#my father would always have to warn me of riptides because i could not separate myself from the beach

[fluffypotatey]

i hope there’s a part of me that reflects a past i never got to know. i hope that others can hear certain inflections in my voice that tell them of places i know are a part of me but find unfamiliar. i hope there’s still a part of my body that bleeds the same blood of my ancestors— ancestors that resemble wisps of smoke more than concrete figures in my mind. i hope, one day, i can connect all the threads that were cut off and abandoned

[route22ny]

What My Korean Father Taught Me About Defending Myself in America

Born in 1939 during what would be the last years of the Japanese colonial occupation of Korea, my father, Choung Tai Chee, also called Charles or Chuck or Charlie, came to the United States in 1960. He was flashy, cocky, unafraid, it seemed, of anything. Wherever we were in the world, he seemed at home, right up until near the end of his life, when he was hospitalized after a car accident that left him in a coma. Only in that hospital bed, his head shaved for surgery, did he look out of place to me.

A tae kwon do champion by the age of 18 in Korea, he had begun studying martial arts at age 8, eventually teaching them as a way to put himself through graduate school, first in engineering and then oceanography, in Texas, California, and Rhode Island. He loved the teaching. The rising popularity of martial arts in the 1960s in Hollywood meant he made celebrity friends like Frank Sinatra Jr., Paul Lynde, Sal Mineo, and Peter Fonda, who my father said had fixed him up on a date with his sister, Jane, in the days before Barbarella. A favorite photo from his time in Texas shows him flying through the air, a human horseshoe, each of his bare feet breaking a board held shoulder high on each side by his students.

When I complained about my wet boots during the winters growing up in Maine, he told me stories about running barefoot in the snow in Korea to harden his feet for tae kwon do. His answer to many of my childhood complaints was usually that I had to be tougher, stronger, prepared for any attack or disaster. The lesson his generation took from those they lost to the Korean War was that death was always close, and I know now that he was doing all he could to teach me to protect myself. When I cried at the beach at the water’s edge, afraid of the waves, he threw me in. “No son of mine is going to be afraid of the ocean,” he said. When I first started swimming lessons, he told me I had to be a strong swimmer, in case the boat I was on went down, so I could swim to shore. When he taught me to body-surf, he taught me about how to know the approach of an undertow, and how to survive a riptide. When I lacked a competitive streak, he took to racing me at something I loved—swimming underwater while holding my breath. I was an asthmatic child, but soon, intent on beating him, I could swim 50 yards this way at a time.

For all of that, he was an exceedingly gentle father. He took me snorkeling on his back, when I was five, telling me we were playing at being dolphins. There he taught me the names of the fish along the reef where we lived in Guam. He would praise the highlights in my hair, and laugh, calling me “Apollo.” And as for any pressure regarding my future career, he offered something very rare for a Korean man of his generation. “Be whatever you want to be,” he told me. “Just be the best at it that you can possibly be.”

Only when I was older did I understand the warning about being strong enough to swim to shore in another context, when I learned the boat he and his family had fled in from what was about to become North Korea nearly sank in a storm. In Seoul as a child, he scavenged food for his family with his older brother, coming home with bags of rice found on overturned military supply trucks, while his father went to the farms, collecting gleanings. His attempts to teach me to strip a chicken clean of its meat make a different sense now. I had thought of him as an immigrant without thinking about how the Korean War made him one of the dispossessed, almost a refugee, all before he left Korea.

When I began getting into fights as a child in the U.S., he put me into classes in karate and tae kwon do for these same reasons. He loved me and he wanted me to be strong. I just wasn’t sure how I was supposed to take on a whole country.

We moved to Maine in 1973, when I was six years old. My father had taken us back to Korea after I was born, to work for his father, and then moved us around the Pacific—from Seoul to the islands of Truk, Kawaii, and Guam, in his and my mother’s attempts to set up a fisheries company. Maine was his next experiment, and not coincidentally, my mother’s home state. On my first day of the first grade, in the cafeteria, after a morning spent in what seemed like reasonably friendly classes, my troubles began when I went up to take an empty seat at a table and the blond haired, blue-eyed white boy seated there looked up with some alarm and asked me, “Are you a chink?”

“What’s a chink?” I asked, though I knew it wasn’t a compliment. I had never heard this word before.

“A Chinese person. You look like a chink. Is that why your face is so flat?”

This was also the first day I can remember being insulted about my appearance.

“I am not Chinese,” I said that day, naively. In a few years I would learn I was in fact part Chinese, 41 generations back, but at that moment, I tried to explain to him about how I was half Korean, a nationality and situation he had never heard of before. Half of what? And so this was also the first day I had to explain myself to someone who didn’t care, who had already decided against me.

He was a white boy from America, and he was repeating insults that seem to me to have come from a secret book passed out to white children everywhere in this country, telling them to call someone Asian “Chink,” to walk up to them, muttering “Ching-chong, ching-chong.” To sing a song, “My mother’s Chinese, my father’s Japanese, I’m all mixed up,” pulling their eyes first down and then up and then alternating up and down.

I was struck, watching Minari a few months ago, when the film’s Korean immigrant protagonist, David, is asked by a white boy in Arkansas in the 1980s why his face is so flat. “It’s not,” David says, forcefully—so many of us have this memory of someone saying this to us and responding that way. Why did a boy in Arkansas and a boy in Maine, in their small towns thousands of miles apart, before the internet, each know to make this insult?

When I got home from that first day at school, I asked my mother what the word “Chink” meant, and she flinched and covered her mouth in concern.

“Who said that to you?” she asked, and I told her. I don’t remember the conversation that followed, just the swift look of concern on her face. The sense that something had found us.

I was the only Asian-American student at my school in 1973, and the first many of my classmates had ever met. When my brother joined me at school three years later, he was the second. When my sister arrived, four years after him, she was the third. My mother is white, a blonde-haired, blue-eyed American, born in Maine to a settler family. I have six ancestors who fought in the Revolutionary War, but none of them had to fight this. I don’t know how to separate the teasing, harassment, and bullying that marked my 12 years of life there from that first racist welcome. It makes me question whether I really had a “temper” as a child, as I was told, or whether I was merely isolated by racism among racists, afraid and angry?

My father dealt with racism throughout most of his life by acting as if it had never happened—as if admitting it made it more powerful. He knew bullies loved to see their victims react and would tell me to not let what they said upset me. “Why do you care what they think of you?” he would say, and laugh as he clapped me on the shoulder. “They’re all going to work for you someday.”

“Don’t get even, get ahead,” was another of his slogans for me at these times. As if America was a race we were going to win.

Two decades after his death, writing in my diary while on a subway in New York City, I began counting off all of my activities as a child—choir, concert band, swimming, karate and tae kwon do, clarinet, indoor track, downhill and cross country skiing—and I asked myself if my parents were trying to raise Batman. Then I looked down to the insignia on my Batman t-shirt, and I laughed.

These lessons my father gave me—to be the best you can be, to fight off your enemies and defeat them, to swim to safety if the boat sinks, and in general toughen yourself against everything that would harm you—these I had absorbed alongside certain unspoken lessons, taken from observing his life as a Korean immigrant. To have two names, one American, known to the public, and one Korean, known only to a few intimates; to get rid of your accent; and to dress well as a way to keep yourself above suspicion. Did I need to train like a superhero just to be a person in America? Maybe.

