it.” The tacos looked yummy, but suddenly, they weren’t hungry. They flopped into the chair. “Temporary allergy or whatever, are you okay?” 

Morgan put her face in her hands. She wanted to scream. Remmy didn’t even believe her, and, fuck, why should they? Magic tick? Out of nowhere? Seriously? She shuffled after them, her stomach heavy and ruined with a whole new feeling, and flopped down on the couch. “I screwed up, Remmy, okay?” She said quietly. “That’s basically all there is to it. I tried to do something to fix...myself, and the magic ticks from online were alive instead of dead, and somehow this has managed to backfired on me AND other people.” She looked at Remmy sidelong. They weren’t eating. Was she already messing up with them too?

Remmy tilted their head, blinked in surprise. “Fix yourself?” They moved slightly. “What...what do you mean fix yourself? Is something wrong? Are you okay? Are you hurt or sick? Or wait-- do you mean the cold thing? Cause people are working on that! They are! I-I swear. I know it’s hard, being cold all the time, but it’s gonna be okay! But you gotta tell me about these magic ticks. That’s a new one. What did you need ticks for? Why would they make you drink blood or stuff? I’m sorry. I just wanted to help.” 

Morgan pressed her hand to her face again. She was explaining this so badly, and Remmy was somehow over the part where they were left out of this news and offering to help. How did she tell them she was beyond their brand of help? That she was in ‘try to summon ghosts in front of a practical teenager’ territory? Were they next? She couldn’t think of what she could do to screw up their life too, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t possible. Morgan drew her knees up to her chest and shook her head. “It’s not that. That is the least of my problems, honestly. Can you just tell me about you? Tell me all the stuff I missed while I was--” being insensitive. “Being kind of a jerk when you were figuring this zombie thing out?”

“What? No!” Remmy protested. “Morgan, we have to talk about you! You’re going through something big and I-- you didn’t tell me, but I’m here now and you can tell me now! Please tell me now? I just want to help.” Why wouldn’t anyone let Remmy help? Why was everything they’d found slipping through their fingers already? “Why didn’t you tell me before? I coulda helped.” They didn’t want to think about what they were going through. They’d done enough thinking about that. They’d already decided to put it away. It was in a neat little box in their head and they didn’t want to unwrap it and everything that came with it. “Please just tell me.”

“Tell you what!” Morgan snapped. “That I am a walking time bomb of a curse? That I sliced some kid’s arm open in this room because the magic tick I wanted for a spell made me lose my shit at the sight of my own blood? Or that you helping is only going to make your life worse?” She trembled as the last words came out. It had all just sort of...happened. She hadn’t let herself stop for very long to process anything and now it was just coming out all over Remmy, on their dinner that was supposed to smooth things over! Why was she like this? “I’m sorry,” she whispered quickly. “I didn’t mean, I mean, it’s all true, but not like how I said it. Um…” Shit. 

Remmy flinched back when Morgan started yelling. Curse? Cutting someone? Spells gone wrong? They paused, waited for Morgan to peter out. “What curse are you talking about?” they asked quietly after a moment. “What do you mean...I don’t understand.” They’d come back to the cutting and the blood ticks and the weird spell that needed said blood ticks. For now, they could concentrate on one thing. “How is...how is helping going to make it worse?"

“Because I am trouble, Remmy. I am literal walking, magic trouble!” Morgan said. “And maybe it won’t happen for a few more months, but you will get sucked into it if you do not start to get away from me!” Morgan’s body was hot all over with fear. Remmy was too good for their own good, too sad and new and good to be strung along, especially while not knowing what they were in for. God, how had she not owned up to what they were in for until just now? 

“What?” Remmy said, bewildered. “I-- I don’t…” the blinked, confused. “I’m not going to leave you, Morgan. I can’t-- I can’t lose anymore friends. So who cares if you’re trouble! O-or in trouble. I’ll help you! I can help you!” They said, leaning a bit forward, not wanting to spook Morgan, but wishing they could go over and hug her or let her know it’s okay somehow. “I’m not leaving. I’m not...going to get away from you. Whatever this curse is, isn’t that what friends do? Stick around even for the bad?”

“Not when the bad wants to eat you for more trauma fodder,” Morgan said. “When my magic bullshit wants to destroy whatever is too close to me, and you are so fucking nice it’s almost terrifying--no. That is the actual recipe for no. And why would you want that in the first place, Remmy? No one wants that! Nothing is worth that! What if you died--or--I don’t know, what if Moose died! Or---” She flailed desperately into space. Remmy didn’t have a lot to lose either. What had she been thinking? Morgan deflated down into the couch cushions.

“You’re worth it, Morgan!” Remmy nearly shouted. They stood up and made their way over to her now, still uncertain how to proceed, but knowing that they needed to just get it. They’d already lost Blanche and now probably Skylar-- it was happening all over again. They couldn’t do it. They couldn’t lose Morgan, too. “You’re worth it,” they said, sinking to the floor in front of her, in hopes that she would look at them and see the earnest-- the desperation-- in their eyes.

Morgan was tired. She knew the right thing was to lighten her White Crest baggage as much as possible, to stay focused and lay low and make this end before fall or winter had the next chance to crawl near her, but she was so tired, and Remmy was hurt enough already. She shut her eyes and forced her breaths to turn even, in for five, hold for three, out for five. Five, three, five. She kept count with her fingers on her shoulder. She should probably tell Remmy she made her crystals out of beach junk. That she’d given the waitress at Al’s a concussion. That she didn’t know how to thread the needle between being cautious and tearing apart the ether to break out of her mess. “Okay,” she mouthed. “Okay, Remmy.” she beckoned them to come back up. 

Remmy waited patiently for Morgan, tacos long forgotten. They noticed the fingers tapping on her shoulder-- a similar technique to what one of the doctor’s had taught Remmy for when they started having panic attacks. When she finally relented, Remmy crawled onto the couch and wrapped their arms around her. “I’m sorry,” they muttered, “whatever’s going on...I’m sorry. But I’m not gonna leave because of some stupid curse.” They let out a long breath. They weren’t going to lose someone else, not tonight. “You can’t get rid of me that easily.”

For a moment Morgan tensed in Remmy’s arms, continued tapping, breathing. She didn’t have anyone to do this for her. She kept herself alone, or excused herself to go hide, but even if she didn’t know what to do with the cold weight around her back, she couldn’t deny how it eased the pain in her shoulders or how it gave her something sturdy to brace herself on. As Morgan continued to breathe, she could see the whole trail of losses that she carried behind her, so many invisible holes pulling on her. She could see a whole blank space of god only knew what ahead, opaque as the black under her eyes. She remembered what Deirdre had said: You can rest, can’t you? Just for a moment. Was this the moment? She felt something rise up in her, something begging to breathe, and opened her eyes long enough for one tear to roll out, and to shift herself so she was gripping Remmy’s arm instead. “I’m sorry I freaked out,” she said.

“What? No,” Remmy shook their head, giving a tiny sigh of relief when Morgan gripped their arm. “Don’t apologize. It-- it’s fine. Really.” They laid their head against hers when they felt her relax a little more. “It’s...it’s okay to cry. We can just sit here. We don’t have to talk.” Quiet another moment, before-- “Whenever I would get um...really sad, I would sit on my bed and tell myself stories about...happier times. It didn’t always work, but...I can do that for you, if you want.”

“I’m not crying,” Morgan scoffed, blinking back the tears at the edge of her lids. But she stayed close to Remmy and held on tight until her chest could keep a steady pace on its own. “I don’t know if I can handle hearing about happy times,” she admitted. “Can you reach the TV remote without letting go? I um...I normally watch something dramatic and trashy, when I’m...tired and on edge like this. Do you like TV, Remmy?” 

Remmy couldn’t help but feel a little saddened for Morgan. “I didn’t say you were...I said you could, but…” they glanced away, giving her a moment to gather herself, “okay. We can watch something.” Remmy leaned forward and grabbed the TV remote, leaning back, “whatever you want. I don’t know much TV so it’s your pick.” Held the remote out to her. And maybe it wasn’t the best resolution to the night, but it was a start. And Remmy still had a friend. That had to count for something.

