#or rather regarding fan chatter about his hair

[larrylimericks]

1Jul24

In a business that cult-ifies youth, It’s front-page: Lou’s silver-foxed truth. Yes, Petra, he’s gray; We love him that way. Fun fact for the press: he sings, too.

[reidecorating]

L'amore Vero È Così (True Love is Like This)

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Female Reader  

A/N: Woke up with a killer headache after celebrating the end of 2020 and thought writing something loosely based off events that took place on NYE would be a good cure. Hope this year’s been treating you all well!

Word Count: 4.3k

Summary: Summer nights and Spencer Reid make it hard for anyone to keep their hands to themselves. Add David Rossi’s holiday mansion and wine to the mix, and watch a dangerously hot fuse ignite

Warnings: Language (as in cursing AND me just completely butchering Italian), unprotected sex, penetrative sex

Masterlist

Maybe it was the Sauternes. Like a spark igniting along the fuse of dynamite, the sweet sting of white grape travelled down her throat, every sip exploding in kaleidoscopic vision and unfiltered words. Even so, it wasn’t the alcohol she was drunk on. No, not drunk - she wasn’t drunk - she was absolutely intoxicated. Not by anything of substance, but by an overwhelming desire for the man she had arrived with. 

Spencer Reid often felt out of place standing in any absurdly large entranceway, belonging to the old Italian with new money, recurrently settling for shifting from shoe to shoe, before taking a deep breath and pressing the doorbell with the hand unoccupied by a bottle he wouldn’t be drinking from. However, his sobriety was far from the cause of his imposter syndrome. Rather, it was the way he always arrived alone, while, what felt like, the rest of the team trickled in with their spouses or significant others. Whilst pairs would dance to vinyl sounds of Bowie, leaving little room for him and the odd number his presence formed in the abacus of the group, he would loiter in a corner, or, on occasion, entertain his godson with a pack of cards. More frequently, he would rattle off excuses about needing the restroom, only to spend his time exploring the corridors of a rather impressive house. A get together at David Rossi’s holiday home was uncommon, and the last time Spencer had wound up here, he found himself inspecting the tiny forgotten library the man housed, attempting to decipher the various foreign books residing on its mahogany shelves as he heard his friends stumbling their way through the Salsa downstairs. L'isola di Arturo, with sterling lettering on its ageing spine showing a familiar pen name, had quickly become his favourite. When he’d first translated the pages, he had chuckled at the parallels between himself and its disconsolate protagonist. However, after years of his ongoing solitude, and lonely arrivals to a castle full of people, he finally had someone on his arm. 

“Wait, what does this mean? I can make out the ‘amore’ but not much else,” That someone now squinted at the words his index finger underlined as he read her the words of that very book, aloud. “Hm?” He was visibly distracted by the Patchouli blend of orange and jasmine emanating from her skin as she leaned against his shoulder to read the page herself. “L'amore vero è così,” she whispered, unsure of the correct pronunciation but attempting it anyway. “Non ha nessuno scopo e nessuna ragione, e non si sottomette a nessun potere fuorché alla grazia umana,” she finished in a whisper, affecting Spencer in a way he hadn’t anticipated. Through fluttering eyelashes, she looked up at him, awaiting his rendition, and suddenly the temperature felt as if it had risen. It wasn’t as if she hadn’t been here almost as many times as him; she knew her way around Rossi’s holiday home, but Spencer had insisted on showing her his favourite room, claiming she hadn’t seen it yet. Diverting her attention from Emily’s anecdotes, “I kind of want you all to myself for a little bit,” he whispered in a kiss on her shoulder, proceeding to take her hand and pull her away from chatter over a jug of Cuban rum and homemade pizza - making sure to dissect, in explanation, nearly every painting adorning the maze of hallways on their short trek. He cleared his throat, prying his gaze away from the skin her little black dress revealed, unabashedly scanning her lips before using his own to form words. “True love is like this,” he subtly eyed her reaction to his words as he tried hard to not transliterate the European language. “It has no purpose and no reason, and it does not submit to any power except human grace.” Spencer’s voice was a newly inked quill, ebbing and flowing through the hot air of the dimly lit room. The dark winged butterflies that had been floating around her stomach all evening fluttered in a frenzy at his words, and the way the chartreuse of his eyes had been absorbed by black as they laid on her. “For such a dark story, it’s so beautiful,” she exhaled in a hushed tone, stare not leaving his as he slowly slid the book into the hollow slot where it had previously inhabited, too occupied by reading her demeanour to pay the book any more attention. “You think so? The author, Morante, Elsa Morante, was actually considered the greatest writer of Italy’s postwar generation, at one point.” Spencer began to rest his weight against the wall as they conversed. “I feel as if we always hear about Bassani or Parise, and all the unorthodox things Landolfi wrote in the fifties. It’s very refreshing to hear of a woman getting some well deserved recognition in such a male dominated niche,” she remarked. A dimple appeared on Spencer’s cheek as he grinned at the way she sounded a lot like him. “Agreed. In fact, Morante actually claimed she wished she’d been born a boy, so that she could have all of these heroic adventures. Once, when she was asked about the hero of that book,” he pointed towards the worn copy of L'isola di Arturo, “she commented: ‘Arturo, c’est moi!’,” 

“Living vicariously through him? Interesting,” she tilted her head slightly, “I also think its remarkable how beauty can emerge from so much pain,” she mulled aloud. His eyebrows raised at her words and the flux in her tone of voice. Slowly, she stepped towards him, forearms resting on his shoulders, entangling behind him. 

Earlier, she’d had the privilege of styling him as he stood in front of their shared mirror, muttering complaints of how he had 'nothing to wear’. Now, she repeated maledictions to herself regarding the clothing she had chosen, in her head, as she admired the way his black shirt was rolled up at the sleeves - displaying intricate nerves shadowing his fingers and arms - and simultaneously unbuttoned temptingly low on his chest, exposing the silver chain presenting a small initial, hers. The summer night had made sure a thin veil of sweat coated his collarbones, glistening with his movements under the lamp light. “It’s not a surprising process though - I mean, after the year you’ve had, just look at how pretty you are,”

“Did you just-” he gulped, chuckling, “use the copious amounts of semi-resolved trauma I harbour to romance me?”

“I may have,” she whispered into the skin below his ear, both hands now tangled in his hair as he remained pressed up against the wall, grateful that every wound, fight and flaw had led them here. And she never ceased to make her gratitude known. Tonight, though, ever since she’d caught sight of his hand gripping a cold glass, the strong concoction presumably belonging to Luke, she hadn’t been able to stop envisioning his body on top of hers. Unbeknownst to her, his thoughts had been very similar from the second she’d chosen to wear the satin fabric, claiming it matched his shirt, while leaving very little to the imagination. “Y/N,” he spoke, his body involuntarily leaning into hers. “We can’t- Not now.” His body language betrayed his words. “I don’t study behaviour for a living, unlike everyone else here, but Spencer, right now, yours tells me we can,” she brought down a hand to squeeze his wrist, which was resting against her lower back. He couldn’t breathe. Tongue in cheek, he shook his head at her, a smirk breaking way. “You, my pretty lady, are something else,” he caved, switching their position in a more urgent manoeuvre than either of them anticipated. Spencer’s hands grasped her jaw, his breath fanning over her before his lips collided with hers, messily. A hand cradled the back of her head, heeding any impact with the wooden blockade behind her, fingers and hair tangling together. Her hands travelled along his body, pinky tugging on his necklace in pursuit of closeness, while her lips roamed around his bobbing Adam’s apple, eliciting an exquisite string of moans. Spencer’s leg wedged itself between hers, slowly grazing his thigh against her, using a firm grip to guide her hips downwards, her soft sighs and tugs at his roots only encouraging him. 

The euphoria was short lived. A rapping on the library door tore them apart, its hinges creaking and giving way to an astounded looking Penelope Garcia. “Naughty!” she factitiously gasped. “I didn’t think the good doctor and his fine missus had it in them, but I was very, very wrong,”

“We were just-“ Y/N began, only to be cut off by the tipsy agent. “Save the excuses, beautiful lady. I was simply quested to find you two, and let you know that the rest of us are off to take a dip in the spa. Bring your boy toy, and scrumptious self, and join us ASAP - oh! And no funny business! There are children here,” Penelope gestured her two fingers away from her spectacles and towards each of them as a silent threat of ‘I’m watching you’. Y/N and Spencer exchanged a look, both flushed in different shades of red, on their way to creating a colour wheel. As Penelope spun on her heels and rushed to shut the door behind her, “Thank you, Penelope!” Y/N squeaked, Spencer exclaiming a timid “And sorry!” The two of them broke out into a fit of laughter, still frazzled. “I think I’m getting a little too comfortable with your team,” she grimaced, earning a laugh from the doctor. Later, as Spencer led her towards a bathroom, her arms occupied by a stack of towels, his hand on the small of her back, he dreaded the amount of self control he would need to invoke when the two of them would undress to change. 

What she had said wasn’t entirely untrue. She was indeed very comfortable with his team. If Spencer could have met himself, a year ago, anxious to introduce who he was sure was the love of his life to his dearest friends, he would flick himself in the head. She, not alarmingly, managed to get along with everyone, almost better than he did. Somehow managing to find common ground, even with Aaron Hotchner. He recalls, one night, months ago, listening to her and the usually stoic man debate about which broadway production was better: The Producers or The Phantom of the Opera. Spencer also recalls exactly how riled up he became as he watched her put the ex-theatric-gone-lawyer in his place after calling upon Spencer for some Tony Award statistics. Admittedly, he actively needed to combat the green eyed monster on his back whenever she would go jogging with Luke - but the way she kissed him before leaving, on her tiptoes in her running shoes, whispering ‘I love you’, and ‘I’m really only going for Roxy’, helped. She had become family, the invisible stamp of approval having been silently awarded when they all saw the looks the two of them shared, the three subtle squeezes in their woven hands, and the way Spencer now smiled with his teeth - the way they way they would move the moon and the earth for one another. 

Packed into the watery sauna, words exchanged between the group travelled into the atmosphere, a waxing gibbous eavesdropping overhead. She watched as Spencer squirmed across from her at the nearness to so many sweaty bodies, shoulders, elbows, knees and toes, belonging to anybody and everybody, poking him. Her eyes trailed along the dips and swells at the base of his neck, decorated in its usual, dainty, shimmering pendant, the bones there protruding as he slouched forward. Spencer’s hair was matted, condensation ironing chestnut ringlets to his forehead, complimenting his heated crimson cheeks. The butterflies returned, her stomach flipping as he ran his hand through the mop of curls to ease his discomfort. More of him - that was what she wanted. She hadn’t noticed, but she had been biting her lip nearly hard enough to draw blood. Pulling her back from her thoughts, a heavy exhale travelled past her left ear, changing the course of the steam emerging from the water - a stream of air enough to deflate a person, she noticed. “I can’t remember the last time I felt this relaxed.” The blonde rested her head against the barrier of the tub, seeing bright patterns on her eyelids as they shut over her eyes momentarily. Y/N reached over and grasped one of her shoulders in a clinical manner. “Who are you, and what have you done with Jennifer and the gruelling tension in her neck and jaw?” She interrogated, lightheartedly. “What can I say? Stress is my middle name,” she chuckled. “While we’re on the topic, though... Maybe you could give me one of those trigger-point massages,” she opened one eye, an iris burning sapphire, the blue only rival to that of the one from The Tell Tale Heart, finding Y/N’s face. Retreating her hand, having made her point, she let out a laugh at JJ’s words, “I’m afraid that’ll cost y-” Y/N’s eyes widened at the familiar dialect of the words, a charlatan on JJ’s tongue. “Wait a minute, can you repeat what you just said, but slowly?” 

“Oh, I know you heard me perfectly clear,” JJ smirked at her, eyebrows raising as her eyes shifted between the flustered woman and Spencer. 

They had a friendship of unfamiliar closeness, which JJ cherished. After nights of babysitting turning into wining with Merlot and dining on flaming dreaded cheese puffs, stashed away in an airtight container, upon JJ’s arrival home, the two had grown close. The agent was grateful for conversation veering away from work, and for someone seeing her from a different lens; one through which she wasn’t fizzled down to a petrie dish of a mother through a workaholic microscope. Y/N was curious to know how her famous mandatory-Spencer-de-stressing-trigger-point massages had come up in conversation between JJ and her, now guilty looking, boyfriend. She crossed her fingers in hopes that he’d spared the details of the events that usually took place following the neck rubs - another kind of de-stressing altogether. “Do you guys hear that? I think Will’s calling me- and I should go put Henry to bed… It’s quite late…” she exaggerated, wearing a redolent expression as she slunk away with a towel around her cold frame. “We’ll talk later, Jareau,” she looked up at JJ, after the shivering woman squeezed her shoulders in a bid goodnight, waving to the small crowd. Swiftly, Y/N’s gaze met Spencer’s, her figure not having left his vision once. 

The yard and small pool was clearing out, save for Luke and Tara bickering in the corner, so, through the bubbling water, she waded in Spencer’s direction, noticing the way he was evidently mentally undressing her. As if by his telepathy, a thin strap of her bathing suit slipped from its place, causing the gears in Spencer’s head to stop turning as he swallowed thickly. “Hey handsome, long time no speak.” A soft smile graced his lips, adoration for her evident, in place of his muted response. Wordlessly, he slipped a finger beneath the strap, tentatively putting it back in place, refusing to break eye contact in some unspoken play for power. “What’re you up to?” She squinted, wondering exactly what his motives were. “Nothing much,” he pulled her closer by the waist, whispering in a gravelly voice only she could hear, “I’m just thinking about how you didn’t get the chance to finish what you started, earlier,”

“Are you implying that you want me to…” she floated onto his lap, hands draping around his neck to steady herself, “pick up where we left off?” The question left her mouth in a breathy whisper, straight into his ear. He turned to look at her, unblinking. “I’m implying, that I’ve had those pretty noises you make replaying in my head all night, and that I’d like to hear them again,”

“Remind me, doctor, which one of us said ‘we can’t’?,” she mocked his whine, rolling her eyes back. “I have a better suggestion, how about you remind me which one of us struggled to stand the last time we played this game?” The calmness of his voice was the antithesis of the fire she was feeling inside her. Satisfied with her speechlessness, his eyes drifted down her body as she pried herself off him, settling in the plastic indent of a hot tub seat to his side. The attention of the pair of lovers were drawn to Tara’s laughter as she stepped into a robe, calling it a night. “What’d we miss?” Spencer’s clueless innocence returned, as if the words he’d spoken before were now out of mind. Devilishly, Tara responded, “Oh, you know, just me completely destroying this man’s ego,”

“Doesn’t take much does it?” Y/N offered Tara her fist in solidarity. “No it does not,” Tara chuckled, bumping it with her own. “You guys do realise that I’m right here?” Luke scoffed, also drying himself off. “I think that adds to their point?” Spencer offered, pursing his lips, amused. “Well, I’m going to go and catch some sleep, and maybe even shed a few tears over what’s been said about me,” he playfully scowled at Tara walking away, throwing a middle finger at him through the air without looking back. “Trust me, they are very professional,” Spencer promised, turning towards his only remaining company in laughter. “I’m sure they are,” she joked returning a smile. 

The two of them talked beneath an ink sky, stars like pinpricks in a blanket twinkling through their conversation, until she found herself on Spencer’s lap, once again, the ambience shifting to something far more carnal. Throughout the night, like a band of elastic stretching between two fingers, the tension between them had heightened. Now, they both tested the limits, anticipating its snap. His chlorine skin tasted electric on her tongue as she painted his neck and chest with a lilac rendition of the silver initial dangling there, letting his sighs catch in the shells of her ears. Allowing her tongue to explore his mouth, his hands tightened around her waist. “Mhm, no, Y/N,” he spoke, regaining his fleeting conscience. “This,” — kiss — “is a bad,” — kiss — “idea,”

“Spencer, look,” she glanced over at the house, and his eyes followed suite, craning his neck slightly. “What do you see?” She asked. “Aside from a house bigger than my entire apartment complex?” Her face was a deadpan. “All the lights are out, Spencer,” she gave him a look that said, come on, profiler, figure it out. Not a single connection formed in his head as he stared at the way the luminous blue of the night time water cast ripples on her skin - skin which was all over his. “All the lights are out… It’s late… and everyone’s asleep,” he reasoned, more to himself than in response to her insinuation. “We have no real chance of getting caught, plus…” her dark eyes were obscured by the eyelashes sheltering them as she tilted her head. “Would it be so bad if we did?” Two of her fingers danced along his chest, walking towards the damp hair at the nape of his neck, using the strands to pull him closer. “Everyone knowing exactly how good you make me feel?” She purred the last part in his ear, tugging at the cartilage with her teeth. Spencer partially whimpered. “Don’t hold back, gorgeous boy. You sound as good as you taste.” His eyes shut as his head hit the rim of the spa - only briefly losing himself once her mouth was on him again. “Someone’s talking like they’re in charge,” he tilted her chin up towards him, forcing her eyes onto his own. “I seem to be the one doing all the work here,” she teased. He kissed each of her collarbones, eyes still trained on hers. “You shouldn’t speak so soon.” With that, he undid the top of her swim suit, exposing her chest to the frigid night air, compelling a gasp. “Truthfully, I’ve been thinking about doing this a majority of the night.” The bass in his voice reached her core. “For someone who is so fastidious about cleanliness, you sure have a dirty, dirty mind, doct-” She never had the chance to finish the honorific, his lips moulding around a hardening nipple, allowing his fingers to toy with the other. Rolling his tongue around the bud, he smiled to himself as he heard her call out his name, over and over, as if her voice was coming through a scratched vinyl. “Where’s all the talk from before?”

“You’re evil,” she groaned, her hips bucking against his board short clad body. 

Spencers lips travelled along the valley of her breasts, only to hike back up them at a tantalising pace, prehensile fingers covering the ground his mouth couldn’t. Her hands grasped so tight in his hair, he was sure the strands would fall out. A groan of his own left vibrations reverberating through her body, causing her heart to jump. “Alright, you’ve had your fun,” he gnarred, as his hands gripped her wrists, holding them behind her back. With his unoccupied hand, he dipped his fingers into what was left of her apparel. “Is this all for me?” He smirked at the ease with which his fingers slipped over her. “Don’t flatter yourself, we’re in water,”

“You’re so impolite - even when I’m spoiling you,” tutted Spencer. Retroceding his hand, determined to leave her on edge, and her skin a mirror image of his, he continued to pin her fragile hands back against the base of her spine. “S-Spencer, please,” her words struggled to make any sense, “please, I need more,” she panted out, moving purposefully along the growing outline in his shorts. The pleasure was overwhelming. Spencer fiddled with the material still covering her, pulling it aside to make way for himself in between her legs. His eyes softened, silently seeking permission, even as she impatiently pulled down his waistband. When she nodded and eased his ailing with a soft, lingering kiss, he slowly pushed himself into her, never failing to be acutely attentive to her comfort as if it was their first time together. “This was what you were after?” Teased Spencer, his hips speeding up. “So badly,” she uttered out a sigh. “Then take it like you want it.” She craved his adept touch, and she made that known. “S- Spencer, oh god,” she groaned, “you feel so fucking good.” His breathing became heavier, softs grunts and hisses filling her ears with every movement. She buried her face in the crook of his neck, whining in a destitute way at the full feeling. At a slower pace, one of Spencer’s hands guided her hips along himself, while the other traced infinity on her sensitive nerves. “Sweet girl- fuck, you feel like a dream,” he moaned as she tightened around him. Her toes curled, the warm water of the pool splashing her bare skin. Spencer occupied all of her senses, the same way she did his. “I’m so close,” she whimpered, before he used his nose to nudge her face upwards, her momentarily open eyes reflecting constellations. Spencer kissed her once more. Her hands long freed from his grip, she left traces of herself in the form of tiny red sickles on his freckled back as her nails released some frustration. 

Dragging her fingers along his torso, she felt the muscles of his stomach tighten, hers doing the same. Shaky sighs wavered from her lips at the bliss Spencer was providing. “Keep your eyes open for me, angel,” she tried her hardest to focus on his lustfully blown pupils. “That’s it. Just look at what you do to me,” he gasped out, head falling backwards, eye contact broken - only for a second - before he gulped and looked back at her. “You’re breathtaking,” she whispered, hoarsely, stroking his sweaty cheekbone with her thumb.  She could recognise the golden gates of heaven in his eyes as he came undone inside her, warmth spilling over her in every aspect. The knots in her stomach loosened shortly after his, curses spilling from both of them. She rode him through his release, fond of the way he left light kisses on her temple, whispering compliments and confessions of love. Once he was sure she’d caught her breath, and some air had returned to his own lungs, he kissed her, gently, in the summer sauna heat, beneath the stars.

A loud cough startled the two. Stood in the open French doors of the veranda, scotch in hand, and eyes screwed shut, was David Rossi. Their minds were in the same place, wondering why they hadn't listened to Penelope’s drunken advice. “When you two are done, please remember to turn the tub lights off - and put the filter on high.” She hid herself in Spencer’s chest, heartbeat in her ears, contemplating holding her breath for a really, really long time. Spencer was flushed red, his own nose buried in her neck so as to not face the older man. “Or better yet, put some money together to buy me an entirely new spa,” Rossi, laughed, opening one eye to catch sight of Spencer giving him a shameful thumbs up. Even as Rossi wandered away, their embarrassment remained a fresh burn. Spencer groaned as her tired hand fumbled with his disastrous hair, “I don’t even want to begin thinking about how much of that he heard,”

“Or saw,”

“Don’t!”

“I’m never going to be invited here ever again, am I?”

[cherrywoes]

crimson king. (diavolo x fem!reader.)

prologue.

“Stricken among a field of poppies,

With hair as red as molten flame,

The Crimson King brought low the thane,

And thus usurped his father’s throne,

For there would be a day the world would end,

And he would not see it until his own life’s end.”

— the records of Paimon, King of the West.

masterlist | i. cruor.

♕

“LADIES, GATHER ‘ROUND.” The Matriarch of House Gascoigne clapped her silk gloved hands sharply. The sound echoed throughout the dance room, cracking through the air with the force of a whip. “We have news from the capital!”

An excited murmur rose amongst the girls. It had been months since the royal family had last issued news on any events regarding the palace, or the King and Queen themselves; ever since their children, the prince and princess, had fallen ill with some unknown illness, not a mere scant of word was allowed outside the palace doors, much less from the mouths of maids and butlers. It had left much of House Gascoigne (their female occupants, at least) with little to do besides practice their waltz, needlework, and plan on wooing the finest bachelors in the kingdom. To have this little bit of gossip to break their melancholy was welcoming—even if it was bad news, for a time.

“News from the capital!” One girl gasped, reaching for the letter in delight. The Matriarch held it high above her head, swatting the girl’s grasping fingers with the paper and striking a deep cut in her hand. She hissed and pressed the well of blood to her mouth, scowling at the older woman.

“Yes, news.” The Matriarch’s stony gray gaze flickered over the throng of girls, counting each head—seven in all, her daughters—and found herself just one shy. She counted once more, just to be sure, and yet again, she was lacking a duckling with particular [color] hair and [color] eyes. “Where’s [Name]?”

“[Name]?” Another of the sisters rolled her eyes and stamped her heel. The hem of her dress caught in the stiletto and she was forced to listen to the slight tear of the seam as it punctured through the expensive fabric. “Please! It’s not like she cares for idle gossip; open the letter, mother!”

“Last I heard she went out hunting with father,” one crowed slyly, waving a lace fan in front of her face coquettishly. Her eyes, sharp and blue, darted over to the matriarch, whose face was unmoving. “Not much of a change, is it, sisters?”

“Girls!” The matriarch’s sharp tone cut through the speculating chatter like a knife. The sisters dropped their gazes to the floor momentarily, then back up to their mother, properly chastised. “I am ashamed of you—all of you. Speaking of your sister as if she is scum of the earth; why, your father would be disappointed in all of you. I do not believe any of you deserve to hear this news today.”

“No, mother! We promise not to speak of her as such again!” Similar sentiment rose, each girl pleading with their mother individually with different promises and different oaths. “Please, the letter!”

The matriarch looked upon her daughters with a narrowed gaze. They returned her stare with ones of silent pleading. She sighed and closed her eyes. “Very well then. Let’s see what it says, shall we?”

She cracked the wax seal upon it and with a cough to clear her throat, began to read.

“Marriage?” You parroted back at your father with gawkish eyes. Your mare came to a still beneath you, snuffling at a patch of vibrant green grass, a product of the new spring. You could feel the stays of your corset protest at the deep inhale of disbelief you took, squeezing hard shards of whale bone against your ribs. “Are you saying what I think you’re saying?”