But if I thought of superheroes, it was because my father was like one to me, training me to be like him.

One legend I heard about my father when I was growing up is the story of a night he was being held up at gunpoint, while he was unpacking his car. Whoever it was asked him to shut the trunk and turn around and raise his hands in the air. He agreed to, slamming the car trunk down so forcefully, he sank his fingertips into the metal.

By the time he turned around, the would-be stick-up artist was gone.

He would often ask me and my brother to punch him, as hard as we could, in his stomach. He was proud of his abdominal strength—it was like punching a wall. We would shake our hands, howling, and he would laugh and rub our heads. One time he even used it as a gag to stop a bully.

A boy on my street had developed the habit of changing the rules during our games if his team started losing. We had fights over it that could be heard up and down the street, and one day I chased him with a Wiffle bat, him laughing as I ran. My father stepped in the next time he tried to change the rules during a game and prevented it, telling him all games in his yard had to have the same rules at the beginning as the end—you couldn’t change them when you were losing. When the boy got mad, he said, “I bet you want to hit me, you should hit me. You’ll feel better. Hit me right here, in the stomach, as hard as you can.”

The boy hauled off and punched my dad in the stomach. I knew what was coming. The boy went home crying, shaking his hand at the pain. His mom came over and they had a talk. The rule-changing stopped.

I tried teasing my classmates back after being told to by my father. Stand-up as self-defense requires practice, though: During a “Where are you from?” exercise in the second grade, I told my classmates and teacher I had “Made in Korea” stamped on my ass, which elicited shocked laughter and a punishment from my teacher. I remember the glee when I called a classmate an ignoramus, and he didn’t know what it meant—and got angrier and angrier when I wouldn’t tell him, demanding that I explain the insult. When told to go back to where I came from, I said, “You first.”

Increasingly, I just hid, in the library, in books. When given detention, I exulted in the chance to be alone and read. I was an advanced student compared to my classmates, due in part to my mother being a schoolteacher, and I learned to make my intelligence a weapon.

The day several boys held me down on my street and ran their bicycles over my legs, to see if I could take it, as if maybe I wasn’t human, that felt like some new horrible level. I don’t remember how that ended or if I ever told anyone, just the feeling of the bicycle tires rolling over the skin of my legs. The day I bragged about my father being a martial artist to my classmates, they locked me in the bathroom and told me to fight my way out with kung fu, calling me “Hong Kong Phooey,” after the cartoon character, as they held the door shut. This was the fourth grade. After I got out of that bathroom and went home, I told my father about it, and he told me it was time to take tae kwon do. I had to learn to defend myself.

I would never be like him, never break boards like him, but for a while, I tried. I still cherish the day he gave me my first gi and showed me how to tie it. I learned I had a natural flexibility, which meant I could easily kick high, and I took pride in my roundhouse and reverse roundhouse kicks. But after a few years, my father took issue with a story he’d heard about my teacher’s arrogance toward his opponents, and he pulled me out of the classes. “It is very dangerous to teach in that spirit,” he told me. And he said something I would never forget. “The best fighter in tae kwon do never fights,” he said. “He always finds another way.”

I have thought about this for a long time. For the ordinary practitioner, tae kwon do and karate prepare you to go about your life, aware of what to do in case of assault. They offer no guarantee, just chances for preparedness in the face of the violence of others as well as the violence within yourself. At the time I felt my father was describing the responsibility that comes with knowing how to hurt someone, but I came to understand it as a principled if conditional non-violence, which, in this year of quarantine and rising racist violence, is one of the clearest legacies he left to me.

Like many of us, I have been trying to write about these most recent attacks on Asian-Americans, some of them in my old neighborhood in New York, and I keep starting and stopping. How do we protect ourselves and those we love? Can writing do that? I know I learned to use my intelligence as a weapon to keep myself safe from racists, starting as a child, and suddenly it doesn’t feel like enough. The violence is like a puzzle with many moving parts, but the stakes are life and death. “You’re really going to homework your way through this one?” I keep asking myself. The people attacking Asians and Asian Americans now are like the boy I met on my first day in the first grade. They don’t care whether or not we are actually Chinese—the primary experience Asian Americans have in common is mis-identification. The person who gets a patriotic ego boost off of calling me a “chink” isn’t going to check if they’re right about me, and I don’t imagine they’ll stop their fist or their gun if I say, “You’re just doing this because of America’s history of war in Asia,” even though we both know this is true. And so I have been thinking of my father and what he taught me.

The most overt way my father fought racism in front of me involved no fighting at all. He founded a group called the Korean American Friendship Association of Maine, which helped new Korean immigrants move to Maine and find work, community, and housing, along with offering lessons on how to open bank accounts, pay taxes, file immigration paperwork, and get drivers’ licenses. For both of my parents, community organizing, activism, and mutual aid like this were commitments they shared and enjoyed and passed along to us, their children, and this led to much of my own work as an activist, teacher, and writer. I am not my father, but I am much as he made me.

There’s a difference between fighting racists and fighting racism. Where my father stayed silent, I have learned I have to speak out, which has felt, even while writing this, a little like betraying him. And as a biracial gay Korean American man, I don’t experience the same identifications or misidentifications he did. I am mistaken for white, or at least “not Asian,” as often as I’m mistaken for Chinese, and have felt like a secret agent as people speak in front of me about Asians in ways they would not otherwise. I learned most of my adult coping strategies for street violence from queer activist organizations after college.

Even as I write, “I wonder if he ever felt fear living in America,” it feels like a betrayal, especially as he isn’t around for me to ask him. I think again about how my father always made a point of dressing well, for example, but it always felt like more than that. Men wearing suits as a kind of armor, that isn’t so strange. He had his suits made at J. Press, wore handmade English leather shoes—shoes that fit me. I sometimes wear them for special occasions. Among my favorite objects of his is a monogrammed J. Press canvas briefcase, the name “CHEE” in embossed leather between the straps. After his father gave him an Omega Constellation watch when I was born, he eventually acquired others. For a time I thought he did this aspirationally, but most of his family in Korea is like this: Well-dressed, with a preference for tailoring and handmade clothes. All of my memories of my uncles coming from the airport to visit us involve them arriving in their blazers.

The first time I followed my father’s advice to wear a sports jacket when flying, I received a spontaneous upgrade. I didn’t have frequent flyer miles and the person checking me in was not flirting with me either. There was nothing but the moment of grace, and the feeling that my father, from beyond the grave, was making a point as I sat down in my new, larger, more spacious seat. Because I had never tried out this advice while he was alive.

Like much of my father’s advice, it came from his keen awareness of social contexts, and it worked. His wardrobe came from the pleasure of a dare more than a disguise. You don’t acquire a black and gold silk brocade smoking jacket in suburban Maine because you want to fit in with your white neighbors. Sometimes his clothes were a charm offensive, sometimes just a sass. The jacket advice may well have been an anticipation of racist treatment, of a piece with perfecting his English so he had no accent, and raising us to speak only English. My mother spoke more Korean to us as children than he did—a remnant of her time living in Seoul.

Now that I am old enough to choose to learn Korean, I still feel like a child disobeying him, just as I do when I dress too casually, or acknowledge that I’ve experienced racism. I know I am just making different choices, as you do when you are grown, but also, I am stepping out from behind his program to protect myself. I feel the fears he never spoke about, and instead simply addressed with what now look like tactics. At these moments I miss him as much as I ever do, but especially for how I would tell him, this may have protected you. It won’t protect me.