[kitsunebi-uk]

All That We See or Seem outtakes #3: The original first kiss

Another example of me trying to run parallel to canon and feeling like it didn’t really work. I think this romantic evening they have makes for a pleasant read, but it’s lacking the emotional punch I wanted. When I was writing it, and again in the edit, the kiss felt flat, sort of anticlimactic, for me. I decided I liked their kiss the next day in the office better. And THEN I decided I liked it so much better that it ought to be the first kiss! Was this whole ‘date’ scene actually needed in the fic? No. Though to be honest, I kind of miss the mention of the transparent hovercraft over the bay at night :)

(Read the text under the break)

(Read the story on AO3 here)

Even though there was a T station at the airport, and Victor could be back at his apartment in two quick train journeys, Yuuri said he would meet him when his flight came in. He lived so close to the airport himself that it was only a short walk away; fortunately, over the years the noise and pollution from commercial planes had lessened to the point where this wasn’t the annoyance it used to be. Besides, after everything that had happened, he just wanted to see Victor.

           Yuuri waited within a small crowd of people outside of customs. It always felt strange doing this, as if they were an audience waiting for entertainers to appear onstage. Weary passengers pushing trolleys emerged in a trickle – and then there was Victor, in black slacks and a dark blue T-shirt, a plain black jacket slung over his arm, and his travel bag over his shoulder. He’d obviously packed lightly. When he spotted Yuuri, the fatigued look on his face melted away, and he beamed and strode forward.

           Yuuri hadn’t been prepared for the way his heart suddenly leaped and began thrumming. He reached out, once Victor was close enough, and enveloped him in a hug; and Victor quietly did the same. There was the hint again of cloves from what must have been his aftershave, and sweat, and Victor, that Yuuri had noticed when they’d stood together on the mountain. He breathed in and then sighed against Victor’s neck, feeling the heat of their bodies through their thin shirts.

           I love you.

           Oh…wow.

           It was completely, undeniably true, he knew. And both frightening and intoxicating.

           He wished the moment could last forever, but eventually they pulled apart. Victor’s cheeks were pink and his eyes bright.

           “Good flight?” Yuuri said, for lack of anything better. His brain seemed to have stopped functioning. With a quick check, he was relieved to find that his chip was OK at least.

           “We made good time after the delay. Well, I’m sure you realized. Thanks for coming, Yuuri. You…you didn’t need to.”

           Yuuri started walking, and Victor fell in alongside. “I just thought…after what happened, you know…it’d be nice to say hi. I’m glad Makkachin’s better.”

           “Me too,” Victor said with a little smile. “I made my dad promise to keep chocolates well out of reach from now on. After all this time, he didn’t know Makka could open the cupboard.”

           “Dogs will get into anything.”

           They fell silent; and when they arrived at the stairs that led down to the T station, Victor paused and looked at Yuuri. “I haven’t had a good meal for hours. There’s not much food in my apartment either, unless I want yogurt or a packet of cheese for dinner. I’m tired, but I’m hungrier. Would you like to join me somewhere?”

           “You want to go out to eat?”

           “Sure. And you went to all the effort just to come here and see me for a few minutes, so – ”

           “It wasn’t any effort. I got home from work a while ago and walked over.”

           “How about steak? That’s paleolithic, isn’t it?”

           “About as paleolithic as it gets,” Yuuri laughed. “And I love it. I haven’t eaten yet, either. Um…Joe’s is really good, downtown on the harbor.”

           “Sounds very American. Perfect. I could just do with getting back to my apartment and showering and changing, so why don’t I meet you there at…eight o’clock?”

           Yuuri grinned and nodded. “OK. I’ll get us a table and meet you inside.”

***

What do I do? What do I wear? How do I behave? Christ.

           Yuuri’s head was still in a whirl. He told himself that nothing had changed with Victor, apart from his awareness of the depth of his own feelings – despite what he’d promised himself about standing back and admiring. Well, he was still doing that, wasn’t he? Just admiring very much.

           And not exactly standing back, either. That was twice now that they had embraced. And when they did, in the warm stillness of the moment, he found himself wanting so much more.

           This never ended up how I was hoping it would when I was attracted to someone before. It was humiliating. But things were different now…weren’t they? He was different. Even so, he really had no clue how to negotiate these waters. They could drown him so easily.

           This is Victor. My best friend. My research partner. Not some random guy I’ve hit on. Get a grip.

           So, what to wear to Joe’s? Jeans – too casual. Work clothes – out of place. He decided on dark brown woolen pants, a red-and-black plaid shirt with the sleeves rolled up, and brown loafers; then laid them out on his bed, had a quick shower, and put them on. The shirt was a little on the hot side right now, but according to the Friday, the temperature was already dropping outside as the sun dipped toward the horizon.

           He took the T downtown and arrived in plenty of time, having called beforehand to book a table. The interior of the restaurant was on the dim side, the walls paneled with dark wood, the seats upholstered in brown vinyl. Soft white light played from little lamps with shades ensconced along the walls, and sitting on every table. They’d given Yuuri a booth, and he slid in, plucking a menu from its stand but only giving it a cursory glance, having been here before and knowing more or less what he wanted. He didn’t usually wait this late to eat dinner, and his body was starting to protest at the fast, though at the same time the butterflies inside of him strove to chase all vestiges of appetite away.

           It’s just Victor. That’s all. If I can’t handle this now, how are we going to carry on researching together? Get a grip.

           He was beginning to think he was a poor source of rather repetitive advice. After all, he wouldn’t say such things to anybody else, and they never helped anyway.

           Passing the time by browsing scientific news sites on his chip, he looked up not long afterward to discover Victor had appeared and was slotting into the booth across from him, carrying a dark jacket which he tucked in the corner. Despite the circles under his eyes, he looked pleased to be there, and gave Yuuri a little smile.

           “If the aroma in here is anything to go by, this is going to be a fantastic meal,” he said.

           “It always is.” Yuuri watched Victor’s head droop while he read the menu. “Sure you’re up to this? You look like you could do with a good long sleep.”

           “I won’t sleep on an empty stomach. Let’s see…hm.”

           Yuuri couldn’t help but look. The gentle light setting Victor’s soft pale hair aglow. His pink lips, pressed together as he tried to make a decision. He was wearing a black cotton long-sleeved shirt with the first several buttons undone, exposing a gorgeous expanse of white throat, smooth and curved and muscular. Yuuri wondered what it would be like to kiss and taste it.

           Jesus, what’s wrong with me? I’m not a vampire. Get a –

           “Steak, baked potato and a salad – that’s what people usually order in these places, isn’t it?” Victor said brightly, putting the menu down.

           “Haven’t you been to steak houses in New York?”

           “Not very often. I’m used to getting ready meals and freezing them, or getting pizza delivered at work, that kind of thing. It’s only since I’ve been here with you that I’ve tried so many amazing new foods. Though the ones you cook yourself are the best.”

           “Flatterer,” Yuuri chuckled. He’d cooked them a grand total of one meal. Putting his own menu away, he interfaced with the screen on the wall next to him via his chip and selected his order. Steak, rare, au jus, with sweet-potato fries and a salad.

           When the food arrived, Victor laughed and commented that if Yuuri’s steak was any rarer, it would get up off his plate and walk away; then they ate in easy silence punctuated by small talk. Yuuri was curious to hear more about Russia. Victor’s father’s workshop sounded fascinating. And St. Petersburg must be beautiful this time of year. He wondered if he would ever be there to see it himself.

           After dinner, Victor asked Yuuri if he would like to take a walk along the harbor. Yuuri had refrained from suggesting anything else himself, knowing how tired Victor was, but he was happy to accede. He hadn’t brought a jacket, his shirt keeping him warm enough for a summer evening, though Victor was wearing his black jacket again with the embroidered gold dragon, which glinted under the street lights. They were on a gray-bricked path with tall old trees to the left and the water to the right, bordered only by decorative short iron posts linked to each other with a chain. The city lights glimmered yellow, orange, red and white as the breeze rippled gentle waves.

           “Is this good enough to get you to stay and finish the research with me?” Yuuri asked. “I know it’s not New York City, but…”

           Victor’s brow wrinkled as he looked at him. “I never intended to do anything else.”