“It’s time, [Name].” Your father sighed, much in the same way your mother would do when she was exasperated with something you or one of your sisters had said. He adjusted the reins of his horse’s bridle, nervous, and stared off in the distance somewhere away from you. “You know I would never force you into an arranged marriage, but…”

“But I need to start looking,” you mocked in a high, posh voice. You snorted through your nose and fixed him with a dark glower. “How many times have I heard that before? Ten? Twelve?”

“I know… I know your mother pressures you,” he amended,”but this time I’m afraid I’m the one asking you to begin searching. You’re twenty years old, [Name], far past the age of marriage already; I just want to see you well off and comfortable, if not happy.”

“And my happiness doesn’t matter as long as I’m well off and comfortable.”

This wasn’t how you expected your day out with your father to go. You had expected to hunt dove, at most, maybe a few squirrels or two; your quiver had been packed to handle it. Instead, you had gotten barely a foot or so into the forest, your mare eager to head into the lush grass, before he was bringing up the subject of your marriage—again. This wasn’t the first time you had heard it, but it was the first time it had come from him, and you were starting to wonder if they were just concerned or wanted you gone.

“Sometimes you can have one thing and forsake the other.” He shrugged helplessly. “I would rather you have money and comfort. But if you can somehow gain happiness as well, then…”

Which was highly unlikely, he was saying, as your marriage would likely be out of convenience, as the majority of your older sisters’ were. Your family was rich and everyone wanted part of the Gascoigne fortune—if not in gold, then in their daughters. Each of your sisters had a dowry large enough to buy off a country or two and every dirty old man wanted a piece of it, whether you were willing or not. Luckily, your parents were not so old fashioned as to arrange your marriage with a far older man, or push you in that direction, but they directly encouraged you to get married soon, and quickly. It didn’t help that a lot of the men repeated the foul saying “Gascoigne pussies are as good as gold”, meaning that if they were lucky enough to get any of your sisters or yourself with child, they might as well be set for life.

You didn’t want that. Not if you could help it.

With narrowed eyes, you looked at your father once more. He was fidgeting in his saddle, avoiding looking at you entirely, and by the look on his face, you had to wonder if he was just nervous or debating asking you to attend a debut ball knowing full well that you would be five years older than any other girl there—at least, that was your assumption. You had missed your first and subsequent balls after a particular rough bout of sickness that kept you bedridden; you had only recently been able to function normally again, albeit with some lightheadedness if you were too active in a short period of time.

“Right.” You reached up and held a hand over your head to deflect an oncoming branch. “Well, I guess I have no choice in the matter, do I?”

He sighed once more. “You know if I had any other choice, I would give you all the time in the world, [Name]. But the older you get the more you risk turning out an old crone with no marriage ties. I don’t want that for you—your mother doesn’t want that for you.”

You huffed and turned your head. Your mother’s sole goal was to marry off all of her daughters to eligible bachelors to get them off her hands; at least the ones who didn’t cater to her every whim, like yourself and a few other of your sisters. She was not a cruel mother by any means, but she was a thorn in your side at times, especially with her insistence on perfection. Your waltz and embroidery were as perfect as they were going to get, and you most certainly weren’t going to shrink your waist down to her tastes either. You would be surprised if she didn’t have something else to harp on you about when you returned home.

“I suppose.” A glance at the sky revealed it was already lunch time. You had already skipped tea with your mother and sisters; skipping another meal was a bad idea, even if you were out hunting. A very unladylike sport, she would probably hiss. “We should probably get back for lunch if we don’t want mother getting angry at us again.”

Your father almost seemed surprised, looking up at the sky himself. “It is, isn’t it? I heard we’re having pigeon pie today.”

“Pigeon pie?” You repeated slowly. “Father, that was yesterday. We’re having potato soup today.”

“Oh. Are we?”

You didn’t answer, watching him turn his horse around and begin the ride back home. You followed at a distance behind him, watching as he regarded the trail as if it was entirely new to him and familiar in some spots. You had been wondering if his illness had gotten worse and your proof was right in front of you. His father before him had been afflicted with the same memory loss, a product of a few lines of inbreeding centuries before, you had heard, but only in the paternal line. It had started with him mixing up names and stuttering them into the proper ones; then he slowly began to fall out of his routine, eyeing his paperwork in slight confusion; and just now, forgetting days and time.

Before you could call out to him and ask what day he thought it was, you heard an ungodly screech coming from the manor. It sounded faintly like one of your sisters, but it was loud enough that the birds in the trees startled and took to the sky. You urged your horse into a canter, your father following suite, and the closer you got, the more you could make out actual voices instead of mindless screeching.

“—this is ridiculous! How does she get to go to the palace and I’m stuck here?! Mother, it makes no sense! She’s twenty years old, she has no chance—”

“—oh, please, Violetta, like you could do any better at nineteen—”

“—says you two, I could sweep him off his feet without even a—”

“—I wouldn’t even need a dance, just five minutes alone in a—”

“—Adrielle, shut your mouth! I ought to send you to a convent!”

“There she is!” A finger went flying to point to you as your mare pushed through the treeline, hooves clopping on firm stone. “Mother, tell her to turn down the offer!”

All of your sisters, including even the youngest ones, just shy of fourteen, were gathered around the cut in the pathway in a tight cluster. All of them had some range of fury or irritation on their faces as they looked at you, clutching their lace fans or skirts tightly in their fists. You had only faintly heard your mother’s threat to send Adrielle to a convent and raised an eyebrow at the little crowd they made, pulling your horse to a halt with her reins. You wouldn’t dare risk dismounting in a dress, so you stared down at them all from your mount in confusion.

“[Name],” your mother approached your horse with some hesitation, eyeing the mare’s ears in any hint of her mood. “Here. This arrived for you in the mail today.”

You didn’t miss the sour tone in her voice. You accepted the opened letter from her with a raised eyebrow, the broken seal on the back stamped with the royal crest. Your sisters watched you like a hawk, searching for any hint that you weren’t happy with whatever the letter said.

While the envelope wasn’t addressed to you, the letter inside was: it was written in the elegant hand of the Queen herself, even down to a personalized address from her as well.

‘Dear [Name] of House Gascoigne,

It is my pleasure to notify you that you have been selected to participate in the Bride Hunt for Prince Diavolo of the Devildom. As you filled all the requirements to participate, you, along with three other girls in your bracket, will be escorted to the palace to participate in a selection of games picked by the prince himself. As this is a show of goodwill between our kingdom and that of the Devildom, we encourage you to be on your best behavior with your fellow competitors and play to win.

As a more personal note, I do hope you participate, [Name]. I believe you have a true chance at winning, my dear.

Queen Cordelia.’

In the corner of the letter was her personal seal, stamped in shining red wax. Unbroken, you could make out the sigil of the phoenix, a half of the official crest. You looked up at your mother’s expectant face and then at your father’s hopeful one, having likely guessed what it was.

You sighed.

“I suppose I’m going to the palace after all, then.”

Your sisters groaned in disappointment. Some of them even clicked their tongues at you and turned to head inside, your mother turning on her heel and chiding them on their childish behavior.

Your father caught your eye as you moved your horse to head to the stables. His smile was one of pride and hope, as if this had made all of his dreams come true.

You only hoped you wouldn’t disappoint him when it all was over.

taglist (open): @crashica (just let me know if you want to be added!)

[phoebe-delia]

For the song prompt, let’s hear your track 5 lol

Lmaooo this made me laugh, thank you. I've already done my 13th track and now I get to do Track 5! (If you don't know why Track 5 is significant, it's because Taylor Swift puts her most emotional songs as the 5th song on every album).

My Track 5 is, fittingly, a Taylor song; not only that, it's "gold rush," which makes me happy because 1. it's a great song and 2. I actually wrote a fic based on it for the first EVER Drarry as Taylor fic--before I knew this would become a series. It's from Draco's POV, and it can be read here.

I'm so glad to take another crack at this song. This will serve as a sequel/companion piece to the original, but it can stand on its own. Enjoy.

For the first time in his life, Harry was too excited to sleep.

Unlike Dudley, he hadn't spent Christmas Eves and the hours before his birthdays anticipating presents and sweets. He'd never had anything to look forward to, nothing to keep him up at night in anxious glee.

But now, as he stared up at the ceiling, his new roommates sleeping soundly around him, he found himself able to calm his exhilarated mind enough to rest.

He knew that the red and gold curtains that hung around his bed meant that he was in Gryffindor, and he mentally thanked the magical hat for not sorting him into Slytherin with that Malfoy git.

Irritation rose in his chest at the memory of Malfoy insulting his new friend, Ron. Harry'd decided then that anyone who could look at Ron and decide to be so rude to him must be someone to avoid. He knew a bully when he saw one, and bullies, in his experience, didn't change.

Harry turned onto his side to stare out the window, marveling at the novelty of sleeping somewhere with a view other than cramped, blank walls.

He curled up into the warm blanket, finally letting the exhaustion of the day lull him to sleep.

________

Third-year Charms, Harry decided, wasn't any more interesting than it had been the first two years.

He sat next to Ron, who was watching Hermione take notes with machine-like speed and precision. While the sight of Hermione in action was entertaining for a minute or so, Harry didn't understand why Ron stared at her all the time.

Not for the first time that class, Harry regretted not sitting toward the back of the room. Malfoy was sat next to Parkinson at the table just behind them, and Harry knew it was unwise to turn one's back to one's enemy. It was much more prudent to stare at one's nemesis for as long as possible, using subtlety and stealth to make sure one's observations went undetected.

Ron stared at Hermione almost as much as Harry stared at Malfoy, but surely Ron didn't think their friend was up to something.

Well, unless you called memorizing every comma of Hogwarts: A History nefarious.

“Remember, class, your homework for tomorrow is seven inches on the history of the Summoning Charm. You are dismissed," Flitwick turned to the board, casting a cleaning charm to erase the notes.

Harry was startled out of his reverie by the sudden announcement, as well as by Ron, who nudged him and gestured to Hermione, whose head was still bent over her desk as she wrote furiously.

"How long d'you reckon she'd stay here and write if no one stopped her?" Ron muttered.

Harry let out a short laugh and opened his mouth to respond when he caught sight of Malfoy darting quickly out of the room.

Harry frowned. But before he could voice his pondering over why Malfoy'd all but sprinted from the classroom, Hermione had finally snapped out of her note-taking daze and joined Harry and Ron.

As they walked along the corridor, Ron and Hermione continued to squabble over whether or not they needed to go to the library during their free period.

"But 'Mione, it's called a free period. A period of freedom. Don't you want to be free?"

"I don't want my mind to be enslaved to ignorance, Ronald! Information is freedom."

"Merlin, fine. But I have to go get my textbook from the dorm first. Harry, you coming?"

Harry nodded. Hermione narrowed her eyes at the two of them before giving them a mollified nod. Clutching her books tightly, Hermione turned on her heel and walked briskly toward the library.

"C'mon mate," Ron said, tugging at Harry's sleeve. "Let's take the long way."

Ron prattled on about quidditch, and Harry tried to listen, he really did. But his thoughts drifted inevitably back to Malfoy. He kicked himself again for not choosing a better surveillance point in class; maybe if he'd been watching he'd have seen why Malfoy'd fled class at the end.

He and Ron ventured outside, through the courtyard and into the open area beside the lake. Harry felt a surge of victory and relief at the sight of Malfoy sitting on the bench, his head tilted back with a soft smile as if enjoying the warmth on his face. His hair glittered golden in the sun.

Without thinking, Harry started walking toward him, an animated Ron following along.

“But Harry, they haven’t got a chance! Look, the Cannons--”

Ron stopped talking as Malfoy turned to sneer at them.

“Can I help you?” Malfoy drawled, “Or do you mind taking your boisterous conversation elsewhere? I was here first.”

Ron glared. “Shut up, Malfoy. We didn’t see you, or we wouldn’t have come any closer in case being a prat is contagious.”

Malfoy smirked. “Unlike you, I wasn’t raised in a barn, so I don’t carry diseases. But we snakes do bite, so mind your place, Weaselbee.”

Ron started toward Draco, his fists clenched, but Harry grabbed his arm, despite the rage swelling in his own chest.

“Ron, he’s not worth it. C’mon.” Harry said, eyes narrowed at Malfoy in a clear warning.

Ron gave Malfoy one last glare before he let Harry steer him away from Malfoy, who widened his smirk in satisfaction. They walked away, Ron continuing his rant as they made their way to Gryffindor Tower. Harry looked over his shoulder, catching one more glimpse of Malfoy basking in the sunshine.

________

“P-Potter,” Malfoy gasped, trapped between the bathroom wall as Harry crowded him, his face inches away. “W-what—?”

Harry shook his head, smiling softly. “You heard me, Malfoy.”

“I-I’m not sure I did, actually. Might you repeat it?”

Harry chuckled. “Why don’t I show you instead?”

Harry lifted a warm hand reached up to cup Malfoy’s cheek, leaned in and—

Harry woke with a gasp, sweat beading on his forehead. A hand scrubbed over his face as he wiped the sleep from his eyes and felt his four-poster ground him to reality.

After the last six years, he was no stranger to waking up in the middle of the night from strange dreams, but his subconscious--or rather Voldemort--usually tortured him with disturbing images and nightmare scenarios.

This time, it seems Voldemort had left Harry's subconscious to its own horny, teenaged devices--and it apparently had a twisted sense of humor.

That moment of blind rage in the bathroom haunted Harry enough during the day that he wasn't surprised that it would make its way into his dreams--but his chest hurt with the knowledge that perhaps it might've gone differently. Might've ended in whispered apologies, explanations, and soft, exploring kisses.

But if Malfoy hadn't hated him before, he certainly did now, and Harry couldn't blame him.

Harry knew a bully when he saw one, and during that moment, he couldn't pretend it had been Malfoy.

He raised a hand to the scar on his forehead and wondered when he'd changed.

________

“Draco Malfoy, you are hereby sentenced to three months house arrest, followed by one year of probation,” Kingsley banged the gavel, the sound reverberating in the large room before chatter rose from the avid audience.

Harry watched with a small smile as Malfoy and his mother sat together, their cool masks wavering with emotion for just a second before shifting back into place.

He decided to give them a moment before approaching Malfoy, but if he didn't get this over with now, he'd never have the courage.

Suddenly, Malfoy rose on shaking legs and walked over to Harry, who quickly stood to meet him in the middle. Harry regarded him with a tight-lipped smile.

Malfoy tipped his head slightly. “Thank you, Potter.”

Harry nodded. “Sure, Malfoy.”

Malfoy nodded before turning away, stopping when Harry, acting on impulse, reached out and grabbed his arm.

“Wait, Malfoy. I have something for you.”

Malfoy looked at him in confusion as Harry reached into his pocket and handed him his wand, stifling a chuckle when Malfoy’s eye widened.

“Thanks for letting me borrow it,” Harry said, his voice quiet.

Malfoy nodded again. He took the wand from Harry’s hand, closing his eyes. Harry let in a sharp breath at the sight of a soft smile on Malfoy's lips as he reunited with his wand. The image was more compelling than Harry imagined, as evidenced by the butterflies that filled his stomach.

Harry cleared his throat. “Well, er, I’ll see you around, Malfoy,” he said, nodding one final time before turning to leave.

He smiled as he heard Malfoy's quiet, "Goodbye, Potter," as he walked away.

________

Harry pressed his lips together in a grimaced smile as a few younger students gathered near him at the table in the Great Hall. Ron and Hermione shot him sympathetic looks, and he gave them an apologetic shrug before turning to sign another autograph for a wide-eyed first year.

If this would be an indication of what his eighth year would be, Harry wasn't sure how much longer he'd last.

After promises to fulfill the fans' requests later, the giggling group left the table to let him eat in relative peace--it was rather hard to enjoy one's dinner while half the school was staring at you.

His eyes flickered to the Slytherin table, where the students ate mechanically, their faces blank. Malfoy, who'd sent surprisingly genuine apology letters over the summer, looked thoughtful; not calculating or analyzing, but pensive.

Lying in bed that evening, Harry remembered the image of Malfoy at the Black Lake with his head tipped back in the sunlight. He thought of the rare smile Malfoy'd had when he held his wand for the first time after his trial, and the feeling that had bubbled up in his own chest at the sight.

Harry looked out the window at the night sky and wondered if happiness would be a constant thrum under his skin, or if it could be found in stolen moments tucked into his heart. The stars glittered in silent answer, shining with anticipation.

[cherrynojutsu]

Title: Like Gold

Summary: Sasuke grapples with love and intimacy regarding his developing relationship with Sakura after returning to the village from his journey of redemption. Kind of a character study on Sasuke handling an intimate relationship after dealing with PTSD and survivor’s guilt in solitude for so long. Blank period, canon-compliant, Sasuke-centric, lots of fluff and pining, slowly becomes a smut fest with feelings.

Disclaimer: I did not write Naruto. This is a fan-made piece solely created for entertainment purposes.

Rating: M (eventual nsfw-ness)

AO3 Link - FF.net Link - includes beginning/ending author's notes

Trigger Warning: Implied/Referenced Self-Harm

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Chapter 5/?: Housewarming

Sasuke spars with Naruto for the better portion of the afternoon into evening, until they are both sufficiently exhausted and slightly sunburned, on the condition that he will eat anywhere but Ichiraku’s and anything but ramen for the dinner his friend is trying to goad him into after. Naruto agrees all too quickly, grinning too much for his liking, and saying a little duplicitously, “That so? Happens that I know a place!”

The blond refuses to tell him where he’s leading him after their fight finally concludes in a draw, weaving tiredly through village streets around six at night with bruised ribs. Sasuke begins to suspect it’s an elaborate ruse to lure him to his house to eat. Sure enough, eventually they turn a corner and marigold, cobalt, and fuchsia invade his line of vision.

“You’re so stupid. I’m not eating anything you’ve put your hands on.”

Naruto laughs, evidently not the slightest bit offended. “Don’t worry, Hinata-chan made me a bunch of food for the next few days! There’s more than enough to share, and I haven’t touched any of it.”

Sasuke grumbles, but his friend assures him that at least some of it’s not ramen, so he acquiesces cautiously and follows him through the threshold of his home.

It is pretty nice, as Sakura said, though he’s sure that’s because of the dobe’s wife and not him, and what he’s comparing it to - Naruto’s old apartment, littered with trash and expired food items in the fridge - doesn’t set a very high bar in the first place. The house has wood floors, and a spacious kitchen with plenty of storage, at least from what he discerns when he first walks in. He assumes he’s going to be forced on the tour shortly to view the rest of it.

There is an absolute mountain of pre-prepared food in clear containers when his friend opens the fridge. Sasuke will admit pretty much everything looks good, though he’s not sure what specifically the dobe plans on them eating. He’s not sure Naruto knows, either; he stares at the contents of the fridge for a long minute, squinting as if making a life-changing decision.

“...Does she think you can’t feed yourself or something?” Sasuke deadpans.

Naruto laughs nervously, in a way that gives Sasuke the impression that Hinata Uzumaki might not be as quiet and reserved as most people assume, at least behind closed doors. His friend almost sounds fearful, as if there may be consequences for him if he doesn’t eat what his wife has prepared for him in her absence in its entirety.

“...Or she just knows you’d eat instant ramen the whole time she was gone, otherwise.” This time it’s not a question.

Naruto has the grace to at least feign embarrassment. “Well, uh, you know what they say… Quickest way to a man’s heart is through his food, or whatever!” Sasuke wonders for a short few seconds what kind of repercussion Hinata could possibly be holding over him, but then remembers Kakashi’s warning earlier in the day, and decides abruptly that he doesn’t care to further pursue that train of thought.

Eventually they decide on vegetable and shrimp tempura with plain onigiri, all premade. Sasuke is hungry, and tempura has a high caloric intake. Naruto dumps the tempura in a mysterious device called an air fryer to warm, and while they wait, the blond shows him around.

It’s commodious, with extra bedrooms as Sakura said. Most of the furniture is rich dark wood, accented with slightly vibrant colors, inclusive of the walls, that are perhaps a little intense for his own preferences. It is obvious that Naruto helped pick the paint colors, but he assumes Hinata must like them, too. The Hyuga are an old clan, deeply rooted in tradition as the Uchiha had been; Sasuke imagines that many of the interiors at the Hyuga residences are varying shades of white, gray, or brown, also with darker wood, as many of the Uchiha households had been; a more colorful interior would have been a change for her. He supposes a proclivity for brightness makes sense, given that she’d married Naruto. Their house overall smells vaguely like jasmine blossom and nectarine, though not overbearingly so. Naruto’s apartment had never smelled like that, so it must be Hinata’s doing. Sasuke spies a candle the color of honey that might be the source, perched on a corner table.

It sits next to a framed copy of their original Team Seven group portrait. Sasuke eyes it as they pass through the living room again to the back door.

It opens up to a sizable backyard situated on the north side of the house, framed with a fence for privacy and a number of lush trees, dangling greenery swaying in the breeze. A small garden sits in the far back left corner, the area with the least tree cover; it’s been recently tilled and sowed, small sprouts beginning to poke through the soil.

“We get lots of fireflies back here in the summer. Hinata-chan loves them, so we sit back here all the time! She’s thinking of getting a birdbath, too,” Naruto mentions fondly, a bit more hushed than his usual timbre; he must have some good memories back here already.

“It’s nice.” Sasuke remarks at the end when they go back inside, because it is, and his friend grins from ear to ear, stupidly proud. Then the timer dings from the other room, and they eat.

Hinata’s cooking is good. Sasuke sorts out all of the sweet potato chunks to shove onto Naruto’s plate, but eats the rest: squash, bell peppers, eggplant, broccoli, and shrimp, coated in spiced breading that tastes slightly of rosemary, along with the onigiri, more simple but also filling.

Naruto prattles throughout as always, but chews his food before launching into each new topic; it really must be a habit by now. Sasuke doesn’t hold the scroll over his head just yet; he figures Saturday night will be enough opportunity for that. Instead, he solidifies plans for another spar, this time late Saturday morning, because through the nearly endless chatter he has learned that Naruto’s schedule includes normal weekend days off, unless assigned a mission.

The dobe asks him to go drinking with him afterwards; he declines, but thanks him for dinner. Eventually, he departs, after his best friend reminds him for the fourth time today to meet up at Ichiraku’s on Saturday night at six.

As he walks home, lone hand in his pocket, Sasuke finds himself pondering once again what Sakura’s living space will be like. She doesn’t strike him as someone who would like darker wood, for some reason. It’s an apartment, so it will be smaller than Naruto’s house for sure. He assumes it’s probably one bedroom, like his own.

The cadence of crickets creeps in again as he leaves the more lively area of town, buoyed into something quieter by the swishing of leaves through the trees. It’s a sound he craved on his travels often. There are similar sounds elsewhere - insects and trees are not uncommon - but something about Konoha’s particular lilt sticks out in his memories. A clement wind from the north carries an aroma tinged with flowers and loam. When he turns the corner, the breeze blows just right to shift his hair away from his left eye, and his neck heats as he thinks of Sakura’s words from this morning, not for the first time today.

Once he gets back to his apartment, he strips, then tosses his clothing directly into the washing machine, before enjoying a long, near-boiling shower; after the workout he’s had, he needs it. He thinks as he scrubs that this way he won’t need another one until after he gets back from seeing Sakura tomorrow. He contemplates whether they will eat somewhere, since he’s meeting her at the hospital at four. He’d liked the tea shop; she probably knows of other places worth trying.

He is so exhausted that he saves washing his dishes for tomorrow and falls asleep almost as soon as his head hits the pillow. His last thoughts are of gentle jade eyes and kind words murmured in an exam room.

Sasuke is thankful that he doesn’t have another nightmare, but his brain decides to fill the time in other demiurgic ways involving soft fingertips, and when morning comes, he does need another shower, after all; this time, a cold one.

He pinches his nose guiltily as frigid water engulfs him, until his teeth are near chattering. Once that’s done, he throws on a black shirt and pants before grabbing a book. He huddles up under his comforter to chase away the chill, drowning his thoughts in icy history ripe with distraction rather than lasciviousness.

He finishes it eventually, convinced towards the end that he needs to acquire a small lamp; he doesn't like overhead lighting in general, but he especially doesn’t like it for reading. His teeth have stopped clacking together, so he gets out of bed and spends the first portion of the day washing dishes, sharpening his chokuto, and then making lunch, seared beef with green tea noodles and miso dressing. It’s simple, but good, and filling. His throat hurts less than yesterday, but he has another cough drop after, because it helps.

He washes and dries the dishes from today, putting them away before he leaves his apartment to pick up a few more groceries to fill the time. The market he visits is sold out of loose leaf sencha tea; the one he’d visited the first day in his apartment hadn’t had any, either. He settles for a small box of single-serve packets for the time being, and has a cup upon his return to his apartment. It’s not bad, but it doesn’t taste quite as fresh. He reads more of his other book for a bit, until it’s time to leave to meet Sakura at the hospital.