In my kitchen the other day, as I was making coffee, I fell into the ready stance, with my right foot back, left foot forward, and snapped my right leg up and out in a front snap kick. This is the basic first kick you learn in tae kwon do. And you do it again, and again, and again, until it is muscle memory. You move across the room this way and then turn to begin again.

I wasn’t sure if my form was exactly right, but it felt good. Memories came back of the sweaty smell of the practice room, the other students, the mirrors on the walls, the fluorescent lights. All those years ago, I had thought my father had put me in those classes in order to become him, but as I sent my practice kicks through the air, I remembered how even learning them made me feel safer, protected at least by the knowledge that he loved me. I could not have said this at the time, but after those attacks, I had feared I wasn’t strong enough to be his son.

I still fear that. I suppose it drives me, even now. It is dehumanizing to insist on your humanity, even and perhaps especially now, and so I am not doing that here. Each time I’ve tried to write even this, a rage takes over, and then the only thing I want to do with my hands doesn’t involve writing, and I stop. But I know from learning to fight that hitting someone else means using yourself to do it. My father’s advice, about fighting being the last resort, has given me another lesson: You turn yourself into the weapon when you strike someone else—in the end, another way to erase yourself—and so you do that last. In the meantime, you fight that first fight with yourself, for yourself.

You may never be able to protect what you love, but at least you can try. At least you will be ready.

Alexander Chee is most recently the author of the essay collection How to Write an Autobiographical Novel. A novelist and essayist, he teaches at Dartmouth College and lives in Vermont.

[dizzydancingdreamer]

Big Decisions | The Mikaelson Boys

Hey my lovelies! I know, right, another story in the same week as my other one?? What has the universe come to! I had this idea the other night and I kind of just rolled with the punches. I'm not sure how good it will be, I haven't written in a while and I had an idea of where I wanted this to go and, as usual, it wrote itself and ended up somewhere else. I'm not sure how much I like it but regardless here it is. I tried to make it as fluffy as I could because that's what I need right now lol. Anyway's I hope you like it! Sorry in advance for how long it is!! All my love until next time <3

Description: Y/n is from an influential family like, but not as powerful, as the Mikaelson's and her father is running for the governor of Virginia. In order to increase voting in favour of her father both families decide to merge. In order to do so Y/n agrees to marry one of the Mikaelson boys. The only problem is that she loves all three of them and can't possibly choose between them.

Pairing: The Mikaelson Boys x Fem!Reader

Warnings: None, seriously, don't be afraid of having all three at once, that doesn't need a warning

Word count: 5032

Tags: Fluff (or at least attempted fluff)

(Pics aren't mine but the moodboard is :) )

Your footsteps echo softly down the hallway of the Mikaelson’s mansion. Your heels click the beat of a song you haven’t yet learned the words to into the hardwood. It’s a miracle you can even hear it over the rumble of the party below. A thousand voices reach your ears in a crescendo of “good evening” and “my don’t you look lovely” but it stands as little more than white noise in your mind. Your heartbeat rages with it all, mingling with the greetings of strangers and the song your feet are creating at the same time.

The only thing you can truly think about is last night in the garden. It had been Kol’s idea, actually, to have one last night together. It was a beautiful notion, too, if not one that left four souls aching as though they were only one soul being forced into four different fragmented pieces.

There you sat, four fragmented pieces of one soul, tangled so elegantly that anyone looking in would have to squint to see the separate beings. Your back moulded so perfectly into Elijah’s front that it was as if you were made to never be apart in the first place. Though Klaus’ head fit so perfectly in your lap that it would be madness to think anything but the same. However, both such things ignore the delicate trace of Kol’s lips against your neck and mouth and fingertips in such a way that the night sky hadn’t shone half as bright as the stars he left you seeing. How could you even begin to make a decision.

None of you feel quite right about the arrangement. Your families have been close for a few years now, you having met the Mikaelsons at a founders party in your first year of college. Both of your households are founding families with a lot of influence in many parts of the south-eastern United States. While the Mikaelson’s are renowned, your own family, the Lancaster’s, are less well known. With your father running for governor of Virginia it was decided, quite suddenly, that your two families are to combine in order to gain the needed momentum to win at the polls. You, the only daughter to Mary-Anne and Johnathan Lancaster, are to marry any Mikaelson son of your choosing.

To any other woman in Virginia that offer would be a dream come true. The Mikaelson’s are akin to royalty in the United States. However, every other woman in Virginia hasn’t spent the last two years completely consumed by all three brothers. There are only a handful of moments that you can recall that don’t include even one Mikaelson. Every night you fall asleep wrapped around one of your boys. Each of their scents are permanently ingrained in your memory. How can you choose when no matter who you pick the other two will still be there.

You pace back and forth at the top of the winding staircase, silently dreading the descent. You gather the pilling fabric of your gown into your hands and let the silk cool your fiery skin for a few moments longer. You try to hold on to a few pieces of comfort with it. The way Kol had smelled of honey this morning and the feel of Elijah’s arms around you and the little marks Klaus left that are still fading beneath your bodice. You breathe in each of them before you take the first step.

You don’t want to go down the stairs but the first step only brings you to the second that much faster. You take them one at a time, letting your feet even out before every push forward. At this moment you wish that the stairs would never end. You would rather wind for years as your dress turned to dust around you than face the unrelenting truth that waits at the bottom. You would rather turn to dust than choose.

You come too quickly to the bend in the stairs that will reveal you to the party. The murmurs that were previously dulled are now at their peak, crashing over you with a harsh fury of cheerful nothings. You wish you could immerse yourself in the chatter like any other party however tonight isn’t just another party. It’s the party and families from across the country have gathered in the halls below to hear you make your decision.

With a quick breath in, you bring yourself into the glittering light cast by the chandelier hanging above the sweeping foyer. It takes a moment for your eyes to adjust from the dark hallway. When they focus once more the air is sucked from your lungs in a startled gasp that turns every eye in the vicinity towards you. As if a switch has been flicked, every sound in the room dies out until all that is left is the slightest tinkling of the glass above your head and muffled sounds of awe.

You will give them that, the dress Rebekah Mikaelson had picked out for you is stunning. A rose coloured, silk gown that would make any Victorian princess green with envy. It’s strapless in the sense that it has silk that hangs off your shoulders, leaving your skin exposed and dusted with gold. Your hair has been curled and pinned up, allowing for some tendrils to frame your face. Bekah dusted the same gold she used on your shoulders on your eyes, bringing a finishing touch to your look. She truly does work miracles.

Your hand stalls on the railing for a moment, your eyes searching the sea of faces below you. It’s surreal to have all the attention on you. You’re used to being around important people, you yourself are one to most people, but you’ve never felt like you fit in with them. You’re just an ordinary girl after all. An ordinary girl who just happens to have the hearts of three Mikaelson’s in her palm. Now, if you could only spot them amongst the crowd.

As if they can hear their names flowing through your mind, they appear at the base of the steps. You shouldn’t be surprised at how dashing they all look but you’re still left open-mouthed at the sight of them. They're each clad head to toe in all black, the perfect contrast to your dress. The dark to your light and vice versa. They never disappoint.