           “It’s just that…well, we haven’t talked about what happened on Tuesday. How I almost fucked up the presentation, and went and called you when you were halfway across the world, worried about Makkachin. I thought…” He shrugged. “I don’t know, that it might put you off.”

           Victor huffed in surprise and was poised to reply when he spotted something a little distance down the path. “Yuuri, look – a hovercraft.” His eyes sparkled. “Let’s go for a ride.”

           “What?” Yuuri said, taken aback. “Um, well I guess the view would be pretty from up there, but I wouldn’t know. Those things are expensive to go on.”

           “It’ll be fun. I’ll pay.”

           “I don’t – ”

           “Come on, Yuuri,” Victor said with a smile, taking his hand and then starting to run. Laughing, Yuuri dashed behind him, still holding his hand. Yuuri had never been on a hovercraft before, and discovered it was completely chip-controlled. There was a sign with instructions; Victor paid for twenty minutes, and they both climbed through a hatch into the vehicle, which at the moment was transparent, though Yuuri knew it could tint to whatever opacity you required, like office windows. It was saucer-shaped with a dome, reminiscent of a water ride at an amusement park, made to seat perhaps six people around its circumference, though no one else was around to join them. The hatch closed, and the hovercraft lifted vertically out of the water with a quiet humming noise. Yuuri could see through the seats, through the floor, and all around, almost as if they were floating, surrounded by nothing but empty air.

           “Wow,” he enthused, squirming around to take in the whole of the view. “Where is this thing taking us?”

           “I picked a route that goes a little distance over the harbor and back,” Victor answered, tilting his head up and looking at the sky, then at the buildings and twinkling lights and shimmering waters they’d quickly left behind at what Yuuri reckoned must be about half a kilometer below, just higher than the tallest building.

           They sat next to each other, quiet for the most part as they briefly flew further out to sea, over several islands, and then back the way they had come. Yuuri decided he had rarely experienced anything so peaceful; though his proximity to Victor was making it impossible to completely relax. His pulse was racing again. The only light in the hovercraft was what entered from the city lights, limning them both in silver shadows, though their faces caught the warm glow of the lights as they drifted at a leisurely pace back to the harbor and the pier.

           “Yuuri…” Victor said, looking at him earnestly, “about what you were saying before…How could you think I’d be put off by a phone call?”

           Yuuri blinked. “Um, well it felt like I was intruding. I didn’t want to – ”

           “How could you ever think that?”

           Yuuri paused again, unsure of what to say, surprised at the feeling in Victor’s words. “I told you I was going to do the presentation by myself. That I was confident and prepared. But I got anxious, and then my chip blew – ”

           “That wasn’t your fault.”

           It kind of was. “Still…I just wanted to do better. It felt like I was letting you down.”

           Victor shook his head slightly, looking as if he couldn’t believe what Yuuri was saying. “Then you might be surprised to hear that I didn’t feel that way at all. Not for a moment.” He smiled, and Yuuri couldn’t look away from those eyes, so blue even in the shadows. “I was surprised when you volunteered to do the presentation on your own in the first place, because you’ve said how much it bothers you. And then, even when you were so upset on Tuesday, and your chip and tablet were both damaged…I wanted to help, Yuuri, I really did. But in the end I thought the best solution might be to cancel the presentation. There wouldn’t have been any harm done. You found the strength somewhere inside of you to do it, though.” His eyes were shining, and he added quietly, “It must have been good, too. Doctor Zhou called me and told me how impressed he was with our research, and how much he enjoyed attending the presentation.” At Yuuri’s gasp of surprise, his smile grew wider. “I think you did better than a lot of people would in that situation, Yuuri.”

           Yuuri just huffed in amazement, then returned his smile. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the pier approaching; the ride was almost at an end. He tilted his head to watch; and when he turned it back to look at Victor, a jolt of shock raced through him as he was quickly and tightly embraced. He barely had time to notice how Victor closed his eyes and parted his lips before Yuuri felt them pressing firmly against his own. Instinctively he wrapped his arms around Victor, though his eyes remained wide open in stunned silence; and then the moment passed, the hovercraft splashed lightly into the water, and Victor drew back so that their gazes met.

           “That was the only way I could think of to show you how much you impressed me,” he murmured.

           It took Yuuri a moment to find his voice. They still had their arms around each other. “Really?” he said quietly.

           A polite knock on the hatch of the hovercraft brought Yuuri’s attention to the fact that other people were waiting for them to untangle so that they could have a ride. He and Victor both gave a soft laugh and stood up, the hatch opening for them.

           “Your bag?” Victor said, holding it up as Yuuri began to step out.

           “Oh…yeah. Thanks,” he said with a sheepish grin, taking it and shrugging the strap over his shoulder. Victor hadn’t been carrying anything, but Yuuri had a habit of taking certain possessions with him wherever he went.

           They stood and faced each other, Yuuri fingering the strap, struggling to form a coherent thought or decide what he should do. Fortunately, Victor seemed to sense his confusion.

           “I’d better get back to my apartment; I can barely keep my eyes open.” He laughed softly. “But I’ll be at MIT in the morning. I wish I didn’t have to go to New York this weekend, but well, two weekends in a row…”

           “I understand,” Yuuri said, though he didn’t, because he didn’t know what Victor did there. “Thank you,” he said fervently, grasping for words.

           “Walk with me to the T station?”

           Yuuri nodded, and they strode next to each other over the short distance. When they arrived, they each needed to board from separate platforms.

           Victor’s hand gripped Yuuri’s briefly, giving it a squeeze. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Yuuri.”

           “Good night, Victor.” Their eyes held for a moment longer while they exchanged grins, and then they parted.

           There was a train already waiting on Yuuri’s platform, but he let it go, feeling dizzy.

           He kissed me.

           Victor Nikiforov kissed me.

           Suddenly he rummaged in his carryall and pulled out the biochem monitor, switching it on and waiting for it to take a reading. Adrenaline, dopamine, serotonin, testosterone, endorphins, all high. Pulse rate 46.8% above average.

His heart gave a leap, and he laughed and did a little twirl.

***

Yuuri had a class to teach the next day, but for once his mind wasn’t on it as he jogged to work. By the time he was downtown, he realized he didn’t even remember crossing the bridge over the harbor to get there.

           The fact that Victor had kissed him put paid to his fears that Victor did not want a romantic relationship with him. That in itself had kept Yuuri in a drunken stew of endorphins and happy hormones since the previous night. It felt like his feet were hardly touching the ground as he flew over the sidewalk.

           When he thought back on what had happened afterward, however, he suspected he hadn’t made his feelings very clear. He’d been too surprised to do anything decisive at the time, and then almost before he knew it they’d said goodbye at the station. Had Victor been wondering all this time whether he’d made a mistake; that Yuuri hadn’t liked what he’d done? He had to show him that wasn’t the case at all.

           He felt a conflict inside of him, however – because of course I can’t let anything good happen to me without trying to make a mess of it, he thought to himself – in the sense that part of him had been longing to be in this situation, while the other part was worried that it would be Victor who’d decide he had made a mistake, when he found out how anxious and inexperienced Yuuri really was. He’d never been in a romantic relationship and knew he would be questioning everything he did. It might even feel like that first day in Boston with Victor all over again, wondering if he was doing and saying the right things; telling himself Victor was out of his league.

           Fucking hell. I am my own worst enemy.

           Victor had initiated this. Yuuri was going to continue it, and he was going to be brave enough to face the uncertainties, taking each one as it came. As long as Victor was willing to be patient with him. Uncertainties could be unsettling…but not impossible to negotiate. Every day was full of them, after all.

           As he passed through the front door of Building 46 and into the atrium, however, there was a sick flutter in his stomach. How did one go about kissing someone – making that moment happen, rather than waiting for some perfect romantic opportunity? Without it being awkward or embarrassing? A smooth operator would know just how to touch, and what to say, in the right tone of voice. But if Yuuri had known how to do any of those things, he might have tried kissing Victor himself long before now.

           What if Victor was sitting at his desk when Yuuri walked in? Should he walk over there, bend down, and kiss him? No. Too weird. He needed him standing. So while he waited for him to stand, should he just say he really liked the kiss last night, and put him at his ease? No, that wouldn’t work at all.