He leaves a little early again, because he’s eager to see her.

Sakura greets him cheerily, lovely with a tote bag on her shoulder that is starting to become familiar. She tells him that she dropped off his paperwork earlier today, and that his bloodwork has all come back normal. He thanks her, and they spend a nice late afternoon together, roaming around while she points out areas of interest, most of it new development on the more southern part of the village. Wandering with her is much preferable to solivagant ambling on his own, he is coming to find.

He learns that Sunday and Monday are indeed her days off, unless there is an emergency; she mentions that she has a standing date with Ino every Monday morning for training and lunch, but other than that, she keeps her free time pretty open.

“Would you… like to do something on Sunday, then?” He asks carefully, hand twitching a little in his pocket and stomach churning a little in nervousness, though she has given him no reason to be. He hopes he’s not being avaricious by asking for too much of her time. She might prefer to spend some time alone on her days off.

Glittering green eyes beam up at him in response. “Of course,” she answers, and the storm brewing in his belly settles while the vines reach upwards into his chest cavity, because she says it with an inflection that implies there’s nothing she would rather do.

“I think it’s supposed to rain,” Sakura tells him as they walk further southwest; they’re nearing the edge of the village now. “So we probably don’t want to walk around too much. I usually…” Her eyes flick to him, and then away, as if self-conscious. “I usually curl up inside with a book on rainy days. Or... watch documentaries. Sometimes I play go or chess.”

A ghost of a smile overtakes him, because reading on a rainy day is very characteristic of her, but so are the other two things, which he hadn’t known.

Then she’s asking, somewhat shyly, “What do you like to do, on a rainy day?”

It’s a good question; he hasn’t been home for a rainy day in a long time. When he was traveling, he would find shelter - an inn, or the inside of a tree or a cave - and do various tasks that needed doing, like sharpening weapons or writing a letter to her. On those days, he would also often read her old correspondence to him, too, but he’d be embarrassed to admit that to her.

When he was younger, though, he would complete any neglected chores in the morning, and then spend the rest of the day reading, though he did it mainly for productivity to the point of distraction. Sasuke did not like being cooped up in his house for long periods of time, for obvious reasons. Occasionally he would venture to a training ground anyway, if the rain was more light drizzle than downpour, but most of the time he opted not to, because getting sick would delay his progress more than sitting out a day; he could advance in other ways, look into new techniques and practice taijutsu forms inside, if he really focused.

If it rained heavily for more than a day or two consecutively, though, trapping him in the house, he tended to struggle more with it. Sometimes he would stare at a kunai or shuriken left behind in Itachi’s room for too long, and end up sticking his wrist out a back window to watch the water cleanse the wound he’d carved into his skin until it coagulated. It wasn't something he did often, because he knew it was stupid and weak despite the small semblance of control it afforded. It also wasn’t something he only did when it was raining, but being entombed in that house due to inclement weather poured salt into his baser self-destructive tendencies, irritation burning until it was too much and it had to escape his skin to go somewhere. When it rained, it felt like it was an opportunity to rinse it out of him, a tiny increment of relief, rivulets reaching down to turn him over in the grave of dark wood and dull paint colors it felt like he was suffocating in.

Sasuke would go get groceries most of the time, before it got to that point, even if he didn't need them, just to get out of the house for a bit and away from the temptation. He’d come back soaked, tracking water everywhere before curling up in his bed to try to chase away the chill with more distraction, books or scrolls or trying to watch something. Eventually he’d warm up on the outside, but his insides still felt icy for a long time, most days.

He's in an apartment now, though, a long way from what used to be the Uchiha District. He takes a grounding breath that he hopes is subtle, trying to emerge from the glaucous recollection and subsequent smothering feeling lining his lungs. “...I do any chores that need doing, and then I like to read, too,” he finally answers. It's the truth, now. Keen but soft eyes hold his for a moment, and he worries maybe he didn’t fully succeed at the subtlety, but she doesn’t press. He’s thankful for it; he doesn’t want to think about that when he’s with her.

They make plans to have lunch and spend the afternoon reading their respective books at her apartment. He might finish his other book by Sunday’s end; maybe she would go to the library with him again Monday afternoon, if she’s not too busy. He wouldn’t mind playing go or chess, either, if she asks him. It would be a challenge; he hasn’t played either in years. He’ll save it for Sunday, though.

“I can cook,” she offers, looking very pleased, which makes his heart flutter in his chest. “Maybe soup and something to go with it, if it’s chillier? I have a slow cooker I can start it in, the morning of.”

He agrees immediately; he likes soup, and it’s been a while since he’s had a good bowl. Most of the soup he made on the road was limited to whatever ingredients were readily available, with simple water as stock. The result was usually something bland, warming but not hearty by even the barest standards; soup made in a kitchen is much better. He’ll eat any kind, really, especially if it’s cold out. He wonders what Sakura’s cooking is like; she excels at most everything she does, so he imagines it must be good.

By just after five, they’ve ended up at a fairly new and distinctive quadrant of training grounds a little beyond the southwest edge of the village, sharp quartz rock jutting up from uneven ground in several spots and a small creek running down its center. Parts of it sit at a raised elevation, offering a unique vantage point of Konoha. Sasuke realizes as he eyes the surroundings that he would like to train here sometime; the craggy terrain could prove an interesting element to contend with, an exercise of both the mind and body. He’s glad she showed him; he wouldn’t have ventured to this side of town for a long time, on his own.

“Are you hungry?” He asks, thinking he could buy her dinner if she knows any places nearby. It’ll be busier now that it’s dinner time, once they get back into the village, but he doesn’t mind.

Sakura doesn’t answer at first, and instead starts to fiddle inside her bag. His brows knit in confusion, but then she pulls out two bottles of water, two bento boxes, and two pairs of chopsticks.

They’re in reusable containers, not takeout ones, which means she must have made them herself. Sasuke stares at the one she gives him, dumbfounded; it’s filled to the brim with cooked rice topped with black sesame seeds, tonkatsu with sauce, shredded cabbage, green beans goma-ae, and a large number of tomato wedges. Her own has less tomato; a few grapes round it out instead. He also notices the tonkatsu sauce is already poured over hers, but his is in a small sealed container, so he can eat the pork plain if he decides he doesn’t care for the tangy but also slightly sweet dressing.

“I thought we could eat these here... if you want. We could avoid the dinner rush that way. I made the sauce a little less sweet than usual, but I still wasn’t sure, so I thought I’d let you decide,” Sakura offers, soft and kind. He’s too stunned to say anything right away, so she adds somewhat sheepishly, “If... you’d rather get something else, though, that’d be fine, too.”

He thanks her very quietly, then, a little dazed and throat closing up, because he would not rather get something else; he hasn’t had a bento in a long time, let alone one that was prepared specifically for him. The training ground is empty, so they hop up one of the small cliffs and eat it there as she suggests, in view of Hokage Rock framed by trees. It is very good, clearly made with fresh ingredients; the pork is juicy on the inside and texturally crunchy on the outside. The sauce is good, too; not too sweet. He makes sure to eat all of it, as well as to tell her he enjoyed it at the end. She flushes at the compliment; she is very pretty, pink hair and pink cheeks to match.

"How long do you think it'll be before Naruto's up there?" She asks him after they’ve been sitting there for the better part of an hour, food long finished and eerily echoing his thoughts from a few nights ago.

Sasuke regards the mountain, empty space next to Kakashi's likeness. He recalls dinner yesterday at his friend’s home, Naruto sharing food with him made by his wife, and Ichiraku’s the day before that, how he no longer talks with his mouth full, and how he has not pressured him to share about Sakura. Sasuke is sure his rare tact won't last forever, and that he'll be hounded about his relationship with her eventually, but he has appreciated the space gifted to him. For all of their teammate’s fatuousness, he really has grown. If he can get an increment better at deciphering scrolls...

"Not long," he responds eventually. "Five years. Maybe six, with the sculpting."

Sakura nods in agreement, an evocative smile playing at her lips; she must suppose the same.

He speculates, then, tearing his gaze away from her mouth, who else they will see on the mountain in their lifetimes, in the empty space extending to the right. He thinks Naruto is the type to live to be pretty old, especially if Hinata is coercing him into eating balanced nutritional meals now; he might make it to a point where he actually retires from being Hokage, like Tsunade, or Kakashi, eventually.

The next Hokage could be in the village already, maybe in the Academy still, or a Genin. Sasuke remembers a scrawny kid with atrocious camouflage techniques who used to follow Naruto around and challenge him to battles over the position; it may have been the Third's grandson. He hadn’t seemed particularly talented at the time, but then again, neither was Naruto at that age. It’s possible that the kid has progressed since then. It’s also possible, though, that the next Hokage has not even been born yet.

Sasuke walks Sakura home a couple of hours later, dark violet light of dusk cast on her through diamonds on her doorstep. Her expression is the same as the other night, eyes sparking with gold affection, so he kisses her again, hesitantly hoping it’s okay, because he really wants to. Apparently it is, because she rests her hands on his shoulders and kisses him back without an ounce of uncertainty. His hand is free this time, so he rests it on her waist carefully, and enjoys a sweet breath of spring.

XXX

Sasuke arrives at Ichiraku’s at six on the dot to find both of his teammates already there, with an empty seat left between them and three glasses of water on familiar currant red counters. He is unsurprised to see that Kakashi’s not here yet. There’s an empty seat to Naruto’s left that is clearly being saved for their old sensei using one of Naruto’s sandals, off his foot; it’s pretty busy, being a Saturday night. He also notes Sakura’s tote bag situated beneath the counter, underneath the stool she’s sitting on; perhaps her afternoon with Ino went longer than anticipated, and she hasn’t had time to go home yet.

Both of them turn their heads as he approaches, brightening and greeting him in unison beneath fluorescent lighting.

“Teme!”

“Hey, Sasuke-kun.”

It is terribly nostalgic. He takes the place between them, responding, “Sakura. Dobe.” The streets themselves are busy, but within the actual enclosure of Ichiraku’s, it’s not as loud.

“We haven’t ordered yet,” Sakura tells him good-naturedly, smiling and pushing him a menu. His gaze lingers on her for a second before looking down at it. She’s pretty beneath fluorescent lighting, too.

“We’re not fucking waiting for Kakashi-sensei, though. I’m hungry , and who knows when he’ll turn up? He’s probably reading one of his stupid books and lost track of time again,” Naruto grumbles, peckish, from his other side. His friend’s stomach growls, as if on cue.

Sakura laughs, then sighs from his right. “He’s probably lost in a pile of paperwork. At least this time it might be true.”

“...He might be trying to finish breaking the cipher on that scroll you can’t seem to solve,” Sasuke quips smugly towards his left, eyeing the menu, though he doesn’t really need to; he knows his order already.

He is way too satisfied by Naruto’s huff. “Ugh, I’m fucking sick of staring at that thing. It makes me feel like my brain is melting. I wish he’d just give me a mission. I want to fight something.”

“I’m sure you’ll both get one eventually,” Sakura remarks with confidence. “Try to enjoy the peacetime a little. It’s a good thing. Besides, if you really want to, you can just go battle it out at the training grounds...” She eyes them both with a critical and calculating scrutiny now, a single pink brow arched and something in her tone shifting. “...Though by the bruising, I’m sure that’s already happened.”

There is a fist shaped smear of violet he knows is on his forearm, clearly visible from her vantage point. At least his ribs are hidden; there are nasty bruises on three of them from the first spar, and another two developing from this morning. Naruto looks a little scared, when he glances over at him; despite the fact that the blond is laughing nervously, his hand is held awkwardly, obviously trying to shield the bruise he has on his chin, turning purplish-blue by now.

It was another draw. Sasuke expects he’ll be able to beat him, next time. He’s found he’s a bit rusty, not having too many excuses to use his more advanced techniques in a long while.

Sakura rolls her eyes after a tense moment, and the spell is broken. “If either of you break anything, just don’t be stupid; come to the hospital or my place so I can fix it.”

“Sure, sure, anything you say, Sakura-chan!” The dobe responds next to him, hesitant laughter still tinged a little with fear. Sasuke nods, then thinks for about the fifth time today that he’s going to see her apartment tonight.

Once Sasuke slides the menu back, Naruto catches Teuchi’s attention; the blond orders garlic tonkotsu, Sasuke orders hakata tonkotsu, and Sakura orders shoyu ramen. It’s the same as what they used to get when they were kids.

It’s a nice evening for this, he thinks.

“So what’s new at the hospital, Sakura-chan?” Naruto asks conversationally. “Anything exciting?”

Sasuke shifts his gaze to his right, where Sakura looks as if she’s giving it a lot of thought, lips shifted to the side; he forces his eyes upward. “Eh, nothing too exciting, yet. Just appointments and research, for the most part. I’ve got some long-term projects I’m working on, but I’m just kind of waiting to see how the data pans out at this point while I monitor. It’ll be another month or so yet for anything concrete there, I think.” She cocks her head to the side a little. “I’ve got a transplant patient we’re waiting on an organ for, so we’ve been trying to prep her so she’s ready; different medicinal cocktails, testing, and such.” She pauses. “Tsunade-shishou sent over some things that arrived this morning, though, and one of them was a sample of a new poison found in a few Shinobi in Wind. I guess that’s… interesting. She’s going to work on it, too, so hopefully we get an antidote quickly, but I started some tests on it today.”

Sasuke’s lips turn downwards. That doesn’t sound good.

“Ehhh, between you and Granny Tsunade, I’m sure you’ll find an antidote soon!” Naruto chirps positively from his left. Then he quiets, in a manner that suggests he’s cogitative. “How bad?”

“Well, it’s slow enough progression-wise that they’ll live if we find an antidote in time; they’ve got at least a month, we think. Maybe more, if Tsunade-shishou keeps siphoning it out via the Delicate Illness Extraction Technique. It’s not... pleasant for the patient, obviously, but it works. She’s already run most of the preliminary tests; calcium chloride, pyridoxine, sodium bicarbonate, so we at least have some stuff ruled out.,, There might be others eventually, though, so it would be best to nip it in the bud and have an antidote readily available, really.”

“...What do you know about it so far?” Sasuke asks. “In terms of the type of toxin.” Having been dosed numerous times with poisons to build up resistance, he knows he is essentially immune to many of them, but a new one popping up is never something one should disregard in their line of work.

Jade shifts to him. “We suspect it might be a mixture of several venoms, plus a heavy neurotoxin. Epinephrine doesn’t work at all, though; that’s why we’re leaning towards it being a combo. Something has to be continuing the effects while that cycles through the system.”

Neurotoxins are troublesome; a mixture with it is nothing to scoff at. “It causes paralysis?” He questions.

Sakura inclines her head in a nod. “Immediately after Tsunade-shishou uses the Extraction Technique, though, they gain some movement back, so if we can find an antidote, it won’t be permanent.”

There is a contemplative silence.

“So what you’re saying is, you’re gonna kill a lot of rats,” Naruto finally jokes from his left, gauche as ever and clearly trying to lighten the mood.

“They’re mice, not rats,” Sakura responds, rolling her eyes. “But yes. We probably will. Necessary sacrifice, I suppose.”

There is a substantial length of time that feels heavy, even with the distant background noise of people going about their evening.

Sakura is the one to break it. “What about you, Naruto? Anything new? Hinata’s on a mission, I heard. What have you been doing to fill the time?”

Sasuke glances back to his left, where Naruto is grinning suspiciously.

“You mean other than kicking the shit out of teme?”

Sasuke narrows his eyes. “As I recall, both spars were draws, dead last .”

Naruto laughs, unbothered and waving his hand jokingly. “Eh, really I dunno. Mostly just helping Kakashi-sensei at the office. He’s torturing me with homework , since Hinata-chan’s gone.”

Suddenly their food is being placed in front of them. His smells good, charred pork belly swimming in spring onion, nori, mushrooms, noodles, and ginger. Sakura says thank you to Teuchi, and then he hears her break her chopsticks. She doesn’t miss a beat. “Hypothetical mission assemblages again?”

Naruto groans as he snaps his own chopsticks. “Yeah, it’s a nightmare. I know most of the people our age fine enough, but you basically have to memorize everyone’s abilities, strengths, and weaknesses, or you spend hours doing it because you have to refer to The Binder.” The way the dobe articulates The Binder makes it sound ominous.

“Huh. Now that I know it’s a nightmare, I’ll make sure to give you even more of it,” a familiar voice lilts behind them.

The three of them turn, and Kakashi is behind them, clad in simple Jonin dress instead of Hokage robes, for all appearances completely unbothered by the fact that he’s nearly twenty minutes late.

All three of them give him a withering look, slightly tinged with nostalgia, and say nothing.

“Sorry. Got lost in a pile of paperwork.”

Their old sensei removes Naruto’s shoe from his saved seat, and places it directly on the blond’s head. It promptly falls off and nearly lands in the idiot’s bowl of ramen as he splutters to catch it. Kakashi orders hakata tonkotsu without even glancing at the menu, same as Sasuke.

“So. Isn’t this nice,” The Hokage drawls. “How are we all? Enjoying the springtime?”

“It’s good! Hinata-chan planted a garden! We’re gonna have broccoli, and sweet potatoes, and maybe even pumpkin!” Naruto responds as he shoves his shoe unceremoniously back onto his foot before reaching for his chopsticks again.

“The weather has been nice," Sakura pipes up from behind him, though her tone of voice makes it sound as though more than that has been nice. Something in him twists pleasantly.

“...It’s good,” Sasuke comments last, before taking another bite of his food. It’s an understatement.

Kakashi looks content, head nodding in agreement. “Everything’s really greening up. I think it’s going to be a good year. No wars on the horizon, either, at least that I know of; that’s always preferable. Gets one into a reflective headspace.”

“About what, having time to read porn in your office?” Naruto quips sarcastically in between inhaling bites of bean sprouts and noodles, though Kakashi doesn’t seem at all fazed. Sasuke hasn’t seen any orange books in the times he’s visited the Hokage’s office so far, but he’d been sure they were stowed somewhere within easy access.

“Can’t a Hokage take a break to enjoy fine literature once in a while?” Their old sensei asks good-naturedly, but Naruto rolls his eyes as Sasuke, and he assumes Sakura, continue to eat their food at a normal pace.

“Fine literature? As if ! You forget I’ve read all those books. They’re full of good ideas, sure, but they’re still fucking porn ! And anyways, no, you can’t take a break. Not when you’re piling homework on me like I’m in the Academy still. I know , by the way.”

Now Kakashi’s smile turns a little nervous. To most people, the change would be imperceptible, but it’s there for those that know him well. “Know what, exactly?”

The blond’s eyes narrow accusingly. “That you’re actually using my homework to put together squads for real fucking missions! I shouldn’t have to find out from Shikamaru. In the Academy, they expel kids for that shit.”

Judging by the caught expression on Kakashi’s face, there is at least some element of truth to this, which means Naruto must be doing an okay job, at the very least. Interesting .

“So a sensei isn’t allowed to appreciate and value the advice of a cherished student?”

“Whatever. Just keep giving me days off when Hinata-chan’s home and maybe I won’t tattle to the other kages.”

Kakashi smiles. “I can do that.”

There is a beat where everyone besides their sensei is quiet, taking a few bites of their food. Sasuke’s is good; he’s hungry. Going near all out against Naruto has given him a little more of an appetite, the past few days. He’s been trying to eat more, as Sakura suggested.

“Sakura, I received an interesting letter from Tsunade today.” their old sensei drawls after a bit. Sasuke shifts slightly. She’s swallowing a bite, and looking curious.

“About the poison?”

Sasuke glances back to his left in time to see Kakashi nod. “The poison, and also other worthwhile projects. Let me know if you need any funding for such things, and I’ll find a way to take care of it.”

Sasuke wonders what kinds of projects, but assumes it might be rather confidential when Sakura blinks, then nods, answering simply, “Thank you, Kakashi-sensei; it’s greatly appreciated.” Perhaps it has to do with her research.

Naruto finishes off his first bowl, and orders another. Now that he’s not inhaling food, he begins chattering again.

“So anyways, when are you gonna send us all on a mission together again?! I feel like I’ve been trapped in that office with you like an old croney for eighty-four years.”

Suddenly Kakashi appears very tired, eyes narrowing in exhaustion. “If you feel trapped now, I’d hate to see how you feel in five years or so.” He pauses, as Naruto narrows his eyes at him and crosses his arms. “I have a lost cat mission you could complete, I suppose. Or would you rather clean up the river? It’s good weather for it. Water’s warming up.”

Naruto looks at him indignantly. “As if. I want a real mission!! One that suits our strengths.”

The way Kakashi considers Naruto then is fond. Sasuke vaguely recollects a time where Naruto begged the Third for a ‘real’ mission a long time ago; that must be what he’s remembering.

“Well, the problem with that is that Sakura formally outranks you,” he finally retorts. His food shows up a second after he finishes talking.

Naruto groans. “This shit again?” Sasuke assumes this must be a running thing Kakashi likes to hold over his friend’s head. Technically it’s correct; Sakura had told him she’d made Jonin at the exams in Earth Country a while back, in one of her earlier letters. He’s sure she could have made Jonin sooner, but she’d been occupied with things at the hospital, he thinks. Naruto and himself, meanwhile, had never taken the exams, though it hadn’t affected their ability to take A and S-rank missions, given their role in ending the war; they held honorary Jonin positioning in all but the actual title itself, and weren’t held back from missions because of it in any way, but still, Sakura is the only one of their team that has taken them officially and passed. Naruto had told him that Tsunade didn’t want to promote Sakura like that, despite her contribution in ending the war, too; he’d assumed it was because the Fifth didn’t care for Sakura’s promotion to be in any way weighed down by assumptions of nepotism, especially with her taking over the hospital. Kakashi hadn't, either; he'd assumed for the same reason. Naruto and Sasuke getting special treatment regarding what missions they can accept is fine, because currently they hold no official titles, but with Sakura heading the hospital, it’s a different matter.

“How many times are you gonna hold that over my head?! Quit fucking around already. It’s not my fault Granny Tsunade wanted to show Sakura-chan off to all five nations, and besides, I was literally there, so it’s not like I don’t know.”

Sasuke blinks in sudden interest, as Kakashi quips, “If you were there, why didn’t you take the exams yourself? I seem to remember someone getting banned from the Kage’s seating area. That looks great for a future Hokage candidate, by the way, and was fun to try to de-escalate with the elders of Earth Country. Maybe you could have set a better example if you had also been taking the exams… Though I suppose it would have been embarrassing for you when Sakura beat you in three seconds flat.”

Sakura laughs a little to his right as if she is amused as Naruto complains some more, while Sasuke considers that he has never been given a detailed account of her performance at those exams, though he’s sure it was excellent. He’ll have to ask her or Naruto about it.

Naruto’s still whining. “Come ooooon. Just ONE teensy little mission. No bullshit. We’re all back; you basically have to, it’d be illegal NOT to. It can even be a B-rank.”

Kakashi doesn’t miss a beat. “I have a nice C-rank you two could probably handle.” Sasuke twitches a little, because he knows that’s directed at him, too, now. “Simple escort to Sand. Don’t want to take a prestigious Jonin away from her important work at the hospital, though, for such a measly thing.”

Sakura’s laugh twinkles. “Send Shikamaru. I’m sure he’d love to go.”

Kakashi grins, as if he is in on a joke. “Yes, Naruto, Sasuke, and Shikamaru. That would be an interesting team, to say the least, though perhaps a little overpowered. I’ll think it over… If nothing comes up that we desperately need Shikamaru for, that is.”

Naruto grumbles and turns to finish emptying his second bowl of ramen as Sasuke surmises inwardly, finishing off his own, that it would be an interesting team, even if it was just an escort. From what he knows, Nara is a capable leader and excellent strategist. He’s sure Shikamaru doesn’t like him very much, which is more than fair, but watching Naruto annoy someone else for a change would make the heated trek to Sand bearable. He wonders what Sakura’s comment was about, though. Maybe it was sarcasm, regarding most peoples’ general disdain for the sweltering weather there.

Sasuke notices, as he pushes his bowl forward, now empty, that Kakashi still hasn’t touched his food. He makes a mental note to keep an eye on that. When he glances to his right, he sees that Sakura has finished hers, too.

The restaurant is starting to clear out a little, it being closer to seven now. Naruto finally stops mumbling insults towards Kakashi, and instead peers at him as if he’s waiting for something. Maybe he wants to go home; his friend might have plans after this, though he’s not sure what they would be, given his wife is away.