Your feet begin moving of their own accord to meet them at the bottom of the staircase, the clicking of your heels ricocheting like bullets through the still silent foyer. You can feel their stares like flames on every inch of your exposed skin. The crowd is holding their breath in anticipation of the interaction to come, waiting ready for the moment you make your decision. It feels positively medieval, as if as soon as you choose you will be forced to rip off your clothes and mate for the court to see and deem your bond official. It’s too bad if that’s what they're expecting. They would be in for quite a shock if they saw the distinct markings of not one but three Mikaelson’s already on your skin.

Three mouthwatering scents swirl around you, encouraging you to move faster. Before you clear the last fifteen or so steps, however, the unthinkable happens. You trip. Your heel catches the loose fabric of your dress and rips your feet out from under you, a riptide of events that should have been foreseen. Your eyes slam shut the minute you go into freefall, not wanting to see the mess your body will create when you hit the marble. The fall feels like hours rather than seconds, waiting for an impact that will shatter life as you know it but the end never comes.

“Baby,” it takes you a moment to register the arms around your waist and the pine tree scent enveloping you, “I’ve got you. You’re safe.”

Another pair of hands grip on to your arm, sending waves of familiar warmth and nutmeg rushing through your chest, “my clumsy darling, what was our dear sister thinking when she put you in those heels.”

“She clearly wasn’t or else she would have remembered that she tripped three times just this morning,” you’re pulled easily into a new pair of strong arms, “isn’t that right, love?”

You can’t help but let the smile fall on your lips, your eyes tugging open to meet the ocean ones already looking at you, “you know me too well, Klaus.”

The smile is already on his lips, though it doesn’t quite reach his eyes, “of course love, that’s my job.”

He leans down to place a quick kiss on your forehead before steadying you. You turn to face the remaining brothers, both of whom look ready to pull you once more into their arms. They’re circled around you, blocking the crowd from seeing you until they have had their moment with you. It warms your heart immensely. Up close they look even more ravishing. When you take your time inspecting them, though, you see the circles under their eyes.

Elijah’s are the most prominent, his skin tinged a plum colour that in no way mars the beauty of his face. If anything it adds an ethereal glow. He’s always been the one to worry the most. He is the oldest after all, most of the stress falls on his shoulders. His deliciously sculpted shoulders. It’s his job to hold his family together, tonight is no exception. You waste no time pulling him towards you and wrapping your arms around his neck, tangling your fingers in his chocolate hair.

“You look like you need a nap, Eli,” you tug softly at the strands between your fingers, “it’ll all be okay.”

You can feel the deep breath he takes, as if the air is going into your lungs instead of his, “I know, baby.”

He squeezes his arms around you a little tighter than usual before releasing you. It takes Kol no time to scoop you into his arms, burying his face in your neck. You grip his back with shaking fingers, admiring the muscles through his jacket as a moment of peace before the storm to come. You don’t want to let him go. You don’t want to leave the little bubble the four of you have created.

“No matter what happens out there tonight, I'm yours darling. Until the sun doesn’t rise in the east, I’m yours,” he places a soft kiss to your throat and tears sting at your eyes but you refuse to let them fall.

He pulls back, a small smile on his lips. You look up to the other two one last time, feeling the crowd grow impatient at your hidden actions. You know that tonight isn't about you but you can’t help but let the seconds tick by freely. This could very well be the last moment the four of you share publicly.

Klaus nods his head carefully, squeezing one of his hands into a fist at his side, “until the sun doesn’t set in the west, I am yours, love.”

You pull your lip between your teeth to bite back the trembling, steeling yourself as you turn in finality to Elijah. His chocolate eyes are already on you. The determination in them lights something hot and not at all unfamiliar in the pit of your stomach. He takes another deep breath, your eyes drawn to the rise and fall of his chest.

“And every moment after I will be yours, baby, that is my promise.”

When the words leave his lips you revel in the fleeting moment of calm that rushes over you.

The strength in your voice startles you a little bit, “I am yours before, during, and after. That is my promise. Let’s do this.”

The boys stand taller when you say the words, completing a promise you made to each other over a year ago. They part, allowing you to walk into the crowd of statues. No one moves, every eye glued to you once more. You can’t help but feel small under their gaze but you don’t back down, choosing instead to smile and stare back.

“Sweetheart, there you are!”

And just like that all the activity in the room restarts, all the chatter and music and tinkling restored like a fire under the floor. Your mother, Mary-Anne, appears from the crowd in a stunning blue gown. It accentuates her delicate features. She was a southern belle in her youth and it still shows, especially in her accent. You could get lost in the honey that is your mother’s voice.

“Hello, mama,” you fall into her embrace easily, breathing in her lilac lotion, “I’m sorry I took so long, Bekah wanted everything to be perfect.”

Your mother giggles, music to your aching soul, “except the shoes I see.”

You pull away with a blush, meeting her cheerful eyes with mild embarrassment, “oh my, you saw that?”

“Darling, all of Virginia saw it,” she takes your arm, leading you towards the ballroom where guests are steadily flowing to designated tables, “you gave those boys quite a startle. Your father too. He dropped his drink.”

She giggles again as she directs you to a table at the front of the room, elegantly decorated with an array of flowers and candles. There are enough seats to allow for both of your families and a few other important people to enjoy a nice meal. Your stomach tumbles in a way that makes you doubt the amount of food you will be enjoying tonight.

Your mother hands you a glass of champagne which you take gratefully, “will he be here soon?”

“I’m sure he will be,” she smiles gently at you, pushing a fallen curl behind your ear, “how are you feeling, darling? You look a little rattled.”

“It’s a lot to take in, mama. I’m alright,” you take a sip of your champagne to punctuate your words, letting the sweet bubbles cool your throat.

She places her hand on your own, pulling your attention back to her, “you’re allowed to not be. You’re doing a lot for this family, you know. Your father and I appreciate you very much. It can’t be easy.”

“The hard part isn’t getting married,” you meet her kind eyes and almost crumble, “It’s almost too easy to spend a lifetime with any one of them. They each mean the world to me. Mama, how am I supposed to choose?”

She shakes her head gently, her own curls bouncing lightly, “you just have to trust yourself, darling.”

The ballroom fills steadily, flowing conversation and music through the open space. You quickly spot the Mikaelson's, Bekah now in tow, as well as your father, who looks locked in a serious conversation with Elijah and Klaus. He’s nodding along to whatever they’re saying, clearly absorbing whatever notion they’re pushing. Kol, on the other hand however, remains silent, gazing around the space before locking eyes with you. Even from across the floor you can see his shoulders loosen slightly. Bekah tries to say something to him but he just brushes her off before moving towards you. You feel a touch guilty but you'll apologize later. Right now you need him.

You pass your glass back to your mother, accepting another knowing smile before all but running towards Kol. He clears the space quicker than you can, meeting you just in front of the table.

“You know, I don’t recall having told you how breathtaking you look yet this evening,” his words pour over you as he takes the final steps towards you, “and that should be a punishable crime. You look absolutely stunning, darling.”

He laces his arms once more around your waist, drawing you into his chest, “we’re all a little flustered tonight, I think I can pardon you just this once. Besides, I haven’t told you how marvellous you look yet either.”

You whisper the words into his chest, closing your eyes for a brief moment. His touch brings you some clarity. You wish you were curled up watching a movie instead of in a ball gown.

He pulls back slightly, lifting your chin to meet his warm eyes, “I meant what I said earlier, no matter who you choose I’m not going anywhere. None of us are.”