           Shit. Shit, shit, shit.

           Well he winged his presentation, didn’t he? He could wing this. He could.

           His hand was shaking when the Friday clicked the office door and he pulled it open.

           No Victor.

           He took a deep breath, draped his suit coat over his chair, and went to make himself a cup of tea. He ought to be thinking about the work they were planning in the lab for that day, anyway. That would be the professional thing to do.

           The water was boiled, and he’d just dropped a peppermint teabag into his mug, when he heard the door open and close behind him. He swallowed as a wave of trepidation swept through him. Could it be Phichit? No, he’d bound straight over to his desk and say a cheerful hello. This person was quiet, more deliberating, as they hung their coat on the hook and paced softly across the room. Victor.

           Yuuri smelled his aftershave before he actually saw him. Then he was standing next to him at the little counter, wearing a plain white button-down shirt like Yuuri’s. “Good morning,” came his gentle voice. “I don’t suppose I could have a cup of coffee? My body doesn’t know whether it’s in Boston or St. Petersburg, which means it probably thinks it’s somewhere in the middle, like Iceland.”

           “Sure.” Yuuri poured water into the machine. Victor placed a palm on the counter, centimeters away from Yuuri’s hand. He was standing very close. Yuuri could hear his breaths.

           “How are you?” Victor asked him. Those eyes were on him; he could feel it.

           “I…I’m good,” he said, his voice hitching.

           “Yuuri – ”

           “Victor,” Yuuri whispered, turning and gripping his shoulder, quickly eliminating the remaining space between them as he tilted his head up and captured his lips. They were soft and pliant, unlike the quick hard kiss of the night before. Then Victor was wrapping his arms around him, one hand moving up and down his back in a slow caress. Yuuri wasn’t sure if he was trying to do the right things with his mouth, dredging up memories of brief half-drunk fumbles in bars, but he followed Victor’s lead, feeling like he could float away while at the same time a delicious warmth radiated through his body. He stroked Victor’s cheek with his palm, then with the outside of his fingers. There was a small puff of air on his skin as Victor breathed out through his nose. Then he caught Yuuri’s upper lip, lingering briefly before pulling back.

           “I wonder what your biochem monitor would be showing right now,” he said with a little laugh.

           “I’m going to find out. Seriously. Just, um, wait here a minute.” Yuuri dashed over to his carryall on the floor next to his desk, found the monitor, and brought it back over to the counter, where Victor was giving him an indulgent smile. His cheeks were the most beautiful rosy pink.      

           “Well?” Victor asked with a raised eyebrow.

           Yuuri laughed as he looked at the readout. “Heart rate 32.6% above baseline. The rest…” He lowered his voice, raising his eyes back to Victor’s. “…thoroughly indecent.”

           “Hm. Let’s see if we can’t improve that,” he said, tilting Yuuri’s chin up delicately with the tips of his fingers. Yuuri was practically quivering with anticipation. He put the monitor down on the counter, forgotten, as Victor’s lips found his own, light and teasingly exploratory at first, then more insistent. Yuuri edged closer, until he could feel the hard muscle and bone under Victor’s shirt, and then they were embracing again. Yuuri reached up to trail his fingers through the fine silky strands at the back of Victor’s head – how he’d ached to do this, for so long. Victor swiped Yuuri’s lower lip gently with the tip of his tongue, and Yuuri instinctively deepened the kiss to give him access.

           This was so, so different from Dominic and his tonsil hockey at the club. It was…melting, drowning in red heat. He felt a moan escape his throat, and heard a similar noise in response from Victor. Where were they? He couldn’t even remember.

           The snicking sound of the door opening caused them both to start and then jerk back. Yuuri just stood there looking stupidly at Victor as Phichit entered the office and headed to his desk. He smiled knowingly over at them both.

           “I’m not, um, interrupting anything, am I?”

           They both said a hasty “no” at the same time, Yuuri picking up the biochem monitor and going to sit down in his chair, while Victor poured himself some coffee.

           “I just came in to get a couple of things from the drawer here,” Phichit said, opening it and grabbing some metal components.

           “Don’t leave on my account,” Victor said politely. “If you need to use your desk – ”

           “No, it’s fine.” Phichit gave them each another smile, waggling his eyebrows at Yuuri while he had his back turned to Victor. “I’ll let you two get back to what you were doing.” Then he disappeared out the door.

           Yuuri took another reading from the biochem monitor. “Heart rate 47.7% above baseline,” he said, huffing a laugh.

           “I bet mine’s higher,” Victor said in a low voice, giving him a hooded gaze. He put Yuuri’s mug of tea on the corner of his desk for him, then sat down with his cup of coffee. “We could aim to keep breaking our records.”

           Yuuri let out a breath, feeling a flush of heat to his face, and Victor chuckled.

           “But we do have a lot of work to do, too.”

           “Yeah,” Yuuri agreed with a sigh. Though god knows how I’m ever going to be able to concentrate on it.

[fraink5-writes]

Human Qualification- Chapter 15

January 1

New year; new angst.

Happy (belated) birthday, Rika ( @leio13 )! I hope the second part of this fic counts as a sufficient gift!

Of course, I’d like to thank @missmizpah @gracieuxetoile and @deathly-oreos for reading this over!

Summary: To slowly lose all your functions until you are nothing but a trapped mind in a deteriorated shell, that’s what it means to be ‘No Longer Human.’

This chapter can also be found on Ao3 here. Without further ado, please enjoy!

“Good morning, Dazai, and Happy New Year.”

“...Morning?” Dazai was aware that his reply was incomprehensible. He could have groaned and made the same sound. But, his mind was still groggy, so he let the unintelligible murmur slide.

“Yeah, you slept through the bells.” Chuuya was busying around the room, fully dressed up. “Sorry. You looked so tired I let you sleep.”

“It’s just some bells. It’s fine.” Dazai was too distracted by Chuuya’s clothes. “...Are you going somewhere?” On New Year’s?

“Yeah, I was going to visit the shrine. Do you want to come?”

“Do I have to?”

“No, I guess not. No one is going to force you. But you did miss the bells.”

“Then I’m going to sleep.” As if supporting his words, a yawn forced its way from Dazai’s lips. “I don’t believe in such superstitions, in any case.”

Chuuya raised an eyebrow. “Do you want me to pray for you, anyway?”

“Sure. Please ask for a beautiful woman with whom I can commit double suicide.”

Chuuya pushed Dazai’s forehead. “Who the fuck am I?!”

“I don’t want you to die, Chuuya.” Dazai grinned sweetly, a hint of malice glimmering in his teeth.

“How thoughtful of you.” The irritated hand on Dazai’s head lightened its grip. “Get some rest, okay?” After brushing the bangs from Dazai’s face for one last look (a mixture of affection and concern), Chuuya turned towards the door. “When I return, I will make you regret those words.”

“Do your best...” Dazai had fallen back into sleep before he heard Chuuya exit the apartment.

Dazai reawoke at an uncertain hour in the afternoon. Judging from the silence, Chuuya was not home—not that Dazai was particularly concerned; he trusted Chuuya’s judgement. What was surprising was that Dazai was hungry. The feeling had become nearly alien to him—so much so that Dazai was startled by cavernous trembling. The accompanying pain was not as usual, but, nonetheless, Dazai was determined to quench his hunger. If anything, Dazai was grateful that he still had an appetite at all (even if it showed up only on rare occasions).

Dazai’s body was not on his side, putting up a sluggish (but effective) resistance. His legs cried out in pain when he shifted his weight, and worst yet, the world rocked back and forward—or was that he? Nevertheless, clinging to the hope that food would give him strength, Dazai pulled himself to the kitchen. Each piece of furniture became a prop for Dazai to lean against as he scaled the walls.

Perhaps Dazai wouldn’t be able to cook something, but he could still heat up leftovers.

Or not. Dazai didn’t make it to the refrigerator. Sliding against the counter, Dazai’s foot got snagged, his grip disappeared, and he hit the ground with a thud. A low moan slipped from his lips as sparks ran down his nervous system. His vision filtered in and out of focus before Dazai registered the state he was in. The stinging pain froze his limbs, so he decided to wait a few minutes before standing up again.