“...Sorry to disappoint you, Sasuke, but we’ve been less than honest about dinner tonight,” Kakashi begins after meeting Naruto’s gaze. Sasuke’s brow furrows in puzzlement, and the dobe starts grinning smugly. When he glances the other way towards Sakura, she smiles, too, and looks a little guilty.

“It is also… a housewarming party.” The Hokage grins. “Though we thought we’d just have it here, and you could take your gifts home with you tonight.”

Sasuke frowns. “You didn’t need to-”

Naruto butts in, indignant and cutting him off accusingly with a pointed finger, “And don’t even TRY to say no, because I got you the best gift.” Sasuke has a brief premonition of his sparse kitchen cabinets suddenly filled with a month’s supply of instant ramen, and it takes everything in him not to roll his eyes. The dobe motions to Teuchi, gesturing towards the inner portion of the ramen stand, just below the counter. Sasuke then recalls the bag beneath Sakura’s chair, and frowns deeper, turning to her; though he’s sure the shoe box was free, she’s already given him the drying rack, which he’s sure was not. She didn’t need to get him anything else.

She just grins at him, eyes flashing with mirth as if she finds this amusing. He’s about to say something - he’s not sure what - when Naruto taps him on the shoulder. He turns, and the most poorly wrapped gift he has ever seen in his life comes into focus, a long thin mess of too much tape and intensely colorful paper, scrunched together haphazardly as if put together by a child with little motor control, and shoved directly into his face.

“...Why did you wrap it?”

His best friend rolls his eyes. “Because it’s a PRESENT, jackass. Besides, you guys wrapped yours too, right?!”

When Naruto looks from their old sensei to their teammate, Kakashi wears a jovial smile that tells him he didn’t, and Sakura doesn’t say anything behind him, but Naruto narrows his eyes, and that’s enough to tell him that she didn’t, either. “What the fuck, you guys are the worst! This is supposed to be a party!!”

Naruto sets the gift down on the counter in front of him, and Sasuke frowns at it stubbornly for a short while. The three of them are staring at him expectantly, though, so he sighs and reluctantly starts to peel the shoddy wrapping job away, curious as to where the idiot got instant ramen that comes in a long skinny box. He’s careful as he peels, so the paper doesn’t fly away in little chunks and litter the restaurant or the ground around them.

His brow creases as he peels away the final bit of paper and tape, because it’s not ramen, after all. Naruto’s gift is a paring board of a unique design, new from the store in an unopened box. The picture shows a maple wood finish, but with small skewers jutting vertically from it on the bottom center, on which one can spear vegetables or fruit to help hold it in place while slicing. It also has a corner guard on the upper left with an edge sealer to help keep other things one wants to slice, like bread or sushi, secure. In addition, it says it has silicone feet, so it doesn’t move around when you use it.

He didn’t know anything like this even existed. It is a surprisingly thoughtful and helpful gift, one that he’s sure comes from a deep understanding of the challenges that come with living with one arm, though Naruto has had the prosthetic, now, for a while.

Sasuke studies it for a long moment, genuinely touched. “...It’s nice. Thank you.” Truth be told, it’s more than nice, and will be incredibly useful. He won’t have to summon a clone anymore to cut things.

Naruto laughs and slaps him on the back, prompting Sasuke to glare at him. “Beat that, losers!” Kakashi smiles and casts his eye towards Sakura behind him, so Sasuke turns, brows furrowed again. She’s pulling a white container out of her bag, now in her lap, and then sliding it on the countertop next to Naruto’s gift.

He can see now that it’s a first aid kit. He looks back to her, meeting green eyes and slightly tinged cheeks. “I thought there might be some things you didn’t have, after traveling for so long.”

This is odd, because all ninja travel with a rudimentary first aid kit at the bare minimum, and Sakura of all people knows this; it’s an occupational hazard and frankly foolish not to. He stares at it as if it is a riddle, trying to figure out what could possibly be inside. Perhaps medicine or painkillers? Even those come in standard first aid kits for ninja, though. A hefty stock of food pills? He supposes he could take those on missions with him, if needed.

He’s sure both Kakashi and Naruto are thinking the same thing, but they don’t comment on it.

Finally, he responds, meeting her eyes, “Thank you.” He’ll open it later, when he’s alone, to see what’s actually in it. She really didn’t need to get him anything.

Her smile grows wider, and her eyes catch the light, gilded fervor that he thinks he could drown in. “You’re welcome.” After a beat, she glances at Kakashi, so Sasuke tears his irises away from flashing jade iridescent with metallic lambency and turns, too. When he does, he sees that Kakashi’s bowl is now empty. He tries to resist an annoyed twitch; he doesn’t know how he keeps pulling this off, after so many years.

Then his old sensei reaches into his vest and pulls out what appears to be a frame; it must have been tucked there this whole time, for safekeeping, out of sight.

When he reaches past Naruto to gift it to him, Sasuke realizes it’s their original Team Seven picture, in the frame he saw sitting on Kakashi’s desk the other day.

His eyes sting as it’s pressed into his hand, thoughts of mask hypervigilance forgotten in an instant in favor of an overwhelming sense of plenary peace and belonging. There is a small inner voice emanating from a house lined with dark wood and darker penchants, gnawing and protesting that he is deeply undeserving, but he extinguishes it for now, just for tonight; the world is not going to end because Kakashi gave him a picture rife with memories. Fighting to remain detached is what got him into trouble in the first place.

Sasuke blinks a few times, and a paper-thin layer of sediment peels away, messy and getting everywhere, like the wrapping paper he tried to collect earlier to avoid a similar problem. Then he utters, “Thank you,” quietly, but loud enough for all three of them to hear.

“No problem. I can get another copy developed from the village archives for my desk,” Kakashi replies, smiling. “It’s good to have you back.”

Time passes somehow both quickly and slowly. The four of them sit there for well over another hour, visiting casually about topics that aren’t as heavy as perplexing poisons. Sasuke moreso listens than genuinely communicates, but he comments every now and then.

Naruto chatters about an elaborate date he’s going to take Hinata on when she gets back to the village, involving feeding ducks at her favorite pond. Sakura mentions that he should bring cinnamon rolls, because that is Hinata’s favorite treat, and Naruto exclaims that he knows, but he also asks Teuchi for a pen to write a reminder on his hand, so he doesn’t forget to pick them up the day after tomorrow when she’s supposed to get back.

Kakashi mentions how he’s supposed to be getting some new mission requests in on Monday morning, so he might have something for Sasuke by then; the dobe is indignant when it doesn’t also include him, and launches into another five minute whining session.

Sakura tells a story about Sai and a misunderstanding involving an order of art supplies that she heard from Ino that morning; apparently, Ino works at the hospital on occasion, both to do some part-time medic duties and to help Sakura, which Sasuke was unaware of. Naruto shudders when Sakura brings up Sai, Ino, and art supplies; Sasuke gets the distinct impression that there is a story there, but doesn’t ask.

It is a little after eight when Kakashi mentions quite astutely that everyone is probably tired and should get going. Naruto laughs mischievously, then, meeting Sasuke’s eyes.

“Teme, what do ya say to all of us going out for a drink or two after this? There’s a fun place just down the road from here.”

Sasuke blinks, because that sounds objectively terrible on any night, let alone a Saturday, and it is not the first time since his return to the village that Naruto has mentioned going to drink; he really wants to get him drunk for some reason. Even though Kakashi has just said they should wrap it up, he looks at Sasuke as if waiting for a response anyways, as though he would actually go with them if they all chose to.

“Can’t. I have plans.”

Naruto huffs and grumbles under his breath about the plans probably involving training or reading or watching his laundry air dry. “Alright, alright. But you can’t escape it forever. Sooner or later, you’re going to have to accept.”

Sasuke smirks, then. “If you can beat me in a spar, I’ll go. Dobe.”

A fire has been lit in blue eyes. “You’re ON.”

Kakashi then sets enough money on the counter for all four of them, at which point they all begin to stand. Sasuke and Sakura both say thank you, but Naruto begins protesting that if he knew he was buying, he would have eaten more. Kakashi smiles cryptically. “Which is why I didn’t tell you. The Hokage position pays lucratively, but I know from experience you’ll eat me out of house and home.”

Naruto and Kakashi wave goodbye and set out to the west, in the general direction of their respective residences. Sasuke and Sakura both watch them go with something like amusement; he can hear Naruto complaining until he’s halfway down the street, which is a feat, because this area of town is still quite busy.

He turns to the gifts and stacks them carefully in preparation to leave, finally; they are all flat, so they’ll be easy enough to carry. They really didn’t need to get him anything... but he is appreciative, gaze lingering on them for a little longer than an instant.

Sakura is smiling at him when he turns to her, weight shifted to the side casually. “Do you want to drop those off first, or bring them with you?”

Sasuke thinks of the time; he still doesn’t know when she usually goes to sleep. “...I can bring them with.”

Her lips quirk upwards more, and she nods. They start walking east, him gripping the gifts carefully.

The moon has risen a bit higher in the sky by now; the streets appear much like a desaturated dreamscape, cloaking everything in a layer of alleviation. They pass under street lights casting flaxen ambiance, as well as other smaller hints of glow from various lit-up signage, tinctorial flashes washing over them both occasionally, only to be rinsed clean as they pass into astronomical dusk again. Sakura’s hair is surprisingly reflectant, brief notes of neons catching atop pale pink: electric blue, candy red, apple green.

“Naruto’s going to hold you to that bet, you know,” Sakura pipes up to his right once they’ve made it a block away, tilting her head upwards, expression soaked with mirth.

“Tch. Don’t remind me.” She laughs a little in response. It’s a lovely sound, dulcet in his ears.

They’re coming up on a bar that appears to be pretty crowded, people spilling out onto the street outside. Wordlessly, they both change course to cross to the other side of the street, avoiding the gathering of people, for which he is appreciative; he’s still not much one for crowds. They’re almost to the main stretch of road where they’ll turn south to go to Sakura’s; just two more blocks and the people should disperse a bit.

As they cross, Sakura informs him, “I’m pretty sure that’s the one he was talking about, by the way.”

“...Great,” He murmurs, frowning. He really doesn’t drink often. A place like that wouldn’t do much to encourage him to.

“It’s not so bad, if you go on a weeknight. Less people.”

He considers, then questions, “...Have you gone drinking with him?”

She averts her eyes, as if she’s a little embarrassed. “A few times... Usually it’s for celebrations, though, not just us. Birthdays, that sort of thing. I’ve gone with Ino more.” She ponders for a bit longer, as if shuffling through memories. “I guess I’ve gone with him and Kakashi-sensei a couple of times, though we don’t always go to that one. Once we went with Tsunade-shishou to that casino.”

Sasuke is pretty sure he knows the answer to his next question, but he asks it anyway. “...Is he any good at gambling?”

A short but rich giggle blooms from her throat that makes his lip twitch upwards. “No. His betting history is just as bad as shishou. He’s worse at baccarat than she is, actually, which is quite an accomplishment. She hadn’t won in a long time, before she beat him.”

It stands to reason that Naruto would be bad at table games, but the fact that he’s bad at arguably one of the easiest ones to learn amuses him more than it should. “...Will probably be awhile before I get dragged with him, then.”

“Probably,” Sakura agrees.

They turn south towards her apartment, and sure enough, the people milling about in the streets begin to thin. Being a Saturday night, there are more lights on than usual around this time, but they’ve arrived into an area of town that doesn’t really cater to a night crowd like bars do; the lit windows here are mostly residential.

Plants are continuing to unfurl everywhere in Konoha, though the rain tomorrow will probably be good for them. It stands to reason that it will get even more lush, after; perennials are starting to bud back to life, soon to join the annuals already adorning most buildings’ exteriors and windowsills. There’s a breeze picking up tonight, too, slightly shuffling leaves and the fabric of awnings attached to the buildings they walk past, a quiescent whispering that seemingly drowns out the usual sound of crickets. It might be cold enough for soup tomorrow; he’s looking forward to it.

Sakura notices, too. “Kakashi was right; everything is greening up. The rain will do some good tomorrow; we haven’t had some in a bit.”

“...Probably,” he echoes her words from earlier. Her hair is fluttering a little in the wind, too, eye-catching and gossamery. Sasuke wonders if it’s still soft like silk. He had accidentally felt it several times, on various missions when they were younger.

They reach her building, and she noiselessly opens the glass door for him. Sasuke steps aside so she can pass after she shuts it behind them. Then he’s following her up the stairway, something like anticipation unfurling in him, much like the greenery he noticed on the way here.

Sakura unlocks her door, glancing back at him for a moment with her hand lingering on the doorknob. Then she turns to push it open, and he trails behind her carefully.

He follows her into a small enclosed area - a dedicated entryway - with a threshold straight ahead leading into the rest of the space. It is dim until Sakura flips on the light of a compact but surprisingly luminous lamp to their right, and he sees that the entryway area itself is painted the color of pale cream. The floor beneath them is aged wood, light in color, that appears to extend into the rest of the dwelling. A single wall-mounted shelf floats to the left that holds several multifarious storage containers: one woven, one white, one that looks like an antiquated rice basket. Out of the top of the last one peeks the well-worn handle of a spade; it must be gardening supplies. Beneath the shelf are hooks studded to the wall; Sakura is stepping towards them to shrug off her bag and hang it from one of them, next to a green jacket and a red and pink coat with fur trim.

There is a console table made of aged wood that near matches the shelf - white oak, he thinks, because it’s not as richly colored as normal oak - to the right. It might be an antique; it is close in color and stain to the flooring, though not an exact match. Her fiction book from the other day sits atop it, a bookmark protruding from around halfway through its pages; he assumes she must keep any non-work-related library books there, when she’s not reading them. Beneath the table is a patterned rug in neutral tones, on which rest a small collection of sandals that are not entirely lined up straight, as well as a pair of green rainboots. It is the only part of the entryway that does not appear overly organized.

Sasuke begins to toe off his sandals as Sakura does, too. She crosses over to the table and opens up one of the drawers, placing her lanyard of keys inside. “You can set your gifts here, if you’d like,” she offers helpfully, gesturing to the table and sounding almost shy, so he does. He turns to grab his sandals and sets them neatly on the rug beneath the table.

She reaches beyond the enclosing wall to the other side, flipping what must be a lightswitch; the rest of the overhead lights in the next area of space flood on. She angles her head back towards him, shifting her weight to the side a little. “I’m afraid it won’t be as long of a tour as Naruto’s.”

It’s small, but cozy. They step into an open space with a wall trailing to the right and openness extending to the left, which houses her living room. The ceilings are high for an apartment this size; it makes it feel bigger. Two towering bookshelves line the west and south walls, and a small dining table sits in front of the window on the north end, over which hangs a simple but worn pendant light, sap green in color; it is reminiscent of the kinds one usually sees at indoor markets. Between the two spaces lies a comfortable-looking sage green couch, classic but also well-worn, placed in front of a small entertainment center. He notices that the furniture pieces are all of slightly different construction, not a matching set, though the colors of everything are very similar to the flooring. On top of the surfaces are various decorative knick knacks: little glass jars in varied colors with dried flowers, another lamp, a candle. The entire open area is painted a pale, pale desaturated viridian; Sasuke likes the color. From what he can see of the room past the expanse of wall to their right, it is painted a different color - linen white.

“Sai and Ino helped me with the paint colors when I moved in.” She pauses. “Well, Sai helped. Ino mostly just helped narrow down color selection. It needed painting anyways; my landlady said I could do pretty much anything as long as it wasn’t black or something.” She walks over to the lamp on the end table by the sofa, and switches it on. Then she wanders over to switch the pendant light over the table on, too.

Sasuke nods, still absorbing. There is an expanse of framed photos to his right, on the space leading up to what must be the kitchen. There are many, leading all the way down the wall, arranged in more of a collage fashion than straight across. He scans them quickly, and is surprised to see that their original Team Seven photo isn't among them. He knows it must be elsewhere in her apartment; she is too sentimental to not have it displayed somewhere. It makes him consider where he’s going to put the one Kakashi has given him.

“The layout is kind of unique,” Sakura continues, walking back towards him through the living room area. “There’s not really room for a dining table in the kitchen, so that table over there-” She motions towards where she just was, in front of the north window, “-is used for that. It’s kind of nice, that way; you can look out the window when you eat.” Sasuke notes upon further inspection that there are a few small plants sitting in the window there, similar coloring to the ones on her doorstep. A thriving jasmine plant is hung higher up, against the glass, fronds twisting downwards. He finds he can picture Sakura eating there easily.

Sakura crosses over into what he assumes is the kitchen; he follows, and notes as he does so that there is a faint aroma of tea, though it is a challenge to place the flavor. It’s simple, but with nice floor to ceiling white cabinetry, aside from a single area in the corner where there is open shelving of the same wood finish, as well as a window on the east wall, over the sink. This one appears to be lined with a small herb garden, more mismatched terracotta pots perched in the windowsill. The countertops here are also wood, in a similar colorway as the rest of the wood he’s seen so far. Most of what’s stored on the open shelving appears to be general dry goods, flour and sugar and oatmeal in clear containers. There is also a fern-colored teapot, decorated with a white floral design, sitting on the end of the shelf for easiest access; she must make tea often. There is a knife set on the counter, as well as a few ceramic containers holding various utensils such as whisks and wooden spoons. Nothing appears out of place, and there are no dishes in the sink; she must keep it pretty tidy. In the only empty corner, there is what he assumes is a pantry door, as well as a small wooden stool. He realizes then that she must not be tall enough to reach the top of the cupboards.

“Sai said keeping it a lighter color would make it look bigger. I think it helps. It’s pretty nice, otherwise.” She glances at him, then away, slightly flushed as if she’s nervous. He realizes, reciprocally, that he is kind of nervous, too, being in her space with her alone.

“Not much left but the hallway,” she adds after a moment, leading him out of the kitchen and further, to a hallway leading east. There are three doors towards the end of it; one to the left, one in the middle, and one to the right. Two of the three are sitting open; the small room straight ahead holds a stacked washer and dryer, as well as cabinets that match the ones in the kitchen. Once he follows her a few more steps, he sees a hamper, as well. The walls appear to be painted a lilac color in the laundry room, slightly darker in hue than the rest of her space thus far. The flooring is different, too, in the laundry room; a white tile, inlaid with a touch of black sparingly in a symmetrical pattern. The style of it is very in tune with the age of the building, reminiscent of an older time.

“Left door is the bedroom.” She gestures towards the closed door, then points to the next one. “Middle is the laundry room; that’s also where I keep any cleaning stuff, like the broom or mop.” She nods then towards the bathroom, so he steps closer to peer inside; it is painted a light sand color, with the same white tile accented with black, only here it also goes halfway up the wall. “And that’s the bathroom.” The same white cabinets appear here, too. It has a tub/shower combination, and a plain white shower curtain. It appears spotlessly clean. A window lies above the sink on the east wall, with another hanging plant dangling in front of it, towards the corner so it’s not in full light all of the time; it looks like a satin pothos. There is also a small wicker stool, on which are folded powder-white towels, and a small glass tabletop lamp, an interesting statement in a bathroom.

He remembers that there are three lamps she’s turned on already. She must not like hard lighting. He tries to resist the urge to smile, because neither does he.

“It’s nice,” he compliments as they make their way back to the living room area. It’s more than nice; he really likes it. Everything about it is as her as he expected it to be, more of a home than an apartment, eclectic combinations painting a picture very indicative of the life she lives here. Sasuke muses that it is especially characteristic of her that she would like different colors throughout the rooms, and that the colors fit their respective spaces well. He finds himself wondering what color she selected for her room, what color she deemed the most calming, though obviously he would never ask.

A deep blush inks it way onto her skin, and she smiles, seeming very pleased. “Thank you, Sasuke-kun.” Her gaze flits away, then back again. “Would you want to maybe watch something? I could make some tea, decaf, if you’d like.”

He nods.

“Okay; I can show you what I have.”

They go back into the kitchen. She opens one of the cabinets, the one nearest the teapot; the entire bottom shelf is filled with packaged tea, labeled jars of loose leaf, sugar, and a container of honey. The shelf above it contains teacups that match the teapot, and more jars of loose leaf, though these ones are labeled caffeine free. There are a few small boxes of packaged tea there, too; she must sort them separately based on caffeine content. The third shelf contains a few miscellaneous mugs and glasses. It’s quite a collection; he understands the mixed aromatics of different tea flavors he noticed earlier. It’s unique, enjoyable without being overwhelming, small hints of sweet spice and citrus drifting into the kitchen space more now that the cabinet door is ajar.

“Most of my packaged teas have more specific flavors, desserts and things like that,” Sakura mentions. “For loose leaf, I’ve got quite a few; caffeine-free ones are oolong, chamomile, lemon ginger, jasmine…” She shifts some of the jars to the side of the middle cabinet to reveal the ones behind it. “Silver needle, white coconut creme, Earl Grey, caramelized pear…”

“...Earl Grey sounds good,” Sasuke murmurs, moving slightly out of the way. She tips her head in acknowledgment before pulling that jar down, then reaching for the teapot.

“I’ll make some; I like Earl Grey at night. Do you want any cream or lemon or anything like that in yours? I have some in the fridge.” She moves to start the water boiling, removing the strainer from the teapot before she fills it. After it’s on the stove, she begins sifting loose leaf from the jar into the strainer so it’s ready.

“...Lemon would be good.” He likes adding lemon to Earl Grey; it makes it more tart. He feels like he should help, so he adds, “I’ll get it. Do you want cream in yours?”

Jade eyes flick to his, and her cheeks color a little. “...Yes. It’s on the top shelf of the door. There’s…” She pauses, as if embarrassed. “There’s normal creamer there too, but I have a coconut milk sweet cream that I like with mine. Just a little bit. It’s… meant for coffee, but…” When he smiles knowingly back, she looks away, back towards the teapot.

He opens the fridge; it’s extremely well-stocked. He doesn’t hover too long before he reaches to grab a lemon and the creamer she mentioned from the door’s upper shelf, but he notes there is a large container of strawberry topping on the top shelf towards the front, as well as a clear container with what may be banana nut muffins. She really does have a sweet tooth, he thinks, amused.

He shuts the door, and she procures a small cutting board from another cupboard and a knife to slice the lemon into wedges. She’s also grabbed two teacups, the ones that match the teapot.

“Thank you.” She’s smiling as he sets down the lemon and the creamer. “I can finish making this, if you want to maybe pick what we watch?”

“...What would you like to watch?”

Sakura blinks. “I’m honestly fine with anything. I’ve got some movies in the cabinet of the entertainment center… Otherwise I have cable to flip through, too.”

She must not go to bed too early, since she mentioned movies. He decides to ask. “...When do you usually go to bed?”

Something in her eyes softens. “Usually ten or eleven. It’s my weekend now, though, so I can stay up late, if you pick something longer.”

He nods, and she turns to slice the lemon halves into quarters, so he pads back to her living room. When he opens the cabinet below the television, he finds it nearly filled to the brim with movies. He settles down to siphon through them, skimming through various synopses. He comes across five or six shoved to the corner of one side haphazardly; those must be the ‘bad’ movies she watches with Ino. The rest of them that he finds sound fairly interesting. He ultimately picks one called A Tale of Archery; the summary makes it sound like a period drama with a twist. As he sits there, he tries to remember the last time he watched a movie; it was probably after he returned to Konoha but before he left for his journey, a rather stupid one with Naruto in his old apartment.

This one should be better. He hopes, brows furrowed, that it’s one she likes; he assumes she must like most of them, given that she owns them.

Sasuke stands with it as Sakura comes out with the tea, cups placed on small plates with dainty teaspoons. “Oh, that’s a good one,” she mentions. His heart flutters, and he feels a little less nervous. He puts it into the player on the next shelf before standing as she sets her plate and cup on her coffee table.

“Thank you,” he says softly when she hands him his, two slices of lemon perched on the side.

She smiles at him, dimple appearing, before grabbing the remote and flicking on the television so it starts setting up. “Do you mind if I shut off the overhead lights? I’m... not much one for hard lighting.”

“Not at all.” The space will be well-lit without it, with the lamps.

He takes a seat on the sofa while she walks over near the entryway. Sasuke realizes now that the couch isn’t terribly big; probably just enough for one person to lie down on, if they wanted to. It’s comfortable, as he’d anticipated. He sets his plate and cup on her coffee table so he can squeeze the lemon wedge into it, grabbing the spoon to stir as the overhead lights go out.

With the lights off, it is very cozy.

Sakura takes a seat next to him, not too close, but not the furthest away she could be, either. She fast forwards through the opening portion of advertisements as he stirs.

By the time he brings the cup to his lips to take a sip, the opening credits are playing. She sets down the remote and stirs her own cup once more, before also taking a sip.