“I don’t think I can do it, Kol,” you look towards your father sitting next to your mother, both laughing with another couple, “I can’t hurt any of you.”

“Love,” you're pulled from Kol’s grasp and into a different but no less familiar hold, “we know this isn’t what you want. It’s not what any of us want. You need to trust us. Follow your instincts. Now come on, we’ll miss dinner.”

Klaus leads you to the table and a plate filled with what would normally be your favourite foods. Elijah is already waiting with your chair pulled out, sitting you between your mother and father.

He leans down before you can sit, his lips grazing your ear as he speaks, “just relax, baby. I love you.”

He presses a kiss to your ear before tucking you in and taking his own seat across from you. The ballroom soon fills with the sharp sounds of forks and knives scraping against porcelain and even more happy chatter than before. Your own table becomes a flurry of excited words and talk of the upcoming elections and wedding ideas. You’re bombed with many sneaky attempts to hear your decision early but you brush every one of them off, nervously taking bites of food every few minutes.

“So, honey,” your father turns to you with a grin, lowering his voice and drawing you into your own little bubble, “how’s my star doing?”

You focus on his nose, not wanting to meet his eyes quite yet, “I’m great, dad. This dinner is wonderful.”

He chuckles quietly and you can feel his gaze trying to pull your focus to him, “you would know, right, with all the food you've eaten?’

He isn’t wrong, you’ve barely cleared half your plate, “I’m not hungry is all.”

“You? Not hungry? Now I know something is really wrong here,” his hand grasps yours lightly, “look at me, what’s going on in that noggin of yours?”

You don’t mean to sigh but it happens anyway, “It’s just a lot to digest. It’s a really big decision.”

“You’re right it is, honey,” he squeezes your hand gently, “but I know you’ve got what it takes. You can’t disappoint me. Never have and you never will.” He looks in front of you, “besides, I think those boys know what they're doing. I trust them to help you figure this out.”

Like your mother, he always seems to know what to say. You have a strong family, one that holds each other up in the hardest of choices. You look across the table to meet the eyes of three men already looking at you. They each smile at you in their own way. Elijah’s is with his eyes, the rest of his face remaining stone. Klaus smirks at you, the blue of his eyes sparkling mischievously. Kol tilts his head to the side, a soft grin on his lips.

Soon the music becomes louder and guests start pouring onto the dance floor, swaying to an elegant piece made up of violins and flutes. Your own table clears with the rest, leaving the four of you alone. Elijah, as per usual, is the first one out of his seat.

“Would you do me the immense honour of sharing this dance?”

The formality in his words brings you a bubbling sense of warmth and you, of course, rise to meet his outstretched hand. He leads you to the middle of the floor, twirling you under another chandelier before pulling you tight against his chest. You’re once again wrapped in his forest scent and you lay your head against him, trusting him to keep you from falling. The music swirls around you, drowning out the noise of the others around you. They're no doubt speculating that you’ve made your decision but, in reality, this is just yours and Elijah’s thing: dancing.

He moves you beautifully across the floor, pulling you slightly to where it feels like you’re gliding on ice. The rest of the couples move back, allowing for the two of you to take as much space as you need. You feel like you dance for an eternity, giggling as he spins you endlessly across the polished wood floor. He eventually lifts you, turning you in what you assume is a final twirl, only to pass you into another pair of ocean breeze arms.

Klaus takes over effortlessly, falling into the same pattern that Elijah had created, “sorry to cut in, love, I couldn’t help myself.”

You move the hand that lays on his shoulder and wrap it around the back of his neck, tangling your fingers in his hair and drawing as close to him as you can. He takes his time dancing with you the same as his brother had. By now all the other dancers have stopped and cleared completely off the floor. Each eye is trained on the pair of you like lasers to a target. You will yourself to remain completely focused on Klaus’ movements.

It takes both an eternity and mere seconds for you to land in Kol’s arms, who twirls you one last time, perfectly stopping with the music. When the last violin dies out, a clock chimes through the room. Your shoulders tense on their own, the rest of your body following suit. Ten O’clock. Choosing time.

“Good evening, everyone, and welcome,” your father’s voice pours through speakers placed around the hall but you can barely register the words being said, “I know many of you have travelled great lengths to be here today and for that our families are incredibly grateful. Tonight is a momentous occasion. It marks the engagement of my girl, Y/n, to one of these fine men.”

Your father motions across the room to where you stand, now with all three brothers stood in front of you, “each one of them have expressed their interest in my daughter and now, with all of you to witness such a grand step in her life, she will choose which of them she would like to marry.”

Whatever head that wasn't already turned now faces you, each holding their breath in anticipation. You aren't looking at them though. Instead, you’re facing the three men that you would do anything in the world for. You can almost see your aching heart already in your hands, ready to rip it into three even pieces and hand it to them with little bows.

You look at Klaus first. Your creative spirit who could fill an entire museum with paintings of your face alone. His hands twitch slightly at his sides and he closes them into fists when you notice. He offers you a small smile and you remember the other night when he fell asleep on your lap while watching a movie in the den. He hasn't been sleeping properly with all the arrangements for tonight being settled and you running your hands through his hair had been the final push he needed to collapse. You make sure he’s looking at your lips when you mouth I love you across the room.

You turn quickly to Elijah from there, locking eyes with him immediately. Your warrior who looks especially undone in comparison to his usual put together self. He looks like he has to stop himself from closing the distance between the two of you and that it’s taking most of his remaining energy to do so. That’s Eli for you though, he never can stay away from you for too long. When you mouth I love you to him he stands a little straighter.

You find Kol’s eyes easily from there. Your rebellious, hell-raiser with a glint in his face that you would be able to see from all the way across the room. His hand is in his hair, tugging the strands between his fingers in a way that only he could make look elegant. He’s got a look in his eyes that begs you to do something entirely untraditional. He mouths I love you before you can even open your mouth.

You stand there for an eternity, your feet stuck as though rooted through the floor. Every moment from the past two years rushes through your head. You aren't dying; this isn't a life flashing before your eyes type moment but it may as well be. These three have been your entire life since you were introduced. Not one of them alone could have brought you here. Every moment for two years has been leading to you standing here, with them, at this very second.

It hits you quite suddenly that if you were to remove two of them, the equation that makes up who you are wouldn't be correct anymore. You’ve been juggling with the idea that your soul is four parts rather than two for quite some time now. It wouldn't be right to give three parts to one person, not when each of them have taken the time to so delicately etch their names onto their own separate parts.

You can’t pick just one of them. You’ve known that from the beginning, you just didn’t know what you were going to do about it until now. Your hands tremble now that you know your decision, a chill running up your spine at the thought of sharing it with the crowd. It’s not exactly conventional what you’re about to say.

“I choose Klaus.”

The crowd releases the breath it had been holding for hours. Too bad they're going to be sucking it back in soon. Klaus’ eyes are wide, his mouth open as though he didn't expect to be your choice. Your heart breaks for him and you remind yourself to spend more time with him when this is all over. Your other two boys look devastated, the smiles on their lips looking more like pained grimaces. Your heart squeezes in your chest.

“And I choose Elijah.”

Just like that there is once again no air left in the room. You begin walking towards them, ignoring the buzz of whispers growing in the room. You peer over their shoulders at you parents who don’t look nearly as stunned as they should. In fact your mother is beaming at you. You can feel the pride radiating off her from thirty feet away. You can’t tell if your father mouths I told you so or if you imagine it.