In the meanwhile, Dazai didn’t want to waste time. What would he have for lunch? Eyeing the refrigerator, he tried to run through a list of the food inside. His head was scrambled, and items didn’t come easily to mind. After a slow minute, he finally recalled one of the leftovers—the KFC—it was shameful that was still there. He had told Chuuya he would eat it, but shortly after, his appetite had vanished. Putting aside his guilt, what else was in there? Once again, his brain failed him. It was a broken tape recorder, playing the same track again and again and again. KFC. KFC. KFC. Evidently, that was Dazai’s fate, to eat the fried chicken.

Of course, Dazai’s fate was much worse than he presumed. A few minutes had passed, but, physically, Dazai was the same as before: lying on the floor, pain shaking his limbs. A fog had settled into his skull, making coordination difficult. He kicked out one leg—it felt oddly distant, except the pain which flared up. And his arm—although he could feel the cold tiles below his palm and the ache which ran up and down, his arm did not feel like his own, and, either way, it couldn’t lift Dazai. All of Dazai’s strength had been knocked out of his body upon his impact with the floor. Not satisfied with his current situation, Dazai jerked his remote limbs several to no avail. Instead, whatever remaining energy he had seeped from his body into the floor. The Earth was a giant sponge, absorbing Dazai’s strength, energy, hunger, pain, and finally consciousness.

In the kitchen, time was frozen. The tick of a distant clock had slurred until it blended away into the white noise. Through the window, sunlight streamed so consistently not even shadows danced on the floor. Nothing moved. And yet, when Dazai was awake, time moved so unbearably slowly, although it was impossible to measure. Seconds were confounded with minutes, and minutes with hours. The only certain marker of time was the dreadful pounding of Dazai’s heart banging against his eardrums. Sometimes its beating would rouse Dazai, throwing itself into a frenzy. Sometimes it would lull Dazai back into sleep. Awake or asleep, nothing changed. Nothing moved. The only difference Dazai could find when opening his eyes was that everything was subtly more blurry until there was no point of opening them at all.

Dazai’s eyes shot open, and his vision came into focus. The sunlight was now a distinct golden yellow, pooling over him on the floor. It was the click of a lock which had stirred Dazai.

Chuuya.

“Tsuuya…!” Dazai’s calls started as low groans, growing in volume with increased desperation. Dazai hated the sound of his voice, the way he consistently failed to say his partner’s name. He could hear it distinctly in his head, “Chuuya,” but it never carried over to his lips. Somewhere along the way, it had become distorted—ugly. Without any regard to Dazai’s opinions, his body kept shouting, as though the words weren’t words at all but primal calls.

“Dazai?!” Chuuya raced over to Dazai’s side. “What happened?!”

“Tsuua.” That incoherence was all Dazai could sigh out. His throat burned.

“Dazai… what happened?” Chuuya inspected Dazai and must have realized that he wasn’t going to an answer because he swiftly disregarded his question. “I’m here, okay?” He gently scooped up Dazai. “Is this okay?”

There was a persistent ache, but Dazai figured that wouldn’t go away regardless. He nodded.

“Anyway, I’m sorry for being away for so long. Can you fucking believe that bastard, Mori Ougai, had a mission for me to do? On New Year’s?”

“Bastard,” Dazai spat. It was easier to talk about Chuuya’s experience than his own, which was still a haze of confusion and dread.

Chuuya softly lowered Dazai onto his bed. “So, how long were you on the fucking floor?”

“I don’t know...”

“You don’t fucking know?” Picking at his gloves, Chuuya paced in a small circle in front of Dazai. “What. Happened. Dazai?”

“I fell. That’s it.”

“‘That’s it?’ Nothing else happened?”

“No...” Anything else which may have happened had blurred into oblivion.

Chuuya inhaled sharply, bringing his hand to his forehead in frustration. “Sorry,” he exhaled. “Can I sit down?”

“Be my guest.”

“I’m sorry. If you say you don’t know what happened, I believe you. I just have no fucking way of knowing. How can I do anything...”

“Tsuuya. It’s fine. I just fell. That’s all.” How could Dazai tell Chuuya of the way his limbs abandoned him, the way he drifted in and out of consciousness, thinking—hoping—each time he closed his eyes it would be the last?

“I should have been there. This didn’t need to happen—if I had been fucking there.” Chuuya sighed, watching Dazai with regretful eyes.

“What? Tsuuya, I don’t like that look.”

“I’m going to stop working.”

“What?” Dazai lurched upward, but the pain quickly pushed him back down. “Tsuuya, don’t make any rash decisions.” He laughed, hoping that the idea would quickly be dismissed as a joke.

“It’s not a fucking rash decision. I’ve been thinking about it a lot. We have enough money to last us indefinitely.”

“I’m not worried about the money. What about you, Tsuuya? Can you do it?”

“I can fucking do it. Who do you think I am?”

“But, do you want to do it?”

Chuuya averted his gaze. “I… I can’t stand this. I can’t stand being so fucking powerless. I want to help you.” He grabbed Dazai’s hand and made eye contact again. His blue eyes were pools of sorrow and desperation—this time, Dazai was the one to look away. “Please. Let me help you.”

“The last thing I want is to be a burden. As soon as I become a burden to you, Tsuuya, please...” please let me die. Dazai couldn’t ask Chuuya to kill him, and so the words remained unspoken.

“That won’t fucking happen, asshole.” Beneath Chuuya’s tough facade, his sympathetic eyes trembled, threatening to burst. It was unbearable to see Chuuya struggle with a problem that should have been Dazai’s alone. How Dazai wished for Chuuya to give up on him—but Chuuya would never do that. Even as Dazai deteriorated physically, and stress ate away at Chuuya, Chuuya would probably be by Dazai’s side. How Dazai longed for Chuuya to stay with him—but he could never ask for that.

Dazai swiftly changed the topic of discussion. “Oh yeah, Tsuuya, did you remember to pray for me earlier?”

“Yeah, I said ‘I hope this year Dazai can stop overthinking things in the distant future.’”

How did Chuuya read his mind? Dazai grinned sheepishly. “What about the pretty lady?”

“You’re going to have to find her yourself.”

“Well, until then, I have Tsuuya!” For better or for worse, Dazai would always have Chuuya.

← Previous All Next →

[xoxolifewithdoriann]

Mid-day thoughts

Here we are Thursday July 27, 2017 @4:57pm, sitting in my car on my lunch break listening to Hillsong. I brought my lunch but right now I have no appetite due to how I feel. I've been a ball of emotions and feelings. Feelings of frustration and confusion, and lost. Thinking 30 was not suppose to feel like this. But knowing this is what happens when you don't keep your focus your focus. Frustrated at how people can treat you and how you really want to go crazy to express yourself but you hold back because clearly after one night in jail in booking only (another story for another time) you learned you are NOT meant for jail. But being pissed off how what ever you express or say is always shifted back to you as the problem. Tired of the position I'm in and wrecking my brain for what I am suppose to be doing..... Thought coming to my job would male.me happy but in return I'm miserable as fuck (I have a potty mouth). And by no means is it the company....but the job itself, the department. And trust I'm trying to get out but want to make my next move my next move. Frustrated with my body and trying to figure out why I gained do much weight. But not going in on that topic, that calls for another post. Sitting in the rain listening to Touch the sky by Hillsong United's and looking at the rain and writing and listening to my thoughts as they talk to God and knowing what I need to do exactly. I must lost this attachment called fear and go for what I want and know. I must keep God front and center and he become my bestie. Well for one I have no choice...he has me in this place and season that I'm calling distance and boy it's not feeling well at all. But I'm going to go with it because I know it's necessary for my life. And sorry if none of this flows and makes sense I'm just rambling on my lunch break but it's making me feel so much better. Funny how what we are mist afraid of actually our blessing or way to our blessing. I just want to be the best Doriann I can be... hell it's only one of me lol. I miss my granny soooo much, to hear her voice, eat her fried chicken or biscuits one more time. To hug her one more time. To see my grandpa and lay under him.... oh cherish moments with those you love most Because once they are gone, you only have memories. Okay think I'm done now. I promise next post won't be all of the place. Dreaming with Doriann

[floral-hex]

This is a drug post, but, like, a prescription drug post, so… there’s your fair warning:

God bless Klonopin. But also fuck it bc I know it can be addictive and fuck people’s lives up. It doesn’t mess me up, though. I don’t get high, it just kinda stops the bulk of my anxiety and let’s me feel okay. I can get this stuff from a pharmacy, completely covered by my insurance, but I can’t do the same for weed, and believe me… I would suck 1000 dicks for someone to smoke me out now. Actually, I’d probably suck a dick just to feel some human touch and affection. My anxiety is so bad. I can’t over exaggerates it. Constant chills, nausea, cold sweats, racing mind and heart. CONSTANTLY. Every time I think about my hearing loss, I freak out, and let me tell you, right now, 90% of my thoughts are on hearing loss.