It’s good; flavorful but not too intense, with a hint of bergamot orange rind and maltiness. The lemon gives it a slightly more acidic twist. He’s not much one for creamer, unless he’s in a rare mood on a cold fall or winter day, but he can see how the coconut milk sweet cream would compliment the taste, if one liked sweet things.

“It’s good,” he murmurs, meeting her eyes for a moment.

She glows at the compliment; he can make out a blush in the dim lighting. He feels his own neck heat up.

The movie is pretty good. It tells the story of a bygone feudal era a long time ago, peasants and samurai and daimyos with estates sprawling across countrysides lined with rice paddies. An archer passes away, and his son follows in his footsteps and becomes respected competitively. The twist is that the father actually went into hiding, and returns at the end of the movie.

It’s close to eleven when it’s over. Their teacups sit on her coffee table, long emptied.

Sasuke feels very content, and a little loath to leave, if he’s being honest. She seems slightly tired when she meets his eyes, though, so he slowly stands and reaches for his plate and cup. She does the same, and he trails after her to the kitchen, following her lead; she empties the lemon rinds into the garbage, so he does too. She then rinses her cup clean in the sink, extending her hand for his after.

“...What time should I come over tomorrow?” He asks in a hushed tone, when she turns to him. He’s not sure if the walls are thin or not, and they’re in the kitchen, so it’s not against her neighbors’ unit or anything, but he still somehow feels he should speak quietly; it’s somewhat dark, dimly lit only by cast light from the lamp in the other room.

Her countenance changes to one of consideration. “I was thinking maybe around eleven? I should have lunch ready around then.” Her eyes flicker to his, and her lips curve upwards; he tries not to look at them too long. “If that’s okay.”

He nods. “I’ll be here, then.”

Her lips curve upwards more. “I’ll walk you to the door,” she offers softly. He turns, and she follows.

“Do you like avocado?” She asks him as they shuffle into her entryway, where he stoops to retrieve his shoes. “I was… thinking about making avocado grilled cheese, to go with the soup.”

He glances upwards. “...I do.” He’s never had a grilled cheese sandwich with avocado before, but it sounds like it would taste good. He wonders again what kind of soup she’ll make; she knows his food preferences well, and she hasn’t asked, so it must be something she knows he’ll like. It makes his heart flip behind his ribcage a little.

“Oh, good. I’ll make that, then.” Her eyes drop down to her feet for a second as he rises back to his full height, sandals situated; it’s hard to tell in the lack of light, just the one lamp turned on in here, but he’s pretty sure she’s blushing again.

Her next words are near a whisper. “Thank you for… hanging out.” Multi-faceted jade seeps into him again, seafoam ebbing around dark pupils. He doesn’t think he’ll ever tire of it, after yearning for it for so long. “I had a nice time.”

He takes a quiet step closer to her, heart suddenly twisting in his chest as he tries to swallow his nerves, because she looks so happy, and it’s making his breath get stuck inside his lungs.

“...Me, too,” he whispers, barely audible before his lips brush hers gently.

It feels different, kissing her in the privacy of her apartment rather than on her doorstep. It’s like they can finally take their time, no real chance of interruption. His mind comes up with the word intimate, and his neck warms. Her mouth is all plush affection, bergamot and lemon and a subtle sweetness, stirred, that isn’t too much, accented by berry. It makes him want to try all of the varieties she has in her cabinet, even the sweet ones, just to see what they taste like on her lips in the hours that follow.

Delicate hands brush his shoulders, fingertips skimming the lower part of his neck, subtle beckoning but also gentle, respectful of boundaries, so he decides to corrode, give in and do something that he has wanted to do for a very long time. He cups her cheek with his hand, careful and barely there, gingerly sweeping a thumb over flushed skin, gliding atop a freckle that rests further back on her cheekbone. He’s had it memorized since they were kids.

The strands of pink he inadvertently touches are as soft as he remembers.

Her face is ablaze when they draw back from each other, tender smile and viridescent eyes laced with ardency just for him. Warmth pools in his belly as he studies her, decay long soothed and forgotten as he carefully strokes her cheek once more before he pulls away.

“...Good night, Sakura.”

The dimple makes one last appearance for the evening. “Good night, Sasuke-kun.”

XXX

Sasuke opens the first aid kit upon his return to his apartment, having been curious about what was in it all evening. Vines grasp his heartstrings as he discovers what’s inside.

There are two jars of loose leaf sencha tea that he’s sure came from the tea place they’d visited together a few days ago; one is labeled caffeinated, the other decaffeinated. Along with it is a basic tea infuser, new in its package. There are also three blue packages of cough drops, mentho-lyptus flavor, so they won’t be sweet.

Jade irises, he thinks, are also mollifying, for when the corrosion is done, an aether easily risen into, floating to the top.

Sasuke brews a mug of the jar labeled decaffeinated to enjoy before he goes to bed, a helpful succedaneum with which to conclude an evening well spent. It's not exactly the same shade of green, he thinks, before taking it to his living room so he can look out his window as he savors it, but it's close.

[moral-turpitudes]

House Calls: Part 2

A/N: This was hella long and I’m stubborn so I apologize if the spacing is a bit wonky. Nevertheless, I hope this reads well, as I’ve added some line breaks in the story to help.

Trigger Warnings: Awkward af, Angst, Fluff, Maybe Swearing? 

Word Count: 4,139 

Characters: Thomas Shelby x Female!Reader 

Requested by: @captivatedbycillianmurphy​ and I think some other people so enjoy! :)

Summary: After taking care of Charlie one early morning, Y/N remembers the date she made with Thomas as a deal regarding her payment for her efforts. But it didn’t take long for it to be more than they bargained for.

Part 1 | Part 2

It was Friday evening and you’d just finished up a hectic day at the children’s hospital. You’d had 2 house calls and 4 appointments at your office almost back to back.

With a sigh of relief you sat lazily in your chair at your desk, finishing up patient reports and going over the requests from the previous couple of days. You smiled slightly when your finger traced over the name typed on the rigid paper.

“House Call Request: Mr. Thomas Shelby.”

It had been 5 days since the early house call, and your job being so busy often left you with little down time, but you quickly shuffled the papers away and took in a deep breath before picking up the phone.

“Hello, this is Dr. Y/N Y/L/N, can you connect me to Mr. Thomas Shelby please?” You asked the phone operator. You heard the clicking and frazzled line as you waited, your heart racing as the seconds passed.

“Thomas Shelby.” He said tersely.

“Uh-hello...Thomas, it’s Dr. Y/L/N from a few nights ago...I was just wanting to let you know I was free.” You said, mentally slapping yourself for being so awkward. Any composure you usually had when working over the phone completely slipped your mind.

“Y/N...nice to hear from you. How about you meet me here at 7?” He asked, his voice sending your heart over the edge.

“Sounds great, I’ll see you then. Goodbye.” You said quickly as you shakily put down the phone. Your stomach was doing flips as you frantically looked at your small closet that housed extra clothes for messy house visits or appointments.

“God I hope I have something in here....” You thought to yourself as you pulled out a knee-length black dress. Your heels were in the bottom compartment and so you rummaged around until you found a pair that were dark red.

“This should do...” You whispered as you took off your white lab coat and shimmied out of your tattered blue dress. You glanced at the clock as you got ready, taking the pins out of your hair and going through your spare makeup to find a dark red lipstick and black mascara. You finished your makeup hastily, knowing it wasn’t the amount you preferred especially for meeting someone such as Thomas Shelby.

The tension inside you went away slightly as you packed up various things in your office, temporarily taking your mind off the coming plans.

With a loud dinging sound, the clock struck half past 6, signaling it was time to leave. Reluctantly, you gathered your things and put on your old black coat, taking one last look in your mirror before locking the door behind you.

The drive was a bit rocky as it was sprinkling outside, the rain drops coming down like glitter on the dark dirt roads. As you parked and got out, your heels slightly sunk into the dirt as you walked towards the steps of the shop.

When you walked in you were greeted by a woman at one of the front desks, her hair was dark and her eyes tired but alert all the same.

“Hello dear. You must be-“ She started to say, but a deep familiar voice said your name before she could.

“Y/N, welcome. This is my aunt Polly Gray, Polly this is Dr. Y/N Y/L/N.” He said, quickly putting on his coat and his flat cap, the razor blade glinting in the dim light of the shop.

“Nice to meet you Ms. Gray.” You said, smiling and holding out your hand for her to shake.

She shook back with a firm grip, her eyes seemingly boring into yours as she spoke.

“Y/N, Thomas has said so many nice things about you. Would you care for a tour?” She asked.

“I think we better get going.” Thomas said, impatiently lighting a cigarette.

“Tommy it’s the first time we’ve had a guest since sprucing up the place, let me have this one moment.” She said looking annoyed at her nephew.

“Ten minutes.” He said, glancing at you with tired eyes.

You looked around at all the desks and various piles of papers that the assistants were working on, typing what seemed to be the last of their work for the day, and you heard loud chatter in the meeting room, with men drinking and writing numbers on a board and yelling every now and then.

“This is Tommy’s office, and here’s the washrooms. No ones allowed in without knocking, but since he’s not in there we’ll sneak around.” She said smirking.

“I like what you all have done to the place, I imagine it was a bit hectic before?” You asked.

“Yes. Papers strewn everywhere, faulty lights, cracking walls, luckily we came into some money.” She said, sparing any grim details.

“I see...” you said, walking over to his desk and smiling at the picture of Charlie.

“He’s talked so much about how great you were with him. Thank you for helping him the other night.” She said walking near you.

“It was no problem, really. He’s a sweet boy.” You said, as you looked at another picture of Thomas from what must’ve been a few years ago during the war.

“I’m surprised he still has that picture, considering he threw his medals in the cut...he got sent off to France with his brothers, but I’m sure he’ll tell you about that eventually.” She said, her eyes looking a bit sad. You looked at the clock on his wall, causing you to head to the door.

“Probably not a good idea to keep him waiting eh?” You asked smiling a bit to try to lighten her mood.

“Right! Sorry, those times distract me dear. It was nice meeting you Y/N, we’ll have to introduce you to the rest of the family sometime.” She said rushing you out the door and towards the lobby.

“How was the grand tour?” He asked, eyeing Polly’s sullen face.

“It was great...so where are we going Tommy?” You asked, getting him to look at you.

“The Garrison.” He said, stomping his cigarette into the floor and nodding his cap at Polly before helping you out the door.

“So is this where you grew up?” You asked, gripping your coat tighter as the cool night air crept across your skin. The rain was coming down a bit harder now, as you all hastily walked to the bar.

“Yes, like what you see?” He asked, raising an eyebrow at you and smirking as you looked only at him and not at the town he grew up in.

Your face heated up as you realized you’d been staring, quickly looking away and towards the entrance to the bar.

Once inside, you shook the droplets off your coat as the smell of smoke and various alcohols filled your lungs.

Your heart skipped a beat as he took your hand in his which was warm compared to yours and led you through the crowds and to the bar.

“What’ll it be Mr. Shelby?” The bartender asked.

“Whiskey, Irish as usual.” Tommy said.

“And for the lady?” The man asked eyeing you.

“I’ll have a gin and tonic please.” You said.

You looked around at all the people, some were drunk already, some were dancing to the barely audible music being played, and others were having quiet conversations at the small tables in the middle of the place.

“Here you go. Enjoy.” He said.

Tommy took the bottle of whiskey and two shot glasses as you took your gin, but before he could walk away you spoke.

“Wait don’t we have to pay?” You asked, looking back at the already occupied bartender.

“You’re with a Shelby...it’s on the house.” He said as he led you to a table towards the back of the bar.

He sat down and lit a cigarette before taking a swig of his whiskey, watching you as you sipped your gin.

“So...Polly mentioned you’ve been talking about me...I hope it’s not anything too terrible...” You said a small smirk playing at your lips, looking at him as he gulped down the last of his shot.

“I assure you it’s nothing bad, I’ve told them about how good you were with Charlie. You saved me from one hell of a week.” He said grinning a bit.

“How is he by the way? He looks so much like you ya know...couldn’t deny he’s yours.” You said, hoping the gin would kick in sooner rather than later so you’d be able to talk as if a an anxious hand wasn’t gripping your throat.

You could see his tired eyes light up slightly as he spoke.

“He’s doing better, his cough is going away and the fever’s gone.” He said.

“I’m happy to hear that, he’s a sweet boy.” You said.

Tommy nodded as he looked at you, making you a bit self-conscious all of a sudden. If there was one thing he truly mastered over the years it was definitely making prolonged eye contact with people.

“So, how was work today?” You asked, taking a larger sip of your gin.

“Well I was supposed to be off. I had Polly clear my schedule, but something came up. Work is never really done is it?” He asked taking a drag from his cigarette.

“Not until we’re dead.” You said.

He chuckled at that, easing your nerves a bit.

“So what did Polly show you?” He asked, pouring himself a glass of whiskey and offering you one. The night was still young so you accepted it, the brown liquid burning your throat as it went down, making your face turn up slightly.

“Not a fan of whiskey aye?” He asked, a smile forming on his face.

“Only when I’m drunk enough.” You said, the rest of your gin hitting your system a bit.

“Polly showed me around the shop as you saw, and...your office.” You said, seeing him tense up slightly.

“I loved the pictures of Charlie and you on your desk. I didn’t touch anything though, I swear it.” You said, finishing your gin.

“What’d Polly tell you?” He asked, taking another drag from his cigarette.

“She thanked me for taking care of Charlie...and she mentioned you were in France...during the war...” You said looking down at the empty glass.

When you lifted your eyes up you were met with his face turned away from you, staring out the window, lost in thought.

“I-I’m sorry Tommy. I didn’t mean to upset you.” You said, reaching for his hand. The contact broke him out of whatever thoughts he’d had, his eyes searching yours.

“It’s alright. Just a difficult time that’s all. It changes you.” He said, looking at your hand in his.

“You don’t have to talk about it unless you want to.” You said, looking at his tired eyes, knowing he probably had trouble sleeping ever since.

He took a deep breath before downing another shot, you downing yours a bit later, trying to come up with a way to make the night better.

“I was a clay-kicker. We dug tunnels and planted bombs...One night we’d heard them digging right at us, so we waited knowing death was coming for us. We were prepared to die there....I can still hear the bombs exploding...the shovels scraping...” He said breaking the silence.

“Well, you’re here. That’s all that matters now Tommy.” You said, realizing he’d been holding onto your hand the whole time.

As the couple of shots you’d drank ran through your bloodstream, you saw him let his guard down slightly as the night drug on. Ordering you another gin so you wouldn’t have to deal with the whiskey as much.

“So you like gin aye?” He asked.

“Yeah, why?” You asked grinning as you took a sip of the cold, clear liquid.

“I make gin.” He said, lighting a cigarette once again.

“Oh really? I’ll have to try it sometime.” You said, your vision going slightly fuzzy as you grew more tipsy.

“How about tonight?” He asked. You pursed your lips in thought before answering.

“Alright, I’m never one to shy away from new things. Is it here?” You asked, glancing at the bar.

“No. Stored away at the warehouse, we ship some of it out but I’ve got over a hundred and thirty bottles stashed away.” He said.

“Who are you saving all of it for?” You asked.

Tommy thought for a moment, the images of Grace slipping away for once as he stared at the woman in front of him.

“For the right person I suppose.” He said.

Your cheeks heated up at the thought, causing you to look away.

Tommy continued to stare, taking in every part of you, knowing all the women he’d loved in the past usually came with a time limit. It had only been a matter of days, but he knew in his bones he felt some way towards you, no one had felt this special to him since Grace. And as much as it excited him, it also terrified him.

“Would you like to go?” He asked.

“I’d love to.” You said, clinking your glass with his as you both finished off your drinks before heading off.

The sky was as dark as ever, the moonlight guiding your path as Tommy drove towards the warehouse. The air was chilled and you could see your breath when talking.

As he parked, he ran round to help you out, holding you steady as your heels sunk more into the dirt. The rain subsided luckily, making the trek over to the heavy wooden doors somewhat bearable.

“It’s back here.” He said, prying open a crate of clear bottles, the Shelby Co. Ltd. label catching your eye, along with the description.

“Distilled for the eradication of seemingly incurable sadness.” You said, reading it aloud.

“When my wife died...I started this partly for business...and partly for myself to take my mind off everything.” He said.

You nodded and sat on an old crate and watched him open the bottle and pour you both a glass.

“To the eradication of sadness, aye?” He asked raising his glass to yours.

“To the eradication of sadness.” You said smiling before taking a drink. It was slightly sweeter than the one at the Garrison, but it went down smoothly to your surprise.

Tommy looked down into his glass, getting lost in thought as the rain started up again. The heavy drops pounding on the roof of the warehouse as you sat there in drunken silence.

You had both nearly finished the bottle when the thunder grew louder over the wooden structure, your eyes lazily looking through one of the windows as you rested your head on his shoulder.

“Do you want to do something fun?” You asked, lifting your head off his shoulder and looking up into his eyes. They drew you in no matter how many times you tried looking away.

“What do you have in mind?” He said, raising his brow with a slight grin.

“Do you like to dance?” You asked, knowing you were fully drunk at this point.

He looked at you as if he was searching for himself in your eyes, searching for some portion of him that he could still grasp onto amidst all the noise.

“I suppose.” Was all he said, not wanting to deal with absolutes. A yes would mean he’d have to be amazing at remembering the moves and dig past all the muck to find his old self, who’d smile and dance and ride horses all the time. A no would make the beautiful woman before him frown from disappointment. So he reluctantly got up and took her hand as she led the way, giggling slightly as she staggered slightly through the dirt covered floors.

“We’re dancing in the rain.” You said, grinning mischievously and leading him out the door.

“Fuck these shoes.” You said, taking them off so you wouldn’t sink your heels into the mud. You sat them by the door and Tommy watched as you took a large step onto the dark muddy ground looking up at the huge raindrops coming down. 

“Are you mad?” He asked walking to you and putting his arms around your waist.

“I’m just living in the moment Tommy. Try it.” You said, swaying a bit as you put one of your hands in his.

He smiled and shook his head, the moonlight illuminating his features as he spoke.

“We’re going to get sick you know.” He said looking down at you, admiring how the rain made your hair shine and your skin glisten as the drops fell around you.

“Well...it’s a good thing I’m a doctor then huh?” You said smirking as you locked eyes with him. Yours trailing to his lips and his doing the same to yours.

Time seemed to stand still for a moment as you kissed, all the worries either of you had vanishing for a moment as the rain danced around you.

“Have you thought about expanding your practice?” He asked, breaking the kiss.

“Yes......why?” You asked, bringing your arms up around his shoulders as his rested on your waist.

“I figured it could be good for you, you could get out of Birmingham for a while. Have a new range of patients.” He said.

“Tommy....I can’t just up and leave, I have a life there you know.” You said, looking up at him. His eyes were set on yours, almost pleading.

“I’ll think about it, alright? But if I do decide to move out here...where will I go? Who will I help?” You asked, knowing there were only a couple of doctors in Small Heath, all old and withering away with age. And the apartments around here weren’t exactly aging any better.

“I have plan for that...if you’d let me help you. I have a couple of people in the family that you could help, only when needed of course.” He said.

“Are you wanting to hire me as the Shelby family doctor then?” You asked, smirking as he looked up at the rain.

“It would be nice not having to go to the hospitals all the time. Raises too much suspicion.” He said.

“Will I get to see that sweet boy of yours? I can’t drop my children’s practice entirely you know.” You said, the nerves bundling up in your stomach as you thought about a possible future here.

“Of course. Like I said, I have a plan.” He said smiling down at you.

You raised your hand up cupping his cheek lightly, the rain just missing his face thanks to his peaked cap.

“You and your plans Tommy...At least tell me what it is, for business purposes...” You said before he pressed his lips to yours again.

“I’ll tell you, but only after a few more dates.” He said giving you a half smile that melted your heart.

“Deal.” You said, taking his hand in yours as you walked back toward the warehouse.

The sudden movements made your skin crawl as the cold wind blew through.

“You cold?” He asked.

“Yeah.” You said, drawing your damp coat tightly around you.

Unlike you, he was used to the cold, having slept in muddy tunnels and trenches for nights on end, so he swiftly took his coat off and draped it around your shoulders, the scent of cologne and cigarette smoke radiating from the fabric.

“Now how about we go home aye?” He asked.

“Home?” You asked, sobering up as the night drug on.

“I’m not letting a lady drive herself through town this late, you can stay at mine.” He said, walking to his car and helping you in.

“Alright, but listen. I’m tired and I’d just like to sleep. No funny business.” You said holding up a finger at him.

“Why not?” He asked jokingly.

“I don’t fuck on first dates.” You said bluntly, cringing internally at the one time you did.

“Alright then.” He said, looking at you as he lit a cigarette. He smirked a bit before turning the engine on, respecting your decision but also intrigued that you were more hard to get than some other women he’s encountered in the past.

The drive was a bit long, making you want to fall asleep right there in the car, but the sounds of the gate to his grand driveway opening and closing kept you up. You lazily put your heels on before walking in the large house, the clicking of them echoing throughout the long halls.

“I assume you remember where the rooms are. My room is to the left of Charlie’s, I’m going to check on him but you can make yourself at home. There’s extra clothes in the dresser.” He said going up the stairs as you looked around. Your heart raced at the thought of sleeping beside him, the portrait of his late wife seemingly judging you as you walked up the stairs and into the bedroom.

While there, you hurriedly washed your already smudged makeup off and put one of his shirts on, letting it skim across your thighs as you walked back into the room.

Pulling the covers back on the huge queen bed, you heard Tommy talking sweetly to Charlie before hearing him shut the door. You had just made yourself comfortable when he’d walked in, a small smile plastered across his face that you’d seen so many times with parents.

“Was he asleep when you walked in?” You asked breaking the silence as he quickly changed clothes, causing you to sneak a glance at him before he climbed into the bed with you. It was a foreign feeling, sharing a bed with someone other than yourself, but you took in the moment, not knowing just how many you’d spend like this.

“He was until I walked in...had to tell him stories and play with his horse toy until he fell back to sleep.” He said, pulling you closer to him.

“Awe...I’m sure he was happy to see you though.” You said yawning lightly.

“Lets get to bed, don’t want you passing out on me tomorrow.” He said smirking down at you.

“Goodnight Tommy.” You said quietly.

“Goodnight.” He said, staring at the ceiling like he did so many nights, hoping that this time he’d be able to sleep somewhat peacefully.

The next morning, the birds chirped wildly outside as you and Tommy got up. The light from the windows blinding you both as hangovers clouded both your heads.

Tommy let out a cough and you managed a sneeze, as both of you felt like it was more than just hangover as the minutes passed, both of your heads feeling stuffed and your skin feeling a bit warmer than usual.

Tommy gave you a annoyed look as he sat up in bed, regretting his life decisions in that moment.

“What? Don’t look at me like that...” You said, getting up from the bed.

“I told you we’d get sick, you just had to live in the moment...” He said, mocking your words and watching you as you made your way to the bathroom. He watched as his shirt rode up your exposed legs as you leaned over the sink, splashing your face with cool water to help with your fever a bit.

“You could’ve stopped me you know...” You said dryer your face and then sitting next to him, checking his temperature with the back of your hand.

“Will this be going in your patient records?” He asked as you handed him a cold rag to put over his neck.

You smiled weakly as you spoke, clearly more sick from your actions than he was.

“No...we’re going to keep this one off the record...alright?” You said.

“Alright.” He said, getting up and slowly walking to his study downstairs. You got dressed in your now-dry dress and walked down the stairs to see the nanny with Charlie in the other room. You waved to him as he smiled, his appearance looking better than the last time you’d seen him.

“Hello Arthur. I won’t be in today, I’m a bit under the weather...yeah...it’s a long story. Aye don’t let the power get to your head alright brother? I’ll be back tomorrow.” You heard him say, causing you to chuckle as he walked out of his office.

You looked at his tired eyes and red nose, knowing you weren’t going to your home just yet.

Sighing and running a hand along your cold arms, you turned to him and checked is temperature again just in case.

“What?” He asked as you smirked to yourself.

“I guess today will just have to be like another house call...” You said, kissing his cheek before heading towards the bedroom again, knowing you’ll both be spending more time in there than originally planned.

Thomas Shelby Tag List:

(If you’d like to be added/removed just send me an ask/message!) :)

@msbzowy, @nofckingfighting, @aranoburns, @sighonahurricane, @ugly-crying-over-bucky-barnes, @gaytommyshelby, @wowjeena, @fifty-shadesof-tommyshelby, @inglourious-imagines, @thebloodyshelbys, @tsolomons, @blinder-secrets, @reveparade, @shelby-fanatic, @ta-ka-shi-ma, @psychkunox, @peakyxtommy, @captivatedbycillianmurphy,@dreamwastakenx, @lovemissyhoneybee, @thomashelbyswhore

[akutagawasbitch]

Aku, Atsushi, Chuuya, Higuchi, and whoever u want--how do they act when they're black out drunk??? Absolutely shit faced?