The boys begin moving towards you as well, ready to cover you from the storm raging around you. You can tell there are a thousand things they want to say but you’re not done speaking yet.

You look to the last Mikaelson, willing a smile to take over the frown on his gorgeous face, “and, of course, I choose Kol.”

The crowd roars around you but you’re surrounded with a wall of Mikaelson, blocking you from the prying eyes. You look at each of them, trying to gauge their reactions. You know they said that they're yours but you never discussed marrying all of them. You don’t even know if you can do that. It’s now entirely overwhelming in a completely new way. All three of them stare at you with a mix of shock and awe. Like this is the first time they’re seeing you. You wring your hands together waiting for one of them to say something.

None of them do, though. Instead Elijah closes the space between your bodies and crashes his lips onto yours, pulling your bottom lip between his teeth and biting down hard. His hands grasp your waist with strong fingers, leveling you against his tall frame. It sends shocks through your entire system and you revel in the outright display he’s putting on. He’s the last one you would have expected to lose it in a crowd.

Kol is the next one to close in on you, wrapping his arms around you as well and gently kissing your shoulder. The fire Elijah started in your stomach only increases when Kol bites down. You gasp into Elijah’s mouth but it’s quickly swallowed by the man himself. Kol’s lips feel heavenly against your exposed skin.

Klaus finally steps towards you, tangling his arms in the mess of your bodies and completing your circle. His lips meet the side of your throat in a way only he can, biting down deliciously. When Elijah finally pulls away from you, the rest of them follow. You know your skin is most definitely bruised and your lips swollen. Your curls have most definitely fallen from their pins. You would be worried but each of them still hold you, caged around your body for no one but themselves to see.

The rush of the evening hits you all at once, a strong fatigue laying across your bones. You let your eyes close as you lean further into Elijah. Sensing the finality of your movements, he scoops you up, careful to keep your dress in it’s beautiful condition. He starts walking out of the room, ignoring the protests around him. On cue Kol and Klaus join him on either side.

“Eli, we can’t leave, they’re expecting us,” you can’t hide the yawn in your voice.

“We can, and we are leaving, baby,” he tightens his arms around you, “you need to sleep.”

You shake your head unconvincingly, “I’m fine, Eli.”

The other Mikaelson brothers just laugh.

The smile in Kol’s voice is audible, “yes you are, darling, but humor us won’t you?”

“They’ll be mad at me,” your voice trails off at the end, blackness creeping in around the edges of your mind despite your protests.

“You’ve done more than enough, love, we can take it from here.”

Klaus’ voice is the last you hear, not even making it back up the stairs before you drift out of consciousness.

[ddproductionsw77]

The Electronic Configuration of Hate and Love (Pt. 4)

Fandom: Girl Meets World

Pairing(s): Riarkle

Story Description: "The only thing the two seemed able to agree upon was that Abigail Adams was definitely not big enough for the both of them." Riley Matthews and Farkle Minkus have hated each other from the first day of Freshmen year, but now they have to spend the rest of their Senior year chemistry partners.

Author’s Note: So, I've decided to keep Electronic Configuration rated T. I will, however, warn you guys up here in the notes whenever a chapter has the potential to stray into M territory. Again, I never write anything graphic but I still don't want to offend any of you guys! I love you too much!! Please give me feedback, like Lady Gaga, I live for the applause.

Riley sat with her knees tucked up to her chin, hugging her legs, on the bench of her classic bay window. Outside, the sky was pitch black, shifting into a gradient with the glow of the New York cityscape below. The stars were clouded behind fog and light pollution, the moon just barely a sliver of luminescent yellow contradicting to the bleakness of everything else.

She wished there would be a falling star or a comet. Something she could wish on.

How could she have been so stupid?

She’d let herself be swept up the moment, caught up in Farkle and his smile and her name on his lips. Kissing him had been a mistake. He didn’t have feelings like that for her. He’d called himself her friend practically seconds before she flung herself at him, for God’s sake!

Riley was humiliated.

She didn’t even understand her own actions. She had focused most of her time and energy over the years to academics and extracurriculars; the rest dedicated to Maya and her family. Despite being a hopeless romantic, Riley had sacrificed dating to ensure she would achieve her goals, like Columbia.

She’d had crushes, sure, one even on Farkle’s best friend, Lucas Friar, not too long ago but this was different. This, he, was all she could ever think about anymore. She worried for him, missed him, longed for the next moment she would be able to be beside him.

Riley had never felt more out-of-control in her life.

It was only going to get worse tomorrow when she had to face Farkle for the first time since her complete lapse of control and judgment. Knowing what a dick the boy could be, he’d probably laugh at her or sneer at her feelings for him…

No, A tiny voice whispered hopefully in the back of her head, He wouldn’t do that. Things are different now and you know that. You know he feels something for you.

But did he?

Farkle called her a friend, accepted her help, and seemed to like spending time with her but none of that meant he was in love with her.

Riley stopped breathing, her heart skipping a beat.

In love? Where the hell had that come from?

Because having a silly, school-girl crush on Farkle or liking him as more than a friend was one thing but being in love with him… She couldn’t be in love with him! She didn’t even know what that would feel like so obviously she was just tripping over her own thoughts and thinking too much again and wondering about things that were just… not true.

There was a light knock on her bedroom door, pulling her from her jumbled brain. She turned to the door and rested her head against her knees caps, calling softly, "Come in."

The door swung open and Riley's mother, Topanga Lawrence-Matthews, ducked her head around the wood. She had a look of confusion and concern on her face as she stepped into the bedroom, "Why are you still up?"

"Why are you?" Riley asked with a tired, teasing smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. As a hard working, high-profile, New York lawyer and small business owner, Riley's mother rarely stayed up past her own teenage daughter. She was mocked relentlessly for it by her husband and children.

Topanga crossed her arms over her chest and gave Riley a look before stepping over to the bay window and sitting beside her daughter, "Everything okay?"

The brunette considered the question, furrowing her brow and inspecting her bony toes, "I need to repaint my toenails. They're chipped."

The mother looked her child over before nodding. She got up, finding Riley's favorite-as-of-late blue nail polish and sat back down, patting her lap. Without a word, Riley settled her feet into her mother's lap and watched as Topanga began repainting the nails.

They were silent for a moment before her mother prompted her again, "Anything besides clipped paint you want to talk about?"

Riley bit her cheek and looked out the window, "Have you ever done something without thinking? And it seems like now you can't fix it but you also don't really want to and... And you just confused?"

"Well," Topanga gave her daughter an amused sideways glance, "I think so but you might have to give me more than that for me to help you out, Sweetie."

"There's... this boy," The girl finally admitted, reluctantly. She felt her mother pause between nails but pressed on anyway, "I think that I might really like him but we're just friends and Friday I-" She blushed scarlet and picked at her fingernails, chipping those as well, "I might have kissed him."

A squeal erupted from her mother, causing the girl to look at her wide eyed and flush even redder. Topanga held up a hand and took a deep breath, "Sorry. Sorry, Sweetie! You're just to grown up now and-"

"Mom!"

"I know! I know! Okay, so you kissed him. Why is that a problem?”

“Because,” Riley sighed, flicking some hair out of her field of vision, “Because we could not be more mixed-matched if we tried. He’s so confusing and everything with him is like one step forward and three back and I never know what he’s thinking! And even if all that were different, he doesn’t have feelings for me.”