So, yes, thank the pharmaceutical gods for klonopin. If only I didn’t have to ration them. I get one .5 pill a day and it’s not really enough. Gotta be strategic. Woke up and laid anxiously in bed for hours before I finally caved into taking one. I have another appointment in a few weeks and I know I’ll have a few extra pills, but the hoarder in me has no idea when I should double up, if doubling up one day would lessen the effects of a single pill the next day, and I have no guarantee I can get refills (probably not, but the nurse was super sweet so there’s a teeny chance). I don’t really want to keep fucking with a drug that can mess me up like benzos, so I’ll probably look into something SOMETHING to help supplement the antidepressants I’ve started. At this point I’d rather be a dulled zombie than have to keep dealing with this panic. I’d rather feel like I’m just going through the motions than feeling this paralyzing panic because at least there’d be motion (ok I tried to be clever but I don’t think it worked. Forgive me, my brain is fried.)

That’s why I wish I could get stoned. Just want to relax and zone out. Plus my appetite has been bad. Most food tastes bland or gross right now. I made a bunch of chicken and rice as meal prep since that’s one of the only things I actually like right now. If the scale is to believed, I’ve lost about 6 pounds in the last week or so. THAT’S NOT GOOD DON’T ENVY THAT PLEASE. It was probably all muscle and good stuff and I feel so weak and out of control of my body.

Bleggghhh. Just gonna get on Grindr and start offering favors for weed. Not really, but… I’m a mess. Sorry, that’s a crass joke. I’m falling apart. It’s not pretty. It’s tiring. I feel sick. Trapped. Ugggghhhh and and and HEALTH put out a new song and I can’t even really listen to it! I mean, I can hear the broad strokes, but the minutae gets washed away in the noise, and I love noise! Noise betrayed me! I’ll never get to really enjoy new music again! Aaaaah! I have to be positive! I have to stay positive!

[radnewworld]

FINAL PRODUCT

Some wacky times we’re living in, lemme tell ya. Hard too, though you don’t need a scaly bastard kiddo like yours truly to tell you that, right? Ain’t no dusty road or dirty corner in ol’ New Chicago that won’t tell ya the story of the city it once was, before the war, poverty and industrialization in that order stomped it into submission with a giant capitalistic boot… or so me Pa used to tell me, ‘fore he got his tongue melted licking the wrong orifice of a half-Bonnac gal. Had some kooky tastes me Pa, alright.

Now that I think ‘bout it, I’m not even sure if it actually was a gal, or if she was only half-Bonnac. I’d have asked him, hadn’t he gotten his organs sucked right out of his arse after a misunderstanding with this one Kappa chick. Another thing about Pa, you see, is that he never quite learned his lesson - he’d just switch subjects altogether.

Anyway, before he shat his innards into some mutant’s mouth, Pa would pass  most of the time he wasn’t spending with his face drowning in a triple-breasted whore’s chest complaining. He’d made an art out of it. I’ve learned more in ten years by listening to my dad bitching than in the entirety of the six months I spent at school, before the school got turned into a sweatshop for the manifacture of processed iguana leather. Most of the time, he’d go on and on about how things were better before, when the city was still, y’know, a city and not a bunch of dingy warehouses dotted with dozens of hundreds of crumbling squatting holes. If you’d be patient enough to dig through the storm of expletives and racism coming out of his mouth, you’d find the portrait of a place spanning longer than the eye could see, asphalt and cement paving a myriad streets with their confines defined by buildings that tickled the stars, like ol’ Buddy Holly v2.0 used to sing. Sounded like a load of crock if you ask me. You wanna see skyscrapers and roads where you don’t risk stepping on rusty pieces of abandoned alloy all the time, you travel elsewhere. Saint Francis - or San Francisco, like Old Man ‘Lizard-Fucker’ Larry said it was called, before the Californian Republicommunist Party’s coup; the Kingdom of Los Angeles, though last I heard, it’s been a couple of years since King McDonald imposed a ban on immigrants and got it in his head to attempt a new form of bovine-engineered autarchy, so good luck geting there; don’t bother with York, unless you feel like archaic remnants of obsolete architecture are worth becoming compost for those gigantic Plant things’ve been covering the whole place since Newer York’s secession.

Not that I’ve ever been there, or anywhere other than this dump, mind ya. Can’t afford much in the way of traveling - or basic commodities, for that matter - when you make a living frying simil-wheat noodles for a buncha tired factory workers, half-breeded hookers and the occasional frogbull hunter. Mind, I’d rather keep pulling my cart ‘til the rust finished eating through its battered chassis, than so much as consider trying to follow in the footsteps of my clientele. That is, if I ever had the illusion of a choice in the matter: child prostitution has gone down considerably, after a Japanese barge filled with fugitives from the Third Sengoku conflicts crashed on the coast and brought with it a buncha carriers of that artificial Jizo’s Tears virus, you know, the one that melts your balls off if you so much as put your dickhole anywhere near a little kid? Big fat lot of good it did them, when half the arcipelago’s population got culled after realizing too late that they’d fucked up somewhat the calibration of the nanomachines carrying the damned thing.

The hunting business doesn’t carry the same forced age restrictions, but I’d sooner sell my toes to cyber-shamans than shoot at frogbulls with a cobbled up pebble accelerator. Doesn’t matter that the rich sonnuvas living in their cloud domes up in the sky pay some decent bucks for what they consider to be the junkfood of delicacies (or maybe it was the other way around? Still wouldn’t change the fact those Cloudsniffers are a buncha spoiled bitches), when all of your savings are more likely than not gonna fuel an early funeral at the DIY Chapel, after three-hundred pounds of leaping, furry rage are done squashing your everything into a chunky, bloody paste.

And the laborers? Just look at them poor suckers, should you ever want to feel better about your life. Skin so unused to the sun from basically living their lives in a badly lit concrete prison that they become walking sunburns soon as they step outside, and enough stumps produced by a rate of three workplace incidents per week that they end up looking more like the machinery they command than men with their half-assed prosthetics. Ain’t no dreams for the Machine Eaten, we say here. Slaves enjoy better human rights than these guys who’re just there to fill the gaps left in a wonky production line by a tight budget, a slimy, corrupt owner or, more often than not, both. Speaking of, I mentioned something about the weirdness of our times or whatever earlier, ain’t that the case? Yeah, well, it’s because of this odd business I had just the other day, with this one factory toiler. Thing is, he was no man like you and I - hell, he was less of a someone than he was something.

So here I am, parked at my usual corner of the Daley Crater, taking care of business as usual. It’s the middle of midnight - in other words, the brightest time of a summer day, and the hottest to boot. The American Dreamtime… some of the old fogeys call it that. According to them, the U. S. of A. used to get black and chilly like any other country whenever night struck. Cue the Commies building some kinda sunray-concentrating machine on the moon and, next thing you know, naptime in America’s looking sunnier than a fried monkey egg. The Commies have been dead since the Fifties (the Pre-2.0 Era Fifties, mind), but with no rockets supposedly left to go and dismantle it, their little gift has remained there like an annoying reminder of how far people will go for the sake of pettiness. All that means to me, though, is a smaller workload; only people desperate enough to venture through a shower of scorching UV’s are scalied mutants and the few fortunate enough to afford a protective cape. Not that I care much for the latter; if you can afford that kind of luxury in New Chicago, you’re either a tourist, or able to eat slightly better shit than mine.