Of course my love, I had so much fun writing these. Let the crack commence <3

Chuuya

As we all know he can fly but when he's drunk he'll fly into shit all the fucking time. The side of a building, random walls, the window of his penthouse. You name it he's probably flown into it and face planted it while drunk

He also suffers from short man syndrome and will not hesitate to punch anyone. He has been kicked out of many bars for throwing the bartender when they cut him off

He likes to flirt but when drunk, he turns into a mess. Slurring his words, mixing up pickup lines and or just forgetting how to speak. It's all happened to him before but if dazai is around? He turns into the best womanizer in all of Yokohama for the sake of his pride

His favourite drunk food is ramen, he'll make shitty 99 cent ramen in his penthouse and devour it

His normally refined palette goes out the window

While he can be aggressive, if you're friendly to him, Chuuya will be your friend and be an absolute sweetheart back. He's made many a friend on drinking nights who he never remembers but they remember him

Amazon and drunk Chuuya are his wallet's greatest enemy

He will spend hours scrolling through and buy himself the stupidest shit ever

He once bought a massive playhouse because he wanted one

He'll also buy himself hats

Buys ridiculous shit and has it delivered to Dazai's apartment

One time he had hair removal cream disguised as shampoo order and dazai used it

Loves to dance while drunk

He will fucking get down with any song and is amazing at dancing

Loves going to karaoke bars, gets super into it. He will sing any song and is always surprisingly good at it. 

Passes out super quickly and easily so he never stays out too long 

Dazai 

Doesn’t like drinking too much as it reminds him of when him and Oda would go to Lupin together.

When he’s drunk, he swears he can hear Oda talking to him telling him what an idiot he’s being. 

He’s either an incredibly happy and elated drunk or a horribly suicidal depressed drunk. It depends on how much he has to drink. If he’s tipsy, he laughs a lot and feels a genuine sense of happiness, not the fake happiness he feels most of the time. If he is blackout drunk, he’s depressed and highly suicidal but in a more serious way. No more mushrooms or trying to drown himself, he goes for knives and pills but he always wakes up.

He will trip a lot and be incredibly clumsy when drunk. His bandages come undone which he doesn’t notice causing him to trip on them. This happens regularly 

When drunk he’s more prone to bumping his head on things since he isn’t paying attention. Ceilings, fans, lights, door frames. No matter what drunk dazai is a tall bastard with no spatial awareness

His flirting goes through the roof when drunk. He will flirt with anything that moves, he does not care. 

You know what else goes through the roof when he’s drunk? His d- appetite. This man can rival Kenjii or Atsushi in how much he can eat when drunk. He orders 6 different plates of crab and devours them like he’s never eaten in his life. 

His self restraint goes out the window and he’ll go break into Chuuya’s apartment just to mess with him and steal his hat or something along those lines. Drunk Dazai loves to fuck with people. 

He’s also more relaxed and will happily let Naomi or Yosano do his makeup if they asked nicely enough. He’d brag about how he’s the “prettiest princess of them all” before passing out

Aku 

You think Akutagawa has no filter? Wait until you meet drunk Akutagawa. This man doesn’t even know what a filter is. 

He deadass looks at Chuuya and stares at him before commenting “You’re short” with a deadpan look. 

He also has a surprisingly high tolerance and enjoys strong alcohol over wine. 

His lack of filter gets him into trouble more often than not and he gets into fights a lot. He actually uses his fists while drunk over using Rashomon mainly because he can barely speak a word without hiccuping 

He has trouble speaking, he either hiccups through every sentence or slurs his words to the point where they are unintelligible 

He is more chatty than normal but don’t expect a Dazai or Chuuya level of chatter. 

He likes to drink spiked teas 

He does enjoy drinking with others and enjoys accompanying Chuuya on nights out

He will devour a massive bowl of curry while drunk. He rarely eats when sober but when drunk? He’ll eat anything put in front of him

He is still pretty quick on his feet and agile but he is prone to falling over

He literally once woke up Gin because he fell over their couch when walking into their apartment and he just lay on the floor cursing out the sofa

He’ll roast the fuck out of Dazai and Atsushi while drunking and make various death threats

Aku ends up being rather protective of others while drunk and has scared of a number of creepy men making advances on uninterested women, he’s like a guard dog in that regard 

He will pass out fairly quickly once he gets home, refuses to pass out anywhere other than his bed 

Higuchi

As we found out in the PM Onsen CD, Higuchi cries when she’s drunk. She’ll cry over a cute puppy or cry over a mission going wrong or she’ll just cry because she got praise from Akutagawa. 

She also will talk for hours on one specific topic. Either its Akutagawa or something completely random. She’ll rarely talk about her sister but when she’s drunk she’ll open up more about her and tell everyone how much she loves her sister. 

She is also a lightweight and will pass out fairly quickly 

She likes sweet things when drunk and will eat something sweet that’s near her. 

She also has to hold Akutagawa back from fighting people or prevent him from getting punched because his no filter talk insulted the wrong person 

She isn’t an aggressive drunk but an emotional one. 

Gin

Gin isn’t a big talker, but she’ll talk more if she is drunk drunk and comfortable enough with the people she is drinking with 

She will laugh a lot while drunk and smile but it's hard to tell with her mask on 

Gin as we all  know is insanely fast and agile but when she’s drunk? All her agility goes out the window and she will face plant the floor if she tries any of her tricks.

I think she has a sweet tooth, so I can see her enjoying mochi ice cream while drunk

She also would love to watch people do karaoke, she won't participate since she’s too shy but seeing Chuuya and everyone else do it makes her laugh so hard her sides hurt

She lets out her more soft side and tries to pet all animals she sees

She once stole a duck and brought it home, Akutagawa wasn’t happy 

Atsushi

He will be a mess

100% a giggly drunk, he’ll find everything funny, even Kunkida’s dad jokes.  

He’ll accidently activate his ability and be walking around with a tail and not even notice it. 

Speaking of his tail, when drunk he likes to chase it as he gives into his more cat like tendencies, Dazai has a video of Atsushi chasing his tail for a good 20 minutes  

This boy will devour an entire restaurants worth of chazuke, if he could while drunk 

He likes to climb trees and he’s good at it, Kunida once found him at the top of a tree curled up asleep 

He’s also more blunt and will roast the fuck out of Akutagawa 

He also roasts Dazai a little bit but not as much as Akutagawa

He likes to transform into is tiger form and nap when drunk

He’d probably curse and then say fuck because he cursed and then just spiral into a stream of fucks 

He will try catch cats to cuddle, he once followed a cat two blocks just to pet him

I imagine him enjoying amusement parks so he’d go to once while drunk and have the time of his life until he got nauseous on the rides 

I also imagine he like play video games so when drunk he’ll do that and have the time of his life

Suddenly sweet baby atsushi is cursing and swearing like a sailor

He’ll pass out pretty quick and once he’s passed out, he’s out like a light for the rest of the evening.

Junchiro 

He likes his alcohol delivered in baked goods

He will try drunk bake/cook

He will pass out quickly and just cuddle his own sweater

He tries to flirt with women but naomi does not like it

My man will be shirtless trying to make a souffle at 2am

This was so fun to write, I’m sorry it took so long but I hope you enjoy this crack <3 

[satan-chillin]

Hereafter (4/7)

Wei Wuxian is sent off of Cloud Recesses, bade by his fathers to “have fun and make friends” which, now that he thinks about it, sounds like a gross oversimplification of what the next six months away from home will entail.

If he happens to form unlikely connections, start a matchmaking, and gets unwittingly involved in the presently strained political state of the cultivation world, those are just par for the course.

Chasing after one of the famed Twin Jades of Lan, however, is an added bonus.

(Or, WWX was sent to Gusu by his fathers Wen Kexing & Zhou Zishu)

Part 2 of Spirited Away Series. Part 1 here.

Also available in Ao3. Hereafter Chapter 1, 2, 3

❆❆❆

Wei Wuxian stumbled, sputtered, and shivered—exactly in that order.

“Lan Zhan, are you alright?!”

The question was apparently unnecessary seeing as Lan Zhan was already standing, unfazed as if they hadn’t been dragged into some—Wei Wuxian’s eyes darted wildly everywhere to take a stock of the white rocky walls—cave underneath a cold spring.

He hauled himself steadily on his feet amidst his heavily drenched clothes weighing him down to the fortunately shallow (but fucking cold brrrr) water. Resolutely, he cleared his throat to hide a cough and another shiver, straightening his appearance as much as he could, sweeping back his wet hair on his now thankfully numb back.

“We’re in a cave,” said Wei Wuxian uselessly. “Ah, do you happen to know the exit?”

Lan Zhan’s mouth remained that firm line before trudging ahead in dismissal. Wei Wuxian followed after him and found that continuous movement helped fend off the chill. After composing himself in silence, he managed to abate the chattering of his teeth and regulated a bit of his internal body heat, a trick he learned young and grew up using in particularly frigid winter nights.

Wei Wuxian paused. Frowning, he reached for his sleeves and found the item he was searching for missing. He had been holding that pouch before falling, hadn’t he?

Oh no.

“Crap.” His voice was loud enough to ring within the cave, halting even Lan Zhan though not exactly turning to look back at his companion to ask. “Wait. Let me go back a bit—the pouch—your ribbon!”

The statement warranted Lan Zhan’s attention this time. Wei Wuxian felt rather sheepish under the stare. Stupid. He was supposed to return it as an apology and then they would go on their merry way and forget Wei Wuxian’s moment of weakness (and stupidity). Resigned and chastised the longer the pointed stare lengthen, he said, “Look, I’m really sorry about what happened. I don’t know if you believe me, but I honestly didn’t know no one’s allowed to touch it.”

Lan Zhan did not blink, and it would have been eerie if he wasn’t doing a great job imitating a magnificent statue carved in jade. The shade of color that stood out the most from him was the gold of his eyes amidst the reflection of what little light there was within the cave walls, like a relic hidden and untouched by time.

Wei Wuxian swallowed down the poetics threatening to spill from his tongue. Not the time.

Wordlessly, Lan Zhan unclenched a closed fist to reveal the familiar pouch and pulled out the ribbon within, blessedly dry, and without breaking eye contact tied it around his forehead before turning his back once more and proceeding ahead.

Wei Wuxian could only blink after him.

… Was that a smile?

His mind must be playing tricks on him, or it could be the cold, come to think of it. It wasn’t hard for him to come to the conclusion that he was indeed still dazed, probably from the rough tumble earlier into this cave and the low temperature, or both, when the next thing he was seeing was rabbits.

Fluffy white bunnies with tiny Lan forehead ribbons. Wei Wuxian wanted to laugh at the absurdity this day was turning.

To be fair, though, those were really cute bunnies with beady eyes that noticed their visitors and sniffed at the ground. Wei Wuxian resisted the urge to gather a bunch of them to cuddle for warmth.

“Lan Zhan,” he called, barely taking his eyes off the little animals that littered the narrow outcropping to the side. “Are you seeing what I’m—”

Wei Wuxian collided with what felt like an invisible force that slammed him back to the water. Indignantly, he rose, hacking out water. “Oh, come on!”

While Lan Zhan didn’t appear to be worried, he was equally confused between the white guqin that was simply sitting there, unassuming, and Wei Wuxian waddling through the water.

He had seen it the second time, a strike that came from a single, resounding note that went from behind Lan Zhan and straight to Wei Wuxian as if it knew he was an offender—and damn if he didn’t terribly regret not having Suibian or at least his fan to counter that. His reflex kicked in, diving narrowly to the shallow surface and twisting.

The next one followed immediately as he was about to pivot his heel and maneuver toward the dry ground. This one, however, did not reach him in time, Lan Zhan’s blade effectively blocking the assault.

Wei Wuxian figured that it was a protective measure of some sort, and whatever this cave was, it was clearly guarding something. Interestingly, it didn’t care enough to throw Lan Zhan out despite the fact that the two of them were technically intruders, recognizing that he wasn’t an outsider like Wei Wuxian was.

Sharply, he glanced back at the harmless rabbits that were seemingly imitating Lan disciples with their snowy fur and little forehead ribbons that, now that Wei Wuxian realized, could only be seen among the inner disciples of the Lan Sect. He was yet to get an explanation why that silk ribbon was too much of a big deal to be considered sacred, although...

Hold on.

“Lan Zhan! You’ll probably hate me for this, and I swear I’m sorry in advance, but unless you want me to die, you’re going to have to let me touch that ribbon again!”

For a split second, Wei Wuxian had an ugly feeling that Lan Zhan actually wanted to be rid of him permanently, and, oh, his cold-hearted muse, a beguiling, unsmiling—

Lan Zhan was on his side in the next beat, the silk ribbon coiled around his and Wei Wuxian’s forearm. The cloth was pulled taut between them, a mere couple of inches that Wei Wuxian was certain he could close with a strong tug.

He raised an eyebrow, lips pursing into a quirk at the edges. “Thank you.”

In lieu of ignoring Wei Wuxian’s eyes and slight grin, Lan Zhan stared at the guqin and led the way back to where he had been. Still a little mesmerized, Wei Wuxian was going to pretend that Lan Zhan’s pace wasn’t slow for his sake.

“I wonder what kind of treasure this is,” he said, humming appreciatively at the craftsmanship of the instrument in ivory and the delicate engraving of patterns, “that it’s not letting strangers near it.”

“Don’t touch it,” Lan Zhan warned needlessly as if Wei Wuxian would dare lay his wet hand on a fine creation. “This instrument is hard to obtain and has magical value. It knows how to target people with a different family name using Chord Assassination.”

Well, damn, that was the longest he’d heard from Lan Zhan. Also, Chord Assassination? Wasn’t that the one Lan Qiren mentioned in one of his lectures an ultimate move passed down from generation to generation in the Lan Sect?

“One of Lan Sect’s heirlooms then?” Though he wondered why hide this exquisite instrument when it could be displayed; why the magical protection for this thing alone? “Hm. Can we investigate?”

“Don’t touch it,” came the same warning. “You’ll be disrespecting my ancestor’s possession.”

“Fine. How are we supposed to investigate it without touching it?”

Lan Zhan moved around and to the other side of the guqin, sitting. Wei Wuxian decided to situate himself next to the instrument, watching raptly at the long fingers that tuned the strings, a pale hue of qi danced across the surface where he touched.

Wei Wuxian was aware that Lan Sect’s expertise lay in musical cultivation, and he had to admit that there was something enrapturing to observe a Lan performing it even if what Lan Zhan was doing was one of the basic aspects of it.

He did not recall closing his eyes, though when he next opened them, Lan Zhan was pointedly looking at the spot where Wei Wuxian sat. Consciously, he stood, patting nonexistent dirt away from the instrument.

Then the notes came, a response to Lan Zhan’s playing. A flash of what must be a surprise lit Lan Zhan’s features.

“It’s her.”

“Who?”

From the walls, there echoed a sudden noise of a hundred thundering steps, of multiple voices clamoring at once. They were both on high alert in an instant upon hearing the recitation of the names of the five major clans. Lan Zhan withdrew his sword, and Wei Wuxian, subconsciously, positioned himself a step in front of him.

There were loud chants of killing a holy mountain and destroying the Stygian metal, of demands for a Xue Chonghai to give up the said Stygian metal. The yells alone were enough to determine that the five major clans were to attack a clan of this Xue Chonghai.

“What is Stygian metal?”

“I’ve never heard of it,” Lan Zhan admitted.

The noise settled into a deafening silence before a clear and gentle feminine voice said: “Stygian metal is cursed. It’s best not to talk about it.”

At the place Lan Zhan previously occupied, a woman in blue of the shade of skies sat down, her face serene and timeless, not a hair out of place as she regarded them.

Lan Zhan went to his knees, bowing deeply, the gesture pulling Wei Wuxian down with him. “Gusu Lan Sect disciple, Lan Zhan, greets Elder Lan Yi.”

Wei Wuxian paid the same respects, almost floundering doing so. “Four Seasons Sect disciple, Wei Ying, greets Elder Lan Yi.”

At him, Lan Yi said, “You came a long way.”

Wei Wuxian was tempted to ask how in the world did she know and if that meant his fathers’ sect could be traced as far back as the ones in the cultivation world. He held his tongue, observing her quite taken with a rabbit that had wandered over to her. She stroked its fur fondly, and for a moment Wei Wuxian could believe that she wasn’t an elder of centuries old.

“Elder, do you raise those rabbits?” he asked.

“Yes. To keep me company,” she answered. “My magic has waned over the years,” she said evenly. “They love to play so they frequently run outside.”

“Elder, they said you passed away years ago,” said Lan Zhan. “Why...”

“Is it related to the Stygian metal?” Wei Wuxian could gather as much from what they’d heard.

A flicker crossed her face, akin to a disturbed surface of perfectly tranquil water. “It is the biggest mistake of my life. Because of it, I’ve used all of my spiritual energy as the price for suppressing the Stygian iron.”

On her palm, she produced an old piece of chipped metal, tarnished but not rusted. This must be the Stygian metal, and Wei Wuxian’s mind raced with questions upon questions and settling for two.

“What’s up with this metal? And the yelling earlier, where do they come from?”

“Since it has been unsealed, my psyche, along with my magical powers, weakens day by day,” she said. “And then you two came. It must be fate.”

Lan Yi spoke of a few hundred years back, when the Stygian metal hadn’t been broken into pieces, and what was presently named Yiling Burial Mounds was then called a holy mountain. She mentioned Xue Chonghai who had been the most powerful advisor to the emperor, and how the facts had been muddled by time as to why he had wielded the Stygian metal to absorb resentment and used human beings as sacrifices. With the Stygian metal, he had controlled a notorious beast known as the Tortoise of Slaughter. Formidable, Xue Chonghai slaughtered cultivators of various sects, both big and small.

“The five major sects,” Wei Wuxian began. “They banded together to bring him down.”

“Indeed. It cost a lot of lives, and the Yiling holy mountain became the Burial Mounds for the fallen.”

“Elder, where was the Stygian metal after that?” Lan Zhan asked.

“It absorbed numerous living beings’ spiritual awareness, and all the resentment couldn’t be contained.”

“The metal was capable of spirit consumption?” Wei Wuxian asked in disbelief.

He’d read of theories and the subjects that encompassed spiritualism, and he would wager that not all the scholars who scribed and penned those in old books and dusty scrolls had seen half of what they’d written in practice, one of those about how a spirit could transform into its own awareness that was capable of destroying either itself or another, or capable to growing itself by multitudes through absorption or consumption.

“The Stygian metal was originally a national treasure that could absorb nature’s natural aura,” Lan Yi said. “Xue Chonghai used that ability to absorb living beings’ awareness and cultivators’ spirit essence, and because of this the resentment completely polluted the metal and can never be cleansed. The closest to suppression the five greatest clans managed was to divide the metal into pieces, stored in four locations where the spiritual vein is in abundance in four cardinal locations. To prevent the same mistake of Xue Chonghai, it was agreed not to pass the knowledge of Stygian iron to any of the future descendants.”

“Forgive me for speaking directly, Elder, but using the logic of absorption, why not absorb instead the opposite of resentment, an amount that can overwhelm the resentment within? And the iron must have its limits too for it’s not a pocket of unlimited space to contain everything there is. Why not stuff it full of resentment until it cannot contain all in itself? It doesn’t have to be the living; the dead or beasts, like the Nie Sect’s way of cultivation. Or—or what if we utilize the resentment within the metal? It won’t be like Xue Chonghai if we—”

“Wei Ying!” exclaimed Lan Zhan. In truth, his volume hardly rose a level, but it was as much of a sound of incredulity at what Wei Wuxian was saying.

She shook her head. “What Young Master Wei said was exactly what I had in mind then. The folly of youth is arrogance and the inexplicable need to prove oneself.” She turned wistful. “As the first female sect leader who wants prestige for her sect and to prove them wrong, I carried those follies through the years and pursued the Stygian iron. It was futile, in the end.” Lan Yi smiled ruefully. “Baoshan Sanren was right.”

Wei Wuxian jolted. “B-Baoshan Sanren?”

“She was a good friend, and she tried to stop me. I’m a fool for not listening.” Her eyes were distant, regretful. “I thought I could enlighten it on my own but merely ended up unsealing the iron. Once unsealed, it couldn’t be reversed. Now here I am in Han Tan Cave, unable to leave after I used my psyche instead. I might not have passed away all those years ago, but I’ve been fading away since then.”

A slow death and dying alone. Wei Wuxian couldn’t think of anything worse.

“What happened to my grandmaster?” he asked quietly.

“Grandmaster?”

Wei Wuxian nodded. “My mother, Cangse Sanren, was a disciple of Baoshan Sanren. She lived with her master and came down from her mountain. She met my biological father afterward and had me.”

“I didn’t know.” Lan Yi stared at him in wonder. “Who would have thought that Baoshan Sanren would take a disciple? We were both young back then, and last I heard of her she went to seclusion. I was… ashamed to seek her.”

“Elder, I have a question,” Lan Zhan spoke. “Are you the one who brought us here?”

“No, not with my weakening state, but I suspect that it’s the Stygian metal. It has been restless since the past decade when the other pieces resurfaced.”

Wei Wuxian shared a look with Lan Zhan. Someone was aiming to be another Xue Chonghai, and it didn’t bode well for their generation and the next.

“The pieces must be gathered together to seal the iron once more.” Her lips pursed. “Only then will the resentment quieten, and hopefully will be laid to rest here forever, frozen in this cave.”

Lan Zhan clasped his hands in front of him, kneeling. “As a descendant of Gusu Lan Sect, Lan Zhan vows to fulfill this obligation to Elder Lan Yi.”

Wei Wuxian imitated the gesture, much to Lan Zhan’s surprise. “Wei Ying of the Four Seasons sect vows to accomplish this with Lan Zhan.”

“This is a matter of the Gusu Lan alone,” Lan Zhan protested.

“I might be from a different sect, from somewhere far away from here, but it doesn’t mean I’ll stand by when there’s potential harm to many. I might have been raised in jianghu, but my fathers raised me to care for the lives of others,” he declared, glancing briefly at Elder Lan Yi and noticing her soft gaze at them. “Besides, Elder is right. Maybe it is fate that brought us here.”

Personally, Wei Wuxian hadn’t been a believer of fate for it only happened to him once: his baba finding him in that terrible snowstorm, way before Sect Leader Jiang or even death itself found him. He felt the tight grip of Lan Zhan’s silk ribbon against his forearm, connecting him to his owner.

Perhaps this, too, was fate.

❆❆❆

Lan Yi’s fading was inevitable, though for it to happen in front of his eyes brought a disquiet in Wei Wuxian’s stomach. What was left of her spiritual essence exploded into blue fireflies, enchanting and separating into several little lights that would never come together again to form a whole.

They stumbled past an egress that magically appeared on a wall, with Lan Zhan half-dragging him out like he was eager to set out as soon as possible to find the remaining pieces of the Stygian iron.

Heh. He probably was.

Completely forgetting being tied to Lan Zhan, Wei Wuxian misjudged a step, foot tangling with Lan Zhan’s, throwing them both together on the rocky dry ground.

“Well,” began Wei Wuxian, grinning down coquettishly, after finding himself on top of an alarmed Lan Zhan. “This is a nice end to our escapade, Lan-er-gongzi.”

It would be forever etched in his mind, that adorable shade of scarlet.

[halo-jpeg]

Bearable | A Reddie Fanfiction

Read it from the beginning

Chapter 8

WARNING. HOMOPHOBIC LANGUAGE. READ AT YOUR OWN RISK.

Richie watched as the sun sank steadily towards the horizon, lighting the sky red, orange, yellow, begging the clock to tick just a bit quicker so he could be free from his job. Britney and Mason, douchebag 1 and douchebag 2, were chattering away like hormone-driven starlings right behind him rather than wiping down the counters like they probably should have been. It was 30 minutes until his shift was up and the flow of customers had more than ebbed by now. Normally, Richie wouldn't want his shift to ever end; normally meant he had Bev or Ben at his side to keep him from drowning himself in the backroom sink. Tonight, neither were here, so he was stuck with the two preppy assholes he was so desperately trying to tune out. On any other occasion the music leaking from the tinny speakers would have been enough to get him through the day, but tonight things were different and the radio was instead tuned to bark out the score of some sports game Richie couldn't care less about but had the one or two patrons (who were already served and seated) tilting one ears towards the sound in interest. If given the chance Richie would have been just fine talking with Britney and Mason; he didn't like them, not really, but his big mouth was begging to run after almost a straight 45 minutes of near-silence and professionalism, and the problem was that they didn't seem too fond of talking to him.