Topanga gave her daughter a questioning look, “If you never know what he’s thinking, how do you know he doesn’t?”

Riley opened her mouth to reply, thinking back for a moment on the way Farkle’s blue eyes had seemed to crackle as he looked down at her, right before she had kissed him. She recalled the grip he’d had on her hips, how he’d practically crushed her against him.

How kissing him had felt a little like playing with fire…

She closed her mouth, furrowing her brow.

He fucking kissed Riley Matthews… and liked it. And very, very much wanted to do it again.

This was not an outcome he’d been anticipating. No educated guess he’d concocted upon first being paired with Riley could have possibly prepared him for this.

She was Riley, for god’s sakes! Farkle couldn’t have even imagined speaking to her without wanted to throttle her a month ago and now…

Well, now things were different. And confusing. And maybe even a little… intriguing?

She was intriguing, at least. 

Riley, honestly, had always seemed kind of boring to him from afar. She was the classic, sweet, smart, teacher’s pet that no one really hated but only a few really liked. People called her a prude from time-to-time and Farkle had laughed because how could a girl who looked like that be a senior in high school and never had a boyfriend?

He’d always assumed she thought she was just better than everyone else, above all the drama of dating. Farkle had thought she was a snob.

But the way she’d kissed him like she was composed of raw energy and passion. Riley had made him breathless, like she was trying to kill him, like a siren dragging him down to the deepest depths of the ocean. 

Sparks, silk, and vibrant color.

That was Riley Matthews.

She was a warmth that Farkle had never fully had in his life. His mother was chiseled from ice, after all, and his father’s distance always left the whole penthouse cold. His friends helped, sure, but they’d always seemed separate from him. Like they were too far away to hear him through the static. 

But Riley was pure sunlight and solar flare, blinding him when he looked too closely but deathly to him when they were parted.

She was soft, something he’d always thought a weakness before. Only, the more kindness and forgiveness he saw Riley give without condition, the more he wished he could be capable of that. Maybe it was how he was raised but everything had a price, even made-up ideas like love, and Farkle was still sort of waiting to see what Riley’s play really was.

But she never demanded anything in return for giving him her time or energy. Even weeks ago, when she still couldn’t stand him, she had openly and easily offered her sympathy and understanding, her grace.

Grace that Farkle only understood enough to know it was undeserved.

She scared him, honestly. She was a wild card, an unpredictable element. But he couldn’t tear himself away anymore, had either lost the fight to or just didn’t care anymore.

Because kissing Riley had felt a little like drowning in a riptide…

And Farkle really didn’t want to think too much about that.

The next morning came with a sense of uncertainty for Farkle Minkus.

It had been a while since he'd been nervous about walking the halls of his school. Once upon a time, the anxiety of that simple act had been ingrained into his daily routine but it had been a few years since he'd been that boy. Being friends with Lucas and Zay, learning to not react, over time he'd just grown into... someone else.

Someone who was not necessarily more confident but just cared less?

Caring was effort and irrational. It screwed with his head and Farkle hated nothing more than being clouded. Scientists, realists, like him had to be clear-minded and unaffected by silly emotional ties. Besides, it looked positively exhausting to have as many feelings as most of his peers seemed to.

So, Farkle didn't usually care.

But this thing with Riley Matthews, well, he couldn't really help it.

Nervously glancing toward her locker, Farkle saw that she was nowhere in sight and felt both relieved and disappointed. He hadn't wanted to talk to her or anything, didn't want to seem desperate, but seeing her would have... not been unwelcomed.

The locker beside him slammed shut and started him, causing him to smack his forehead into the door of his own. Groaning and rubbing his brow, Farkle glared at a grinning Zay.

The other boy laughed, glancing over at their third musketeer, Lucas, "I think it's about time that our boy here admits he's smitten. What do you think, Lucas?"

The blonde boy smirked and rolled his eyes, "Sure, Zay."

"Kindly fuck off, would you?" Farkle asked, closing his locker and tugging at his hair. He glanced back at Riley's locker again. She was still not there. "I am not 'smitten'. This isn't the Roaring 20s."

His two friends looked at each other, eyebrows quirked. Looking back at Farkle, Lucas sighed, "You know it's okay to like a girl, right? Even Riley Matthews."

Farkle chuckled, "You make it sound like I've never dated before. Remember, I had a girlfriend for two years."

"So, you do want Riley to be your girlfriend?" Zay sang, knowingly.

The young genius clenched his jaw and rubbed the back of his neck, rolling his eyes, "I don't."

"Oh," The boy nodded, tapping their other friend on his arm. "I mean, I guess that's good for Lucas. Right, Lucas?"

Both Farkle and Lucas looked at Zay in confusion.

After a moment, a look of realization passed over Mr. Perfect's face and he cleared his throat, nodding, "Uh, yeah!"

"What?" Farkle asked, narrowing his eyes.

Lucas shrugged, "Well, Riley's pretty cool and since you don't like her, I was thinking about asking her out. You wouldn't mind, right?"

Of course, Farkle thought while digging his nails into his palms, Of fucking course, Lucas was interested in Riley.

It made sense, from a Darwinistic standpoint, for Lucas to be interested in Riley. They were both optimists, both bright and shiny people. Two supernovas, lighting up the galaxy together like Hera and Zeus, while he and Riley... they were opposites.

The only connection between them was the natural attraction of unlike forces; Farkle knew that. He knew that even something as bright as a quasar could be consumed if it passed too close to a black hole. He didn’t belong in Riley’s gravitational belt, but perhaps Lucas did.

Objectively, it made sense.

It was at least a hypothesis worth testing.

Still, ice pierced his chest because the idea of Riley Matthews with one of his best friends; it made his stomach curl. No, it made him want to punch Lucas, to sock him right in that Mr. Perfect smile of his until all that Southern Charm was long gone and moving on.

See how Lucas liked being beaten down for a change…

Confident, cold, uncaring; it was how his mother always played it and maybe Farkle was a bit more like her than he liked to admit. Unclenching his jaw and forcing his hands out of the fists they'd locked themselves into, Farkle shifted his book bag on his shoulder and shrugged.

"Do what you want, Lucas."

Farkle really wanted to punch his best friend... But he wished that he didn’t care at all even more.

Riley fiddled with her Breast cancer pink pen and tried desperately to focus on the AB Calculus equation before her. It was one of those problems that, between the formula and the proof, took up an entire notebook page. She had thought she'd solved it but her answer didn't match the textbook.

"Hey, Riley!"

The brunette turned her head up, smiling as Lucas Friar approached her desk. It was a work day and the teacher, Mrs. Armani, had left them to their own devices with the simple instructions of staying quiet.

Sitting up, Riley drummed her pen on her thigh, "Lucas!"

She guessed that they were friends now, right?

He was Farkle's best friend and since she had still managed to postpone speaking to the genius, she assumed that they were technically still ‘friends' as well. Riley tried not to think about the pathetic crush she’d had on the Texan back in freshman year, but her cheeks still tinted pink.

Lucas came to stand before her, glancing over his shoulder before setting his notebook down on her desk and leaning down, into her space. Startled, Riley jerked back and laughed, nervously, as the boy smiled at her.

“Sorry,” Lucas gave her back some space, resting his elbows on her desktop, “I just had a quick question.”