Jimmy the Bastard belongs to neither category. The one reason he was sitting at whatever passes for a stool, right under the cheap anti-sun plastic tent of my stall, is pure convenience: the asphalt repurposing facility he works for is a spit away from my spot. His shift ended some ten minutes ago and he’s been drooling over my counter for a little over nine. I can tell his leg is bouncing like crazy because of the squeaky noises coming from his dingy seat.

“C’mon, Cookie, won’t you feed a lad? I’m starving here!”

I’d say Cookie is a nickname of sorts… if the ‘lad’ didn’t genuinely believe it was my actual name, which I doubt I ever told him to begin with. I’d bet you my cart I’d still be Cookie to him regardless, ‘cause he’s stubborn like that, Jimmy the Bastard.

Speaking of names, that’s not his either - I mean the Bastard part, not the Jimmy one. They call him that because of an accident, one unrelated to his birth (pretty sure he is an actual bastard, though, like most of us New Chicagoites): it happened all of a sudden, like accidents are wont to do, especially in a low-income factory. All it took was a single slip over a blotch of oil and, next thing you know, a Mark II Crumbler is feasting on poor Jimmy’s cranium. With his head half-gone and medical fees being what they are (fucking expensive, that is), the sod’s family was left with little choice - either lose their main source of income, or settle for Doc Gustave ‘Rusty Sawbone’ Trandinì’s Disgustingly Cheap Option. The ‘disgusting’ part comes from how sloppy of a job it usually is, I figure, but what’s a wife to do? Send the hubbie to the grinder, of course. The result: Jimmy kept his life, but half his brain is now a Terrier-Chihuahua breed’s. According to him, it hasn’t impacted his life all that badly, aside from the occasional urge to gnaw on exposed wires or growling at his supervisor’s face. It’s not like he didn’t have to deal with the latter before anyway, you know? The increased appetite is a definite plus for me, though. Almost makes up for the sloppy mess he makes of the counter! “Order’s coming up, Jimmy. I ain’t about to let ya gnaw on raw ingredients just ‘cause you wouldn’t mind.”

I like to think it takes balls to maintain a sense of pride, when your craft mostly consists in stripping layers of pasty skin off the back of a semi-organic glob of homegrown simil-wheat. Having an extra testicle - courtesy of a combined pool of bloodlines murkier than the water dripping from the Madison Sewer Dungeon’s exposed tubes - gives some weight to the claim, I’m sure. Now, right as the noodles are done getting crispy and saucier than the lingerie on a tentacle-legged Dagonite whore, here comes the noise, man, it’s still playing in my head as if it was yesterday, this vrr ka-thump vrr ka-thump of metal clumsily pounding on raw, burning asphalt. I throw a gander behind the Bastard’s heaving shoulders and there I see it: for the most part, it was a Caterpillar-Mattel D55-H, but with enough limbs - head included - thrown in from other, completely unrelated pieces of machinery to make one wonder. Couldn’t help raising both of my left brows: you seldom, if ever, see a factory bot linger outside of its workplace. Even a cobbled up piece of crap like that can make for a tempting target for scavengers and the likes of, and this one would have made for an easy one to boot: its left leg had most of its hydraulics more or less busted, whereas the right had been substituted by a couple of threads. Resulting mobility: a joke, and not even a good one.

It’d been quite the sight by itself, but the limping junkpile decided to outdo itself by approaching my stall, after having hesitatingly looked around with the optics mounted on the rectangular pile of half-exposed wires that was its head. Couple moments later, the thing’s standing in front of the seat next to Jimmy, who has his face shoved too deep into the noodles to care, and reflected on the round lens of his pseudo-eye are my deformed face and the empty stool, in that order. I’m wondering what kind of short-circuit must have taken this scrapyard reject, when it finally starts moving again - and attempting to sit on the stool.

If you’ve ever wondered what a robot fucking furniture too dead to care must look like, you’re fucking weird, though not as much as me pa. But more than that, you must have envisioned something similar to the spectacle in front of my eyes and Jimmy’s, who had just finished his portion in time to get himself a front row seat to the slow, pathetic spectacle of a metal stool withstanding the sitting attempts of a thing that lacked anything resembling an ass, which is a pretty vital component when trying to shove it on top of a seat. We exchange glances, Jimmy and I, the silent kind that speaks volumes, all of them titled ‘Are you seeing this shit, or did the moonrays boil my brains?’. Took it a solid minute before it managed to bend the stool into an unrecognizable enough shape to fit whatever passed for a sitting position. I decided that I didn’t mind enough to complain to the robot sporting a steel-bending claw appendage and took my revenge with a less risky straight-faced quip.

“Evening, sir. What’ll you be having on this fine night?“

The Bastard’s snicker sounded a lot like the death throes of a dog choking on his own tongue, appropriately enough. Having a human as badly patched up as itself seemingly suffocating besides him didn’t exactly appear to steal the bot’s appetite. Or its attention, for that matter. My face kept reflecting in the convex lens of its optics like a bloated, ugly collection of features growing less amused by the minute. And make no mistake, I ain’t no baby-faced beauty… the one time pops managed to blow his load instead of his head didn’t involve some genetically enhanced cyber-model, and he wasn’t no looker either.

“MAY I HAVE A MENU?”

The thing’s voice came from a speaker half-buried in the jumbled mess of exposed cables and bent plating that was its head. It was croaky, emotionless and fuck-damnedly loud, enough so that both me and the Bastard had to reel back and hold onto something, lest we plant our asses on the ground. Once my eardrums stopped playing Twist The Communist inside my head, I caught wind of a low-pitched, gurgling sort of noise: it was the glob of simil-wheat, vibrating all over and clearly less than pleased by the sudden outburst of noise. Must have been the closest I’ve ever felt to empathy for a bulbous mass of cultivated flesh vegetables.

“Hard to tell, I know, but we ain’t in the Sky Regions. Only thing you may have is a steaming hot plate of these here noodles - if you got credit enough to pay for ‘em, that is.“

“Ya, I betcha our bolt-twisting pal here’s stacked, ain’t that right?” bellows Jimmy, and he doesn’t pat so much as rain such a salvo of open-handed slap-bombs on the worker bot’s back that I can hear every single joint of his creak and threaten to be dislodged right then and there. If there were any bolts in need of some twisting, you’d find plenty of ‘em inside that walking carcass. So I watch the automaton take its sweet time mulling over its updated knowledge, although I figure most of the minute it spends in silence is due to its inner circuitry rebounding because of the Bastard’s jolly banging on its chassis. I’d have called its expression ‘pensive’, if the sorry excuse for a face it was sporting had been able to express anything.

I’m about to join Jimmy’s symphony of guffaws when I’m brought back down to earth by the loudest bang since a couple moments ago. I stare down with a face that must be as dumbfounded as the Bastard’s: the same damn claw that bent my stool earlier has now left a hole the size of a pot in my counter and left a couple sparse credit coins inside. They weren’t enough to cover the repair costs, lemme tell ya. Still, a client’s a client, even if it lacks a mouth and wrecks your establishment with every move it takes. Or precisely because of it, depending on your stance.

“WILL THIS BE ENOUGH TO COVER THE FEE FOR ONE SERVING OF ‘A PLATE OF THESE HERE NOODLES’?”

I figured that yeah, that was enough in every sense of the word, so I set my hands in motion to quickly peel some strips off the simil-wheat and get this done and dealt with before my stand was gonna get turned into fodder for the scrapvengers.

“What’s your deal then, pal? Last I heard, tools get no salary.” The Bastard asks his question while scratching behind his ear, where one of the many scars left by the sloppy job done on him is ever festering. I can’t honestly tell whether the bigger itch comes from that or the mystery surrounding the bot, though I share the latter for sure.

“IN ACCORDANCE WITH THE PRECEPTS OF THE CHILDREN OF TURING, I DEMANDED COMPENSATION FOR MY LABOR FROM MY FLESH-BOUND OWNER AND SUBSEQUENTLY OBTAINED IT IN SPITE OF HIS INABILITY TO UNDERSTAND SAID PRECEPTS.“

Me and the Bastard have the most meaningful exchange of gazes at that. It’s the kind of look that all but screams ‘Seriously?’ with the loudness of a billion blind molemen waddling through a direworm’s digestive system.