And so, Richie simply stood. And waited. And grew more and more bored out of his mind. His fingers began to drum against his chin which was rested on the palm of his left hand which was- in turn- propped up by his elbow on the slightly-sticky surface of the counter. He fought the urge to tap his foot and he fought the urge to hum or dance or bop his head all because he didn't think he could stand knowing the other two would judge him for it. Judgement wasn't often something that bothered him but the memories of last night's talk with Beverly kept trying to pop up into his brain. Yes, that was another reason he was desperate for something to do- Richie just couldn't stop thinking about that talk. The door to the cafe popped open and, golly, it was Richie's lucky day- in stepped one bite-sized brunette with a tentative scowl on his face full of freckles. Just like that, Richie perked up again, his smile splitting his face right in two and his stomach beginning a circus performance consisting of backflips and pirouettes.

"Well, wouldja lookit that!" Snapping his fingers, Richie leaned forwards and across the counter to greet Eddie with his bright eyes, "Spaghetti-man, welcome! Just in time, I was tempted to throw myself into one of the ovens!" Eddie's scowl vanished and instead came a confused little grin that looked pretty goofy and melted away the last of any problems the world had to face.

"Christ, Rich, that's a little dramatic," Eddie pulled up to the counter and began to say something else but, well, Richie was a little distracted taking in the sight of him alone. It had been nearly 24 hours since they'd interacted and, after his little talk with Bev, Richie couldn't really get Eddie out of his mind. Fitted in a fluffy coral-toned knitted sweater and a pair of black jeans, he was looking adorable. Imagining Eddie with some accessory like a bracelet or black nails was even cuter- suddenly, Richie felt very much like Bev said she did whenever she went digging through his wardrobe. Eddie quirked a brow and snapped Richie right out of his thoughts.

"Sorry? What was that? My head's still a lil' out of it tonight," He straightened his back, blinking his scattered thoughts away and cracking his knuckles as if he were being thrown into a cage match, "Can I get you something to drink? To eat? A seat at the bar, maybe? I could use someone to talk to, I feel like I'm going crazy around here," As he said 'crazy' Richie spun a finger around his temple, and Eddie rolled his eyes.

"I actually just came by to say hello, since... y'know. The party and... and all that shit. We had a deal, didn't we?" Eddie took up Richie's offer for a barstool, leaping up onto it and folding his hands on the counter. He glared down at the tabletop as he spoke, bashful. It warmed Richie's heart and he smiled even wider, clasping his hands and holding them up to the side of his face; his eyelashes battered wildly and then he was the Southern Belle.

"Well, my oh my, ain't you a doll? Stoppin' by just to get a glance at lil' ole' me?" With another roll of his eyes (that seemed to be an Eddie Kaspbrak trademark) Eddie finally looked up again and rested his cheek on one hand.

"I regret it now, Trashmouth. You're gonna make my ears bleed." Laughing, Richie spun on his heel, briefly catching Britney and Mason's gazes and then went straight for the cups to whip up a signature drink for his friend, even if it was against company policy both to create anything original and to give out anything without it being paid for. Who gives a shit, Richie thinks to himself, and gets right to it.

"How's a mocha sound, Eddie Spaghetti?"

"It's- It's fine, but how many times do I have to tell you not to call me that? Especially not with, like-" Eddie didn't need to finish his sentence, nor did Richie have to actually see him to know he was passing discreet glances at the two coworkers most likely listening in. Eddie was embarrassed about his silly little nickname. Challenge accepted- Richie had plenty of those. Flipping switches, tapping buttons, spinning around the kitchen with practiced ease, Richie pumped out a perfect dark chocolate mocha with steamed vanilla milk and caramel sauce drizzled artistically across the mountain of whipped cream on the top. It was a masterpiece- no surprise there.

"And here you are, Eduardo." the cup was set down and Eddie gave Richie an awkward, thankful smile. "Enjoy it- and here, dip one of these in it," Sliding open one side of the bakery treats display case Richie pulled out a slice of banana bread, "It's fantastic. Like, seriously, Eds. Ten out of fucking ten."

"When did your shift start today? I didn't know you worked," Eddie's cheeks flushed a soft red thanks to his own curiosity and he hid it with a sip from his drink. Richie shrugged,

"Nine. I was exhausted. Had to steal a coffee or two throughout the course of the day like the rebel I am." Richie reached up, popping the collar of today's brightly coloured shirt (pink, blue, yellow, purple, an amalgamation of triangles and circles and squares) and hunching his shoulders in, grimacing dramatically and sauntering back and forth like a biker dude who smoked a pack of cigarettes a day and loved the road more than anything else, "I run 'gainst the law, dawg," Eddie cracked a toothy smile and let out a dancing chuckle, "I rob gas 'tations and pick pockets for a livin'," Richie reached a hand up and began to fuss with his hair in an attempt to transform it into an impromptu mullet. Bringing the attention towards his curls Eddie's face screwed up but his smile still lingered.

"You need a fuckin' haircut, dude, like- wow. It's like a whole mop, Richie," And then Eddie's eyes grew wide and he recoiled, "Did you make my drink with that mane exposed? What if- what if you got your stupid hair in it? You know you're committing a guideline 37 health code violation? It's literally against the law not to wear a hair net, you know. And did you wash your hands?" Richie flipped his collar back down as Eddie spoke, letting out a huff and stumbling over to the sink to jam his hands under the faucet. "I heard people's hands carry up to almost five million different kinds of bacteria. You'd better not be putting that into people's-" Richie's hands now soaking wet, he lifted them and flicked them violently in Eddie's direction. The shorter boy cut himself off and let out a startled cry as he was assaulted by these droplets of water, half-jumping-half-falling out of his chair to scramble out of range. "You asshole! This sweater is a gift from my mom you know, and it could get damaged or-" Someone in the shop barked out a hissing 'shhh!' and Eddie went silent, his face bright red.

"The patrons request silence, my lo- friend, jeezly-crow," Richie dried his hands on the towel just near the sink, acting like he hadn't almost called Eddie 'my love' (he only didn't say it because of his coworkers and Eddie's pride) and returned to standing across from him. As soon as he was near enough Eddie delivered a half-assed punch to his forearm that was more teasing than actually harmful.

"That was quite the show," Britney, for once in her life, regarded Richie with a glitter of amusement in her eyes, and then glanced over at Eddie who was now smiling sheepishly and clearly dreading meeting a new person. Britney stuck out a hand, "Nice to meet you... Eduardo, was it?"

"Ah- Eddie, actually, my name is Eddie- Richie is just... just stupid sometimes, sorry," Rapidly, Eddie wiped his hands on the front of his shirt and took Britney's hesitantly within his own. Only Richie noticed the way his brows flicked a little closer together- Eddie was uncomfortable. That much was obvious.

"It's part of my charm, isn't-"

"Oh my God, I know, right? He's such a goofball!" With a horribly dopey grin, Britney pushed at Richie's shoulder and let out a high-pitched titter, "Imagine having to work with him every day!" Both boys let out an awkward chuckle, sharing a glance that said a multitude of different things; Who the hell is this chick? and Well she's just a little rude. and Can she maybe leave us alone? and many, many other things as well. "So, Eds- can I call you that?-" Britney didn't give him a chance to protest even though he wanted to, "How long have you and Richard been friends? How'd you meet him?" Britney leaned in just beside Richie, basically elbow to elbow as she crossed her arms and leaned into them to- oh- everything clicks together just like that, just as Britney uses her arms to push her chest higher. She was trying (and, well, failing, frankly) to flirt with Eddie. It seems that the asthmatic has yet to notice.

"Well, I... Not long, we just met a little over a week ago, I guess. It's actually kind of funny we-"

"Only a week?" Britney batted her lashes and Richie debated on telling her that her interrupting was not a good flirting technique, "But you two seem so close already! Gosh, I'd have guessed you two were high school friends at least!"

"Nope," Richie interjected before she could continue, "Just new friends. He's great, I'm great- that makes double great- Anyhow, Britney, we should let him enjoy his drink shouldn't-"

"Quite the mouth on him, huh?" Somehow, impossibly, Richie had failed to get her attention. Demanding all eyes on him was his specialty, but it was as if Britney had garnered some sort of tunnel vision, like a race horse with blinders perched on either side of it's head. Flirt racing. Place your bets. Richie felt a flame of jealousy and immediately squashed it down, feeling like some bitchy schoolgirl. "Chatter chatter chatter, all day long. How do you deal with it?"

"I don't, usually," Eddie was fiddling with the hem of one sleeve, his cheeks puffed out lightly in irritation. Who knew one man could have so much patience. "I... Well, I kind of like the chatter, actually. My own thoughts race so fast, it's cool to finally have someone who can keep up with them." Shrugging, Eddie turns to Richie and opens his mouth to speak, but, what a surprise, Britney beats him to it.

"I'm sure I could keep up with them, hon, if you gave me the chance," Britney let one eye fall down in a wink and Eddie gaped, frozen. His face drained of colour, a ghastly white that highlighted each and every one of his freckles- then it flooded red and he gripped the sides of the counter, looking at Richie again but this time as a silent plea, a save me oh my God- "What's your number?" She smiled, her rose red lips curling up in a way that could only be described as evil, "Or I can give you mine. I'd like to get to know you better." One part of Richie wanted to let this play out just because it was such a wonderful opportunity to watch Eddie flounder. The other part, the moral part, was screaming at him to intervene.

"Oh- I, I uh- I'm so-sorry I don't-" Eddie's tongue was tied. He swallowed hard and shook his head, his breath beginning to come in hitches, "I- I'm not interested I'm s-sorry if you got the- the wrong idea or-"

"Oh, come on, pretty please?" Britney leaned in closer and Eddie leaned away. "With a cherry on top? I promise it'll be fun-"

"Fuck off, Brit, he said no," Richie tried to keep his tone level, knowing that if he didn't his jealousy would show, but it seems he wasn't firm enough and that Britney didn't quite get the message. Eddie was still shaking his head, patting at his pockets as if searching for something, something to get him out of this more than awkward situation and turning up empty handed.

"We can maybe go to dinner tomorrow night or something like that, I'm a pretty fun girl when you get to-"

"Britney, that's enough!" Slamming one hand down on the countertop and raising his voice, all eyes turned to him- even those of the patrons, though this time no one hissed out a shush. After a beat of silence, Richie continued with a calmer tone, "You're clearly making him uncomfortable, I think you should just get to wiping down the counters or something so we can start closing up," Someone behind Richie scoffed; Mason. His other coworker. Rounding on him, Richie crossed his arms, trying to look somewhat intimidating in the face of this super-jock. "What's your problem, huh?"

"Well, I just think your little friend there's really makin' a mistake," Mason shifted his weight onto one foot, peering around Richie and staring the poor flustered Eds straight in the eye, "She really is a great chick, and... Well, you look like you could use a ride like her." Eddie's jaw dropped and his face went redder. He looked as if he were about to pass out, and Richie was stunned all the same.

"Jesus Christ, man, you can't just say that! What the hell's wrong with you?" Richie took a step forwards, glaring even harder but Mason wasn't deterred, wasn't afraid, was still dead set on either picking on Eddie or maybe actually attempting to give some sort of skewed advice.

"She'll do nearly anything you want if you ask nice," Britney was smiling though she looked a little stunned herself by this show of boldness, "And it seems she likes you, too. You're her type- short, thin, kinda... well, kinda girly to be honest," Eddie stared down at the tabletop, fighting to control his erratic breathing and seeming to have given up on patting his pockets for- oh shit, his inhaler. Was Eddie having an asthma attack?

"Mason, you fucking idiot, give it a rest. Eddie isn't interested. Leave him the fuck alone!" Richie was growing irritated- something about Mason felt off today. Usually the boy didn't outright pick on other people, he was always at least subtle about it.

"Oh, shit-" Mason let out a little chuckle, and stepped around Richie to approach the counter, "Unless- wait, unless you're not into her?" Richie was so close to slamming a fist across Mason's stupid face. After years of not understanding why everyone called his own face punchable, Richie finally got it. Some people just looked like good boxing practice.

"No fucking shit Sherlock of course he isn't into-"

"Unless you're some sort of fairy?"

Oh, the silence that followed this statement was suffocating. It was as if a thick blanket of quiet had throttled the room; Eddie's hitching breaths had stopped- in fact, so had his breathing altogether. His eyes had hollowed out, his face had lost all colour for good this time, and his shoulders had jumped up to his ears. Britney's mouth was hanging open, her eyes wide, breath stolen away in a more figurative sense. Richie was entirely and utterly shocked. He had known Mason wasn't the ideal fella. He cheated on girlfriends and drank too much and stole things, but this- this was... more than Richie had expected. It took a lot for Richie to dislike someone and he disliked both him and sort of Britney for quite the big book of reasons; but downright homophobia was not in his book until today.

"What. The fuck." Richie's voice had gone low, dangerously low. Mason turned to face him instead, his eyes dancing with quite the colorful array of emotions yet somehow appearing haunted, dead, all at the same time. If Richie had to get all poetic and describe it he'd say those eyes were reminiscent of an ocean- chaotic in the crashing of the waves, and yet endlessly empty. He was smiling wide. Proud. Like a shark. Eddie was still silent.

"Maybe I've got things wrong, maybe that was wrong," Mason held his hands up defensively, and Richie made the mistake of letting him continue, "Maybe... Well maybe he's not a fairy." A pause, blood thrumming loudly in his ears, "Maybe you are, Tozier. Maybe you're the little fag-"

"Shut up, Mason. Just shut the hell up." Mason leaned in, arms crossed, smile smug,

"You know, as sick as you are, it doesn't even surprise me." From Richie's right there was a gasp, a choked sound reminiscent of some form of words.

"Shut your fucking mouth or I swear to God-"

"I probably should have realized sooner, to be entirely honest. I mean, your hair, your clothes, your stupid nails and your stupider voices-"

"Richie- Richie I-" Richie's head was spinning with red hot rage. His hands were balled into white-knuckled fists, his teeth gritted tightly.

"You don't know a single thing about me you asshole,"

"I guess it's possible both you and your friend here mingle with that crowd, huh? Maybe the- Oh Jesus, maybe the reason you're so defensive is because the two of you are, like, boning or-" And, that was the final fucking straw. Richie didn't register his hands flying out to shove, hard, at Mason's chest until the boy was stumbling backwards, right over Britney taking them both to the ground. Richie was taller than Mason. Mason was heavier than Richie. With the right momentum, the right force and angle, he could- and did- send Mason almost flying.

"You're a fucking pig, you know that? Jesus- and to think I might actually, one day, maybe be able to tolerate your obnoxious ass here at work?"

"Rich- I c-can't-"

"Wow, I was naïve! Do you have a single scrap of human decency in that tiny frocking brain of yours or are you only powered by fucking and alcohol?"

"R-Richie! I-"

"Well guess fucking what, you dog? I've got quite the gift for-"

"Richie!!" Just as Richie was about to spit right onto Mason's stupid face Eddie dragged him out of his furious haze with a choking wheeze. His head snapped right, gluing onto Eddie's trembling form; one hand was grasping at his throat, the other supporting him on the countertop, shaky, pale. His face was as white as a sheet and he looked positively awful with his mouth open wide and his chest heaving painfully up and down. "Rich- I- I-I-I c-ca-can't breathe I-"

"Shit, Eds, I'm so sorry," Richie didn't waste a second in hopping over the counter, tearing off his work apron and tossing it to the floor, discarding his anger with it, "Come on, let's go, let's get you some fresh air okay? We can hurry to your place and get your inhaler, yeah?" Despite the hate, the disgust, Richie couldn't care less about how he must have looked as he took Eddie's hand and began to drag him to the door, half-drunken mocha and quarter of banana bread left for the other two to clean up. On their way out Richie was almost certain he heard one last snide comment, some slur, but his only focus right now was Eddie and the way he was sucking in rasping breaths like a drowning man. Rich shoved the door open with one shoulder, holding it ajar and letting Eddie pass by, resting a hand on his back as he did so and beginning to steer him down the sidewalk in no particular direction. "Where's your house? What's your address? Should I call Bill or Stan or- We have to get you to your inhaler, don't we?" Cowering like a hurt puppy, Eddie shrunk into Richie's side, still gripping and clawing and gasping. "W-What do I do where do I go what-"

"No-" Eddie forced the words out through gritted teeth, shaking his head and holding up a single finger- just give me a minute. The two came to a halt underneath the golden glow of a streetlamp just recently lit. The sky was a dark purple now, growing into blue.

"Eddie, don't you need you inhaler?" He shook his head again, and Richie screwed his brows together, "But your asthma, we can't risk it we should just-"

"NO, Rich- Just-" Eddie gasped, his eyes squeezing shut, "Just give me a- a fucking minute!" Richie shrunk away, pulling his arms to his chest and taking a tentative step back. Eddie turned, hiding his face, and continued to sputter, refusing Richie's help and planting one hand over his eyes and forehead. A minute passed- Richie tried to suggest once more that the inhaler was the safest option. Eddie denied it with another string of breaths and curses. At last, an agonizing three minutes later, the rise and fall of Eddie's chest grew steadier.

"Are... Are you sure you're alright? I... I don't know how asthma works but I don't think ignoring it is healthy." Risking being yelled at again Richie stepped forwards and placed a soft hand on Eddie's frail shoulder. For one quick moment those big brown eyes stared up at him and then they flicked away, down to their shoes instead. The smaller boy's ears burned red with shame.

"I don't-" Eddie scoffed, "I don't fucking- I don't fucking have asthma okay? I'm fine. I just- need to- calm the hell down."

"You- what? You don't have asthma? Then what was all that stuff at the party-"

"It was nothing, okay? It was just my stupid brain being all messed up! It's not asthma, jackass, so just- let it go, please. Jesus," Eddie shook off Richie's hand and took a few steps back, one hand rising to pinch at the bridge of his nose. He started to pace. "I can't believe that guy, what an asshole! And that girl, I just-" He cried out incoherently, too frustrated to piece together another phrase, and shook his head.

"I'm sorry, Eddie, I really am. I don't know what got into them- Mason especially, he isn't usually that bad and I... Well, that wasn't cool. Something was wrong about him tonight and- fuck," Richie brought his hands up to his face, underneath his glasses to scrub it vigorously, "I don't know, man, I'm so sorry." When Richie's hands fell again Eddie was looking at him, one hand on his hip, the other pressed against his chest, concerned. A pause.

"Are you okay?"

"What...? Of course I am, I'm not the one who almost choked on-"

"Then what the fuck did you think you were doing in there?" Eddie surged forwards and, this time, pushed Richie with both hands, though the outcome was very different and Richie hardly budged.

"Woah woah Eds what-"

"He could have hit you! Are you stupid or something? That guy would have had your fucking neck snapped before you could even do anything about it and you were just going to let it happen because he said some nasty shit to me?" Again, Eddie thumped a fist into Richie's chest, and then another.

"Of course Eddie he can't just-"

"People have said that shit to me all my life, Richie, you don't have to go risking your stupid neck because of it!" This time Richie caught Eddie by the wrist before his shove could connect, and then caught the other hand right after, holding them tight, "Let me go, Richie I can't deal with you being like this right now it's like you're not even listening to me and-"

"Eddie, calm down you're gonna throw yourself into another fit!"

"I'm okay, asshole, I'm not gonna break down and die right here and now because I'm angry at you! I-I get angry all the time I'm not some child- I-" Eddie squeezed his eyes shut, gritting his teeth, and then he spat out the words coated in acid, "You don't get to act all 'night in shining armor' just because some airheaded asshole wants to tell me what's good for me! I can take care of myself and I fucking hate it when people treat me like some stupid kid!" Eddie was gasping again, though this time he kept his mouth shut tight, trying to hide that he was struggling. He looked furious and terrified and hurt, a trio of emotion that Richie never wanted to see on his face again. Richie let out a sigh, closing his eyes and letting go of Eddie's wrists. As soon as he did Eddie crossed his arms and took a step back, averting his gaze. The tips of his ears were burning brighter.

"I... Eddie, I'm sorry, I... I didn't mean to- to belittle you or talk down to you or anything like that. I just saw that you were getting badmouthed and I acted before I could really think."

"That doesn't surprise me, Trashmouth, you seem to be a little fucking impulsive." His voice strained, it was evident that Eddie was trying to reign in his temper, his 'asthma' already calming down once more. "Just... just please let me handle myself in the future. I can do it, I swear,"

"Yeah, I... I know you can. You're," Richie chuckled, and punched Eddie weakly, tentatively in the shoulder, "You're all sorts of spunk in one tiny package," Allowing himself to grin just for a split second Eddie slapped offense onto his face and wore a pout that would better fit a toddler.

"Are you calling me short? That's real low, Rich, that's just-"

"Low, is it? Yeah, I guess it is, huh?"

"Oh- fuck you!" Eddie rolled his eyes and turned away to conceal his smile as Richie let out his bright cackling, ripping through the silence of the night in a way that was more pleasant than Eddie thought possible. "God, you're just such an asshole, I hope you know that," He jabbed out an accusatory finger and Richie shot up his hands in mock surrender as if that finger were a gun.

"Don't shoot!" He hollered, stumbling a step back, "I have a wife and kids to get back to!" Eddie laughed, dropping his hand, and just barely stopped himself from asking if Richie had a husband to get back to instead. That was a can of worms for another day.

"I'm exhausted now thanks to you. You're like a baby, always whining and shit. Come on, Stan works and Bill's probably asleep by now. Wanna come watch a movie or something? I think we have a copy of Die Hard lying around." Eddie began to walk back in the direction of the cafe- Richie had taken the complete wrong path in their hasty escape- waving one hand for him to follow. Richie was now beaming, knowing just what to say to (hopefully) piss off Eddie even more.

"Oh, awesome! My favourite Christmas movie!" Eddie spun on him. Mission accomplished.

"What the fuck did you just say? Christmas movie?!"

[letsbenditlikebennett]

Encounters of the Strange Kind || Ariana & Frank

TIMING: Before the last full moon during the nightmares POTW PARTIES: @frankmulloy & @letsbenditlikebennett SUMMARY: Ariana goes to watch a soccer match and bug her favorite bartender, Frank. Some nightmares brought to life make for a strange afternoon. 

It wasn’t often lately that Ariana found herself with a free afternoon and as much had been preferred. Just when she felt like she was finally beginning to move forward again, Winn had to go and die on her, too. If she let herself sit in all those feelings for too long, she was almost certain she wouldn’t be able to find it in her to get up again. Moving was easier. At least that’s what she had kept telling herself, but now the erratic weather meant soccer practice was cancelled which means she wouldn’t spend the rest of her day coaching. She was far ahead on all of her projects for school and she didn’t want to bother Blanche or Grace yet again. The weather also meant a run with her dog was out of the question so she opted to drink beer and watch some soccer matches at Perfect Pint. It wasn’t the world’s best distraction, but bugging the bartender had always proven to be a good time. While the USWNT wasn’t playing, she threw on the Rapinoe jersey Athena had gotten her anyway. Something about channeling Rapinoe had always left her feeling a little tougher. Which was saying a lot because most days, she considered herself to be pretty badass.

Considering it was a weekday afternoon, Ariana found the bar wasn’t overly crowded, so she grabbed a seat in front of the women’s Olympique Lyons team’s match. While they weren’t her team, she remembered Kaden was a Lyons fan. It gave her some sort of deeper attachment to the game which meant it’d be more likely to hold her attention. She waved at Frank as she settled into her seat and gave him a wide smile. Confidence was key to no one questioning her fake ID. “How are you doing today,” she asked brightly before adding, “I’ll take a Guinness when you get a chance.” She hadn’t liked it at first, but it grew on her. She admittedly just said the first thing she looked at the first time she came here and just kept going with it. 

Frank had always considered Perfect Pint a lesser form of Soul. Less sticky, less sleazy, less were the chance of someone kicking someone else’s teeth in—or maybe that was just his shift. Maybe in his absence the patrons that gathered at the latter establishment were perfectly pleasant, either way, the Irish bar was a welcomed breath of civility before the shit-storm the evening would no doubt bring. The presence of another gancanagh added to the ease of simply being as the pub owner exercised a control over his ability that even after all these years Frank had never fully mastered. His pheromones fluctuated to a rhythm of its own make, a song Frank was not privy to and struggled still to understand. But the shadow of a smile that threatened to break his mask of perpetual indifference came at the hands of one that, legally, shouldn’t even be allowed at the bar. They both knew this— that no matter what her ID said, Ariana was not 21, not the fact that he silently enjoyed her company. No drink was strong enough to make him admit anything so personal. But more than that, if he admitted it, then it must be true, and if that was true then so was the very real possibility that she was only hanging around him because of the reason that most people were. The same reason he slid people their drinks across the bar, why he was always so generous with his distance, why he didn’t smile when he turned to meet Ariana but rather regarded that she was there—of course she was wearing a fucking Rapinoe jersey—another body to warm the bar’s seat.