Eyebrows drawing together, Riley tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, “Well, I mean, I can try to help but Farkle took AB last year s-“


“Not about Calc, Riley.” The boy smirked and Riley could feel herself blush. She wasn’t used to such direct attention from someone so, well, attractive. Besides, maybe Farkle… so not the time, Matthews.

Shifting in her seat, the brunette nodded, “Oh! Um, okay?”

Lucas licked his lips and sighed, looking over his shoulder again. Craning her neck a little, Riley could see Zay standing in the doorway of the classroom, gesturing wildly to his friend. Giggling, the girl narrowed her eyes as Lucas whirled back around to look at her, “What are you two up to?”

“Would you like to go out with me? Thursday night?” Lucas shot out, startling the poor girl for about the third time. Riley’s lips parted slightly, eyes widening in confusion. The Texan cleared his throat and slowly looked up to meet her warm, brown eyes, “It’s the start of the long weekend, so…”

Go out? With Lucas Friar?

At fifteen, Riley would have been staring at the boy, mouth open like a whale and a grin so big on her face it might have split it. She would have nodded and chanted ‘yes’ and walked on clouds for the rest of her life. She’d have gone home and doodled ‘Riley Friar’ until her notebook ran out of pages.

So, why did she feel nothing but dread at being asked now?

Because you wish it wasn’t him asking.

Swallowing, Riley bit her lip and gave Lucas an apologetic look, “I’m so sorry but I can’t. There’s just…” She glanced down at her fiddling hands and shrugged, “Something else going on?”

Lucas looked oddly relieved and nodded slowly, “Yeah! I get it, Riley. No problem! Just let me know if you happen to change your mind, okay?”


“Sure,” Riley agreed, smiling politely as Lucas made his way back across the classroom.

He was a very pretty boy…

But he didn’t make Riley’s heart race.

God, why couldn’t life just be nice and have Farkle ask her out instead?

The moment had come and Riley was still completely unprepared.

Stepping into the chemistry classroom seconds before the bell rang, the brunette was both relieved and disappointed to see Farkle already copying notes at their usual table. She felt a hand pat her back and gave Maya, who had a smug smirk on her face, a glare.

Making her way to her seat, Riley shakily set her textbook down on the table and glanced over at Farkle, “Minkus.”

The boy paused in his writing for just a second before continuing on as if she hadn’t spoken. Riley’s stomach rolled, the bundle of nerves in her gut making her eyes water. Taking a deep breath, she tried again, “Your weekend?”

Farkle shrugged, silently. He still hadn’t so much as looked at her. Fuck, fuck, fuck, why had she kissed him? Why, oh why?

Still, even if he didn’t like her, he could at least… talk to her? Right?

Riley started one last time, “I actually thought a lot during mine. About what happened last week… Or Friday night… Or between-“

“Matthews, I’m trying to work so that we can actually pass this assignment and get out of each other’s hair so would you please?” Farkle cut her off, finally dropping his pen to look right at her.

The girl swallowed hard, eyes burning. Get out of each other’s hair… But Riley really liked Farkle’s hair. She could remember gripping on to it and the feel of down feathers between her fingers as he took her lower lip into his mouth and clasped her hips.

Blinking and bewildered, Riley tried to keep herself calm.

Maybe this was just one of those mood swings Farkle always seemed to be getting into. Maybe he’d had a bad weekend at home. Maybe it wasn’t really her and it was just bad timing. Maybe, maybe, maybe…

“Planning on being a dead weight all period?” Farkle’s voice broke through the fog in her brain and made her snap to attention. He had finished copying the notes and was glaring at her blank paper.

“No!” She snapped, coming back to herself as irritation flared to life in her chest. “Planning on being a dick all period?”

“You’re right, Matthews,” The genius shot her a sarcastic smile with cold, icy blue eyes, “I am a dick but at least I don’t throw myself at someone and then run off the second a better offer comes along.”

Riley stared at him, dumbfounded. How did he even know about Lucas? And what did he mean ‘run off’ when she had turned the other boy down? And all in hopes that he would get the courage to ask her out himself, for fuck’s sake!

So, Farkle thought that little of her?

That she would kiss him and then go out with his best friend days later?

Well, fucking fine. He wants to be right about every damn thing? I’ll let him be right!

Biting her lip and glaring at her paper, Riley shook her head. Anger boiled in her blood and in that moment, she just wanted to make Farkle feel like shit for once. He did it so often to her, it only seemed fair.

Leveling her chin and checking to be sure Mr. Hudson wasn’t paying attention but Farkle was, Riley called lowly across the classroom, “Lucas!”

The boy, a few tables ahead of them, turned around questioningly. He glanced at his best friend, who sat tensely beside Riley, before quirking an eyebrow to the girl who’d summoned him.

Smiling in a way that looked painfully rehearsed, she said, “I changed my mind. I’d like to go out with you Thursday.” She glanced at Farkle from the corner of her eye and found him watching her with those cold, calculating eyes. “Turns out that ‘something else’ was really nothing.”

“Oh,” Lucas nodded slowly before grinning uncertainly, “Great.”

And with that, Riley Matthews began copying her notes down with a well-hidden sense of dread in the pit of her stomach and a quiver in her handwriting.

Changed her mind?

Changed her mind…

Changed her mind!

Farkle couldn’t get it out of his head. Riley had said she had ‘changed her mind’ and wanted to go out with Lucas.

Meaning that she’d originally turned Lucas down and Farkle had assumed the worst of her. 

Could he really be blamed for that? Most of the people he’d met only had the worst of themselves left; it had always been difficult to believe there was a human as fundamentally kind as Riley. So, he’d made an assumption based on past behaviors and solid reasoning and, yeah, he’d gotten it wrong but should that really cost him any chance at…

At what?

Because Farkle hadn’t been exactly lying that morning when Zay had asked him about Riley and used that word, girlfriend. Farkle didn’t want Riley Matthews to be his girlfriend; he didn’t have time or energy or motivation for a girlfriend.

He just knew he liked her. He just wanted to be with her and have her all to himself and kiss her like she’d kissed him on Friday. Completely different.

Not that it matters now, you asshole. A real stellar job there, Minkus.

While the ‘changed her mind’ part of Riley’s words had stung and made him want to sink into the Earth, it was the last thing she had said that really cut to the bone.

That ‘something else’ was really nothing.

Was… was he the ‘something else’? And subsequently, the nothing?

Had Riley actually, in some cruel twist of fate or destiny or whatever it was idiot’s believed in, had some kind of feelings for him and now she didn’t? Was that how feelings like this worked? One second you had them and the next you didn’t because you were offended? That didn’t sound right.

And that didn’t feel right, Farkle realized as he glanced over at a fuming Riley again. Riley had offended him too and he was still very… fuck it, smitten with her. Maybe…

But no, because Riley had said that he was ‘nothing’. His mother had told him that a few times after one too many glasses of wine. He’d documented it in his own notes, trying to prove his theory about being a living black hole. Farkle knew Riley was right, just like he knew he shouldn’t care and should stay rational and unemotional.

Only, Farkle still wanted to drown in Riley Matthews and he knew that wasn’t rational.

Aren’t these two just so fucking FRUSTRATING!?!?! Like, just bang guys, for real. Everyone wants ya to… Haha, anyway… I hope you guys like this update and are interested to see how this little triangle/totally-not-gonna-work date drama goes!