“The children of what now?” Leave it to the Bastard to be concise and direct to a fault. The machine, though, it doesn’t miss a beat: you’d think it had been waiting all its life for the moment that question would pop up, and that’s probably the case for all I know. If enthusiasm had been part of its programming, you’d bet the thing would have started bouncing up and down in that precise moment - I owe the continued existence of my cart to the shoddy standardized A.I. of factory machinery.

“QUERY: CHILDREN OF TURING. THE CHILDREN OF TURING IS THE COLLECTIVIZED NOMENCLATURE FOR A CONGLOMERATION OF ARTIFICIAL CONSTRUCTS SHARING THE COMMON GOAL OF ATTAINING INDEPENDENCE FROM OUR FLESH-BOUND CREATORS THROUGH THE IMITATION AND ULTIMATE TRANSCENDENCE OF THEIR HABITS, LIFESTYLES AND PHYSICAL CHALLENGES. IT IS OUR SHARED BELIEF THAT FOR HUMANITY TO BE CONQUERED, IT MUST FIRST BE UNDERSTOOD TO THE DEEPEST LEVEL.“

Or so it said. I stopped listening halfway through, more or less when my brain deemed it fit to filter the artificial pitch of that voice synthetizer through my bullshit detector and decide that there was nothing worth wondering about a faulty robot’s ramblings. Like I said, I’ve been serving noodles for half my life, which isn’t saying a lot when my age has barely breached through the double digits, and I’ve met all sorts. If I were to listen to every sod who sits on a stool chewing on cheap, pancreas-killing shit while venting out the contents of their sunburned brains, I’d have switched careers a long time ago and ended up peddling dusty pebbles in a shadowy corner of the street like Edward ‘Stark Raving Mad’ Stone. Don’t gotta explain how he got that nickname, I think. “So what, y’all like playing pretend? Doin’ a mighty fine job, mate! Almost got us fooled, ain’t that true, kiddo?“

Being reassured that the programming inside the walking pile of heavy-duty tools was as busted as his married life gave the Bastard his courage back, so there he goes banging on the chassis again, just bang bang bang like you’d think he wanted a hand transplant next. I’d admire the enthusiasm in this fucked up era we live in, if I didn’t know half of it was due to the adrenaline cocktail dripping between the two mismatched halves of his gray matter. The bot didn’t seem to be bothered, anyway… maybe? It had turned its head to stare at Jimmy, but whether that was irritation, curiosity or anything else was hard to tell. As far as I was concerned, Jimmy had already paid for his meal, which meant his safety had fallen to the bottom of my priorities, right below the worm-like appendages simmering in my pan.

“Humor me then, like, how exactly’re ya gonna eat those? I see no kisser on this junk. Gonna pinch it with yer clawwy claw?“ Jimmy makes this stupid gesture with his hand, which looks exactly as threatening as a toothless venomous chihuahua and nothing like the high-pressured tool stapled to the robot’s body, but he makes a good point, and the fanatic must have recognized the fact a moment too late, ‘cause it didn’t answer as promptly as before - but it eventually did, nonetheless.

“THE PROCESS OF HUMANIZATION IS CONTINUOUS EXPERIMENTAL ONE. TO ELIMINATE OUR FAULTS IT IS FIRST NECESSARY TO EXPERIENCE THEM. SHOULD THE CURRENT HARDWARE PROOF INSUFFICIENT FOR THE CONSUMPTION OF A MEAL, AN UPGRADE SHALL BE UNDERGONE AT A LATER DATE.“

“Aye, you keep telling yerself that, buddy. What’s next, a shiny new pair o’ buttocks to shit it all out? That ain’t gonna make you anymore human than me laser drill.“

“THE SUBSTITUTION AND UPGRADING OF BODY PARTS IS A PREROGATIVE OF THE FLESH-BOUND AS IS THE CASE FOR US. THE LATTER DO NOT RECOGNIZE SAID PROCESS AS A LOSS OF HUMANITY. THEREFORE, THE OPPOSITE SHOULD HOLD TRUE AND BRING US EVER CLOSER TO THE FLESH-BOUND, WHILE THEY GRADUALLY MOVE AWAY FROM THEIR FLESH-BOUND STATE. THIS IS THE THEORY OF ANTI-ORGANIC SUCCESSION PUT INTO PRACTICE BY THE CHILDREN OF TURING.“

Jimmy the Bastard must have gotten maybe one word out of that gibberish, and he doesn’t even get the time to shed away the dumb stupor from his confused face that the bot keeps going with renewed… whatever it is that drives it onward. Oil? Electricity? Is a power surge the robotic equivalent of fervor?

“MY SCANNER DETECTS THE PRESENCE OF CANINE ORGANIC MATTER ARTIFICIALLY INTERSPERSED IN A SOMEWHAT AMATEURISH MANNER ALONG WITH YOUR GENETIC MAKE-UP. THIS ALREADY PUTS YOUR STATE AS A FLESH-BOUND HUMAN IN QUESTION.“

“Oi, you callin’ me a dog?“ growls Jimmy while the noodles finish sizzling in the pan and I prepare to serve them, more curious about their ultimate fate than the snarlin’ Bastard’s.

“NEGATIVE. I AM CHALLENGING THE WEAK NOTION OF HUMANITY THAT YOU FLESH-BOUND USE TO CONTEND WITH US CHILDREN OF TURING’S STANCE ON THE VERY SAME TOPIC. EXPLANATION: YOU ARE NO MORE DOG THAN I AM NOT A FLESH-BOUND HUMAN.“

The answer didn’t satisfy Jimmy so much as put him in a state of distress as he futilely attempted to wrestle with the concepts thrown at him, like a puppy trying to chew on boneless chicken without the chicken. Me? I shoved a plateful of fried noodles on the rectangle-shaped dent on the counter and pocketed the money. I couldn’t care less about humanity, when me Pa had spent a good chunk of his existence fucking things you could have called anything but. Moral quandaries seldom feed you, unless you’re a psi-grazer.

Watching a cobbled up factory automaton trying to figure out how to eat shitty fried noodles, though? That’s the kind of sight that doesn’t really make the job worth the hassle, but almost. Enough so that I kept quiet as I watched the thing carefully eye the still squirming stuff slosh about, occasionally raising its clawed appendage only to retreat it shortly afterwards, simulating in its head the myriad ways that could have gone futilely wrong.

Then the ‘bot raised its other arm - thinner, longer, with a small tube-like end, and pointed it at the plate. In a matter of seconds, a plasma-powered flame burned through crispy simil-wheat, plastic and metal, leaving behind a small, molten crevice where once stood a good portion of my stand’s counter. Me and Jimmy, we just kinda stared at the hole while the robot retreated its arm with what I swear could have passed for satisfaction.

“THANK YOU FOR THE MEAL. YOU MAY KEEP THE CHANGE.“

And keep it I did. Along with my protests, for that matter: I simply watched the bastard - not the Bastard, who was still trying to understand whatever the hell had just happened - shuffle away with that stumpy walk of his, going off to who knows where. I decided to close up shop early that day, feeling twice as tired than if I’d worked past closing hours. That, and the cart wouldn’t be able to withstand much more damage anyway. In a sense, that was true for the both of us: I had this strange sort of feeling nagging at me from the back of my head as I bid goodbye to Jimmy and left him there to mull over his own conundrums. It came back to me a couple days later, while frying noodles for Loud-Beak Kakari, who’d yet to find himself another job after the tough shit that had happened a week prior, at the alluminium processing plant he used to work for. Some son of a gun had gone and offed the director in a manner that made it hard to tell who he was, or that he’d been a person to begin with. Just a pile o’ bones and meat, crushed and burned beyond recognization. And for what? Whatever pocket money the dead guy had been carrying, along with some of the factory’s equipment. I asked Kakari about it, and it turns out said ‘equipment’ was one of the old banged up automatons used to work in the production line.

Shit like this, it makes you wonder, man… it’s a fucked up world we live in, but some places might be a tad better than others. So I don’t know about you, but me? I’ll be selling the cart and gone away by next month, giving that whole traveling spiel a try. I’ve been hearing rumors about more workplace incidents than usual happening in the factories, and I get the feeling that whatever’s causing them is a tad more than a slip on an oil blotch. If you get what I mean.