“Do you have an ID for that Guinness?” Frank said, with perhaps a little too much enjoyment, after the glass was already in his hand. “I get the pub is Irish but you know that American laws still apply right?”

Something about the chatter around the bar was much more comforting than the near silence of her apartment. Ariana was glad this place was close to her new apartment and that her fake ID never seemed to be extensively questioned even though it seemed fairly obvious Frank knew she wasn’t 21 yet. Plus, they always played the soccer matches so it always gave her something engaging to do even if she didn’t have someone joining her. As Frank asked for her ID, she pouted and dramatically pulled her wallet out of one of the pockets in her cargo pants. “You know, you keep not remembering me and my very iconic blue hair, I’m gonna stop tipping… okay, that’s a lie,” she responded with a small laugh as she slid her ID across to him. She gave him a pointed look as she waited for him to set her beer down. The urge to do a triumph fist pump was resisted. Instead, she motioned her glass up in a cheers motion and took a sip before commenting, “You never told me how you were doing. You haven’t seen any weird fish lately, have you?” She’d seen a few of them floating around along with some other strange things. Still felt like a good idea to check in and make sure everyone was staying safe amidst the crazy that was White Crest. 

The threat of no tip was met with a slight upward lean to the corner of Frank’s mouth, which was more of a smile than most could say they’ve ever received from the infamously stoic bartender. The Guinness had already slid across the bar’s top to her awaiting hand before she had even pulled the ID out; the presence of the little card vaguely acknowledged though not such attention was paid to its content. “Fine,” he said, and he was fine, and was happy to leave it at fine, but of course, Ariana had a talent for catching his attention when he least expected it. Like, say, a remark about weird fishes. “This whole fucking town is weird.” Frank would be remiss to say that the amount of fog that blanketed the town was a common occurrence, not to mention the pair of bright glowing lights that peered eerily behind them. Logically, he’d sooner owe it to a pair of headlights, than anything stranger, which was rich coming from a guy with giant wings sticking out of his back. Logically, he also knew that no vehicle or trunk had lights that large, that moved so silently, seamlessly-- there was nothing mechanical about these lights. “Why? What have you seen?” A pause. The temptation was to close the distance between them, but alas (at least this time) habit dug down its heel, and so did Frank. “What have you been up to kid?”

Of course he hadn’t actually bothered to look at her ID which made Ariana laugh a bit. While Frank was never the overly talkative type, she did enjoy his mostly quiet company. It gave her something else to focus on when the game wasn’t enough to keep her thoughts from drifting somewhere darker. He was a bit of mystery though and fine almost never meant fine. She knew better than anyone because she’d put that brave face on every day for the kids and a little bit for herself. “I hate that word,” she stated plainly, “90% of the time it’s bullshit, but I’ll give you that one.” At least his response to the question about fish led her to believe he wasn’t completely clueless to the ways of this town. That made it easier for him to stay safe. “You know, you’re not wrong,” she agreed, “Some of it is good weird though, like the dog toys falling from the sky. My dog had a field day with that one. Still, probably a good idea to avoid the giant floating fish if you can.” For a moment, she could almost detect a hint of concern in his voice though he still kept his distance. She didn’t want to alarm him, so she shrugged and answered, “Honestly, I’ve seen a lot, but more recently it’s been the floating fish. Thankfully, they seem to mostly just kind of float by if you don’t bother them. I may be tough, but I’m not exactly eager to see if I can take on an oversized flying fish.” The answer to his next question was decidedly nothing good outside of school and work. Between ghost hunting, avoiding sleep, and her plans to turn Ace into a werewolf like her, she was decidedly not staying out of trouble. Not even a little bit. “Oh, you know-- work, class, typical young we-- people things. I opened up an Etsy shop, so if you need any custom woodwork or repairs, I’m your girl,” she responded hoping her answer sufficed even if she definitely left big bits of the truth out. She shifted in her seat slightly and a puzzled look crossed her face as all the TV screens in the bar went fuzzy. That was weird. It was a perfectly sunny day out so she couldn’t think of any good reason for the television picture to just go out. 

For reasons too complicated, and probably too depressing, to dissect without the supervision of his therapist, Frank had somehow convinced himself of being able to care for little else beyond that which directly affected him. Now Frank was a great many things but never the uncaring type, and while he was a talented wordsmith (when he had the energy to be) he was, as was the nature of his species, a poor liar. Even to himself. So when “fine” was met with a reaction that was far from it, his heart—he was frequently surprised to learn, or be reminded, of its existence—reared its head, and fixed a tender gaze on the younger girl. He said nothing however, feeling that it was the wrong time to press, but he would remember the minor outburst, and keep it close to heart. While Frank himself was still challenged with admitting to the existence of the strange and unnatural, despite himself being one of those strange and unnatural things, to have Ariana confess to it so readily, and so casually at that, made it concrete, and real. No, the lights were not in fact a truck in the foggy distance, it was indeed a giant floating fish. That was normal now. He was part of that normal. So what happened then when a normal person has spent his entire life believing he was not? How does he come to terms with that? The answer: he doesn’t. He instead focused his attention on anything else, on anyone else. “Right, so that sounded decidedly unconvincing. Your fake ID is more convincing than…whatever that was.” He waited for a characteristically snappy response, but when she looked up at him—no, past him, her brows knitted together at whatever the TV was showing. “What are you…?” Nothing, the TV was showing nothing, and yet she seemed entranced, or at least concerned enough to be curious. This made him concerned, and by the way the few patrons that were in the bar were whispering and mumbling to themselves and each other, it was going around.

“Jesus H,” the dish rag draped over his shoulder, Frank sought for the remote and tried to turn it off, but the battery was either flat or the TV refused to obey. Logic supported the former, and logic made him reach up to press the button on the monitor itself. That was when water started leaking from the screen. Logic offered no sound explanation for that. Somewhere within the bar came a yelp as the water from one of the leaking TVs (was he seriously admitting to that?) short-circuited the juke box. No, Frank thought decidedly, it had been two weeks since he last fed and he was too fucking tired for this shit. “Yeah, I’m not cleaning that shit up.” He tossed the towel aside, stuck his head into the kitchen and announced his early finish. “No offence but I don’t think your game is playing kid,” he said and ducked out from behind the bar. Something wasn’t right, and frankly he felt no great desire to stick around, and owed to some strange endearment he’s found in Ariana, he didn’t want her to stick around either. “I’m heading out. Finish your Guinness. Come on, I’ll walk you home.”

Normally, she would have been quick to comment on the fake ID remark. Ariana wasn’t sure just how serious he was, because would he really be serving her if he thought her ID was fake? Maybe he just didn’t give a crap which actually checked out to a degree. The water leaking from the TVs was far more pressing though. She was pretty sure electronics and water didn’t mix, so she took a step back. “TVs,” she answered as she pointed upward. How were they even doing that? She doubted there was any satisfying answer, but slowly scooted away from any electronics. After all she’d been through, she wasn’t about to go out by electrocution of all things. She took a big gulp from her glass of beer because frankly it  was warranted with the current level of insanity. So much for having a nice escape from White Crest reality. It hadn’t been all that surprise to see Frank ditch the bar. She laughed a bit and commented, “I don’t blame you. Probably dangerous back there right now anyway.” The jukebox seemed to agree with her so she was glad he was seemingly away from any spots that may cause electrical shock. 

While the TV situation was still concerning, Ariana figured she didn’t have much of a reason to stick around with both the game off and Frank gone. Beer alone wasn’t going to be enough to distract her from the whirlwind of emotions she currently didn’t feel like acknowledging. His offer to walk her home was unexpected though. She looked up to him and said, “Yeah, thanks, I’d appreciate that even if I am probably a lot tougher than you think I am.” She jokingly sized him up, but agreed her beer was worth finishing. “For sure gonna finish this bad boy. Can’t be out here wasting a perfectly good beer!” She was quick to polish off her beer. She refrained from burping as she set the glass down because as Celeste taught her growing up, it wasn’t proper table manners. Not that she truly understood why table manners were a thing humans cared about, but for the sake of blending in, she did her best to follow some sort of norm. “So we adding bodyguard to your business card now,” she joked as they left the now nightmarish scene behind. Thankfully, everyone else had also been quick to bolt, so she wasn’t too concerned for their safety. Every so often, a creepy face would flash on the screen and she muttered, “Wow, I fucking hate that.” She pointed down the block and said, “I live this way, not too far away and surprisingly decent rent. Not sure if you know the area well or not, but it really is a steal.” 

“I am sure that you are.” Frank’s lips twitched as a genesis of a smile began to take shape across his mouth, one that came very close to becoming fully formed, until he too saw the ghostly face that haunted the TV screens. Fuck. That. Many of the pub’s patrons shared the same sentiment and a steady stream of people trickled out behind them, and for the first time (and hopefully the last) Frank was glad that he had the evening shift at Soul that day. A snort escaped his guard, harsh and full, a gleam of something mirthful reflected in his eyes as he turned them toward Ariana. “Depends on how much you’re willing to pay me,” he said and was only half joking. Bartending doesn’t pay a great deal, and there were many artefacts in his piece of crap apartment, including the piece of crap apartment itself, that would attest to this. The Bend wasn’t exactly known for its New England style living, but then again, neither was Frank.

“It’s nice.” He mused, quietly observing the shops that lined the streets and the plants and bushes that trimmed the sidewalks. Frank spied what looked like a stray dog toy tangled in the leaves of one of the passing bushes. Raining dog toys. That was normal too. Another thing he had to come to terms with getting used to. Not the fact that that particular thing happened, but the possibility of something similar, and equally strange and outlandish happening again. “I never really took the time to take in the streets. I mostly just come in for work, and then go to Soul and then go home. But this street, this place, I can see you living in it.” In the same weird way that you can somehow just sense that someone does not belong in a certain place, you can also sense when someone else belonged exactly where they were-- the latter was usually a lot more pleasant to observe. Walking next to Ariana, in the street she lived, Frank came to the conclusion that she looked like she was exactly where she needed to be; a place bustling with life, and events, and possibilities...even if it was a little strange. “It’s nice.”

Ariana noted the almost smile that Frank made though she didn’t comment on it. He was seemingly gruff, but she was pretty sure he enjoyed her company. Well, at least more so than the rest of the bar’s patrons. Which was fair, she was way cooler and far more adorable. As they walked, she laughed a bit at the mention of paying him. “Thankfully, I don’t need my own bodyguard, not that I could afford one. As it turns out, coaching kids’ soccer a few times a week doesn’t pay enough for a glamorous lifestyle. Not that I want one, but building a cabin one day would still be nice. If my woodworking really takes off, I may have a job for you.” They rounded a corner and something about the sky felt off. She ignored it and added, “I should warn, I’m good at finding trouble.” To be fair to herself, trouble often found her based on her species alone, but she definitely had a knack for following her nose right into some sort of White Crest nonsense. 

It surprised Ariana that Frank hadn’t done much exploring the streets yet. While the more populated parts of town weren’t necessarily her thing, she did know the woods like the back of her hand. Or paw, depending on the day of the month. “Yeah, there’s a lot of good shops and restaurants down here. It’s a good area, I prefer the woods, but it’s nice living across the hall from one of my best friends. So thanks.” She was almost wistful for that cabin in the woods she was supposed to build with Celeste one day. Hell, she even missed the place she helped Ulfric build, but there was a sense of pride that came with having a place of her own. Plus, hiking with her school projects that were often bigger than her was a bit much. She’d been smiling softly when a strange smell hit her nose. She paused in the middle of the sidewalk and looked in the direction her nose was picking up a more animalistic smell. Before it could even register fully in her mind, a raging moose was charging them. “Shit,” she yelled out and pushed Frank out of the way as she barely dodged getting impaled by a fucking antler. “What the fuck,” she grumbled as she regained her balance and stared the moose down, letting out a low growl. 

“Me too.” Frank’s smile hiked a little higher, and there was something knowing about it, like sharing in a secret that they both had, even if it was from each other. Though he did not necessarily indulge in the more cursed aspects of his existence, he always found that it was better to take it with good humour lest he drowns himself in self-pity; the latter being a significantly worse reality.

Frank spent the rest of their walk quietly observing the younger girl, his eyes squinted in a mixture of easy amusement and sharp curiosity. She spoke, a lot, and he listened, filing away pieces of information that he found useful or interesting: her relationship with the woods, her best friend, woodwork, how the three worked together to form an idyllic picture of the life Ariana wanted for herself. The pieces of information that went untold, fueled by a detailed history, alive and well as evidence in how she spoke. It made him wistful for a future that he never imagined for himself (he never tried to), and wanted dearly for her to have—her sudden stop elicited the same reaction in him, though it was obvious that she was sensing something that he wasn’t. Something he couldn’t. He heard the rumbling of hooves on pavement before he saw it, and even then he saw very little as a force, and a very impressive one at that, pushed him out of harm’s way, very nearly knocking him off his feet were it not for the swift sweep of his wings slowing gravity just enough for him to recover his balance—the product of instinct rather than any great skill. And then a low growl, unmistakably animal, and too near for comfort. First the ghost child TV, then the moose, now if he was about to get mauled by a fucking wolf Frank was going to lose his shit. Alas, there was just Ariana, and a very angry moose carving its way through the street before disappearing around the corner. No wolves to be seen…and yet. “Ariana, are you okay?” Concern coloured his words and made his touch more gentle as he reached out to examine her for any obvious injury. “Are you hurt?” And then finally, inevitably, “only in this fucking town.”

As she reoriented herself she swore she saw a flicker of wings on Frank. Ariana blinked slowly a few times and realized it must have been a trick of the light. Not that wings would be totally off base in this town, but the rest of their surroundings still felt surreal enough that she wrote it off. There was still a small lingering suspicion that maybe Frank wasn’t quite so human either. She’d have to observe him more carefully. She brushed herself off and answered, “Yeah, I’m fine. More startled than anything.” The moose kept running and rounded a corner. Maybe she should have been more concerned, but she simply didn’t have the energy to chase a moose right now. Not in this form. She figured she could shoot Kaden a text and let animal control deal with the seemingly pissed off moose. She stood still for a moment as he looked her over and kept her demeanor calm despite the internal ‘what the fuck just happened’ vibes she had going on. “I’m not hurt. Did only narrowly dodge becoming a moose kebab, but it be like that I guess,” she said with a slight laugh. “Yeah, that was super on brand for White Crest, but hey, neither of us turned into moose-pops today, so I’ll call it a win.” She was dying to ask about the wings, but she still wasn’t entirely sure of what she saw, so she’d file that one away for later. “To be safe, let’s keep moving in case he decides to come back for round 2.” She paused briefly as she started leading the way to her apartment before she finally caved and noted, “So… you were pretty good at catching your balance there.”

Ariana’s note was like a plunged blade, spearing through the glamour that he has tried so hard to maintain. Did it fall? Did she see? She couldn’t have. Frank’s wings were not little plastic accessories that you found hanging off some rack at some halloween store. They were huge, and not something that usually elicited such a casual response...not that he’s had many experiences to draw from. Yet at her remark, he prompted his face to smooth over any evidence of emotion, trying his best to manufacture the closest imitation to nonchalance. “Oh yeah? Thanks kid,” he said before allowing an edge of gentle humor pushed into the timber of his voice, “I mean I’d be a pretty shoddy bodyguard if I’m tripping over my own damn feet.” This made sense--even if Frank’s history of fighting recorded more losses than wins. “Maybe you should consider getting into the bodyguard business. That’s some arm you’ve got.” Needless to say, had it not been for Ariana’s quick reaction, his day would have gone in a very different, most likely more painful, direction. The reminder beckoned curiosity’s head to surface through the crack’s of his apathy, and despite the strangeness of the TV, the moose, he could not erase from his memory the distinct sound of a dog’s growl.

Curiosity also prompted him to vocalise his next words, but Frank was careful with them, lest he risked sounding insane in a town known for its strangeness. “After that moose, did you, I don’t know, hear anything weird? Like a growl?” Was he suggesting that he heard the moose...growl? Perhaps. But what was the more likely event: the moose growling or Ariana growling? Then again, little ghost girls were crawling out of leaky TVs and only moments ago they were almost ran over by a rampant moose and Frank himself had a literal silver tongue and giant wings stuck to his back, Ariana growling was hardly the strangest thing that happened in that afternoon alone.

“Fair point,” Ariana responded with a laugh. A clumsy bodyguard seemed like more of a hazard than protection. At the mention of having a strong arm, she shrugged. The full moon was quickly approaching so her strength was peaking though even during the new moon she liked to think her athleticism afforded her  a bit more in the way of strength. “What can I say? My natural athletic prowess surprises yet again,” she answered with a laugh. It wasn’t entirely a lie and she was tempted to just throw out the fact she was a werewolf. She was almost positive she had seen the briefest glimpse of giant ass wings on his back when he stumbled from her push. It was unlikely he’d have anything against werewolves. She was trying to have a little bit more in the way of tact regarding this kind of thing, but was pretty much failing at that. Would there really be much harm in telling him? As stoic as he was, he seemed to have a soft spot for her. Not that she could blame him. She was adorable and she knew it. 

As Ariana started to lead the way toward her apartment again, Frank mentioned the growl and she stopped in her tracks. Of course he heard that. Sometimes her instincts were stronger than her common fucking sense. If she was being honest, it was probably more than sometimes. She sighed and explained, “That wasn’t the moose. You did hear a growl. That was me.” She was already most of the way there to telling him, might as well go for it. “I’m a werewolf, that happens sometimes.” And there it was. Did this give her the ground to ask if she saw wings or would he just think she was crazy? She could probably chalk it up to weird teenaged Twilight daydreams if anything else. She watched Frank carefully, looking for any sign of how he was taking that little bomb. 

In summation: little ghost girls were crawling out of leaking TVs, they were almost ran over by a raging moose, flying fishes were a thing, and so was raining dog toys apparently, and Ariana was a werewolf. The truth settled over Frank like a blanket and he was unpanicked and strangely unperturbed, though either would have seemed a more conventional reaction to the news. In fairness, that tends to happen when you have a tongue that is literally silver and giant wings sticking out of your back. She could have told him that she was Irish (considering how often she was at the Irish pub), and his reaction would not have differed greatly from that he had on now: raised brows, mouth slightly parted as if wanting to say something but unsure of what, and a pensiveness had settled over his eyes as he digested this new discovery. “You are…a werewolf.” 

The first time Patrick told Frank that he was a fae, and that Frank was one too, he laughed (and then punched him again, but that could also be accredited to several other factors), and though the reality of his situation seemed entirely too impossible to be logical, his father’s explanation was the only one that made sense. Frank didn’t laugh this time, but was instead preoccupied with another thought: why was she volunteering this information? He was suddenly very acutely aware of his wings, and the effort he exerted to keep them hidden—like one who was suddenly very cognizant of their own breathing, and the mechanics of that unconscious process. She did see his wings, was the first thought, followed by a question of whether he minded that she did? Was he comfortable enough to let her know of what he was, as she apparently was with her secret? Was it ever a secret? It wasn’t as if the subject came up in a lot of their conversations to begin with. “A werewolf like…Michael J. Fox, werewolf?” 

The news of her being a werewolf didn’t seem to come across as too much of a shock and Ariana was grateful for that. There was definitely some processing happening, but as much was to be expected. At least he wasn’t looking at her like she had five heads or something which meant he most likely believed her. “Yes, I’m a werewolf,” she said quietly. It wasn’t a secret, but shouting it from the rooftops would likely attract hunters that weren’t as understanding as the ones she knew. If she could help it, she’d rather not be a trophy on some asshole’s wall. She wanted to follow that statement with ‘you have wings’ because she was pretty sure she’d gotten a glimpse of them, but if she was wrong, he’d really think she was insane.  At the mention of being a Michael J. Fox werewolf, her features contorted in confusion and she paused for a moment. “Wait, what?” Her head tilted as she looked at him in earnest and said, “I have no idea what that means or who Michael J. Fox is. The gist of it is I become wolfy around the full moon, have a good sense of smell and strength, and really like red meat. Oh, and I guess I growl sometimes.” 

Well, fuck. There’s nothing quite like making an aged reference to remind you exactly of how old you are. “Michael J. Fox...like, Teen Wolf nineteen-eighty—you know what, don’t worry about it.” Although Ariana’s general description seemed to follow, more or less, the general formula of the werewolf myth Frank was familiar with, the strangest part of all of this was not that she was a werewolf but that he felt no distance between them since the discovery. No unease, or distrust; she was still exactly the Ariana he had come to know. The same Ariana who knew exactly which buttons of his to press, and the right words to say to coax a grin or a chuckle out of him, especially when he least expected it. In fact what he did feel was something more akin to relief. She wasn’t a fae but she wasn’t entirely human either—like him. A small part of Frank was almost envious of her. She was so comfortable with herself, she knew exactly what she was, and unapologetically so. She listed her traits with the familiarity and ease of a cook listing the ingredients of a well-known dish: no judgement, no prejudice, just simple facts. The same could not be said of himself. The subject of his fae heritage had always left a bitter taste in his mouth. One Frank washed down with cheap cigarettes and even cheaper alcohol, finished with a  serving of good old fashioned denial. You know, healthy things. “You didn’t have to tell me that you know,” he said, “why did you?”

No one had ever really asked Ariana that question before and it left her a bit curious. Frank definitely did not seemed bothered by her revelation or afraid of her in any way which was good. It wasn’t like she’d ever hurt him. Still, she supposed other people were a bit more tight lipped about their species than she was. The fact of the matter was that she liked Frank and she didn’t believe he’d ever do anything to hurt her. She shrugged as they rounded the corner toward her building and she answered, “I don’t know, it’s not like a big secret or anything. I mean, I don’t like broadcast it for the world to know, but given everything today, I didn’t think you’d be too shocked. Plus, pretty sure you’re not a hunter… not that hunters are automatically bad. I’m friends with a few, but still.” It dawned on her she was growing more curious about what he was so she added, “Plus, you don’t seem too shocked. Do you have like some sort of background with this stuff?” 

Frank kept his eyes forward, his expression betrayed little of his thoughts, but he could not deny the sliver of ice that slid down his spine at the mention of the word. Hunters. He didn’t know why that was. He also didn’t know why he started thinking about his father. Didn’t know why the word triggered the image of him to come to the forefront of his mind, and the fear that he saw in his eyes, or perhaps most frightening: the resignation in them. Most faes were immune to things that otherwise proved fatal to humans; difficult to kill if you didn’t know what you were doing, entirely possible if you did. Hunters would. Was that what happened to Patrick? Frank had never cared to ask, and thought little of that night since, until now. Not that hunters were automatically bad, Ariana had assured him. Frank offered her a smile (it looked off, but then again, it was Frank), though he wasn’t particularly eager to go out and test that theory either. He turned his gaze back down, and for a moment their eyes met. She knows. He lets out a sigh, his fingers raked through the side of his beard, unsure of how to put together the words he struggled to say even to himself in front of a mirror. “Er…yeah, you could say something like that. I mean not werewolves, obviously, you’d be the first, but other things.”

While it was still a mystery of how Frank knew all of this, he seemed to take it relatively with stride. At least, he wasn’t any more or less stoic than he normally was. Ariana was still curious to know if her hunch was correct, but he could tell her in his own time. She knew not everyone was as comfortable sharing their species as she was. Or maybe he was human and just didn’t try to make excuses for everything weird that happened in this town. She’d sworn she saw wings for a second there, but with everything else that happened, it was hard to tell. Either way, she offered him a warm smile as they neared her building. “Well, whoever said save the best for last was wrong then,” she joked with a smirk present on her face. She took on a more serious tone and added, “I know a lot of people here who have a bit of something extra, so if you ever find yourself in trouble or anything, let me know. Even if it’s not something you can throw a werewolf at, I usually know who to ask for help.” She stopped outside the front of her building and turned to Frank. With a small gesture, she said, “This is my stop. Keep an eye out for angry moose and let me know you make it home safe, alright?” 

The invitation was a door and Ariana had so graciously held it open for him. All warm smiles and not even a glimpse of a shadow to hint judgement or malice or a well to use the knowledge of what he was against him. But Frank’s history shackled his feet and he didn’t move but looked at her with feigned ignorance. He’d as good as closed the door himself and every part of him wondered why. Simply, it was not Ariana he wanted to hide the truth from but himself. So he could play grumpy bartender a little bit longer, supplying banter and alcohol to underage werewolves and deny the responsibility of his supernatural inheritance. It was fucking pathetic, he knew it, and he swallowed the truth with a smile as Ariana was delivered safely to her front door. Although that was perhaps more her doing than his. “I’m not going to ask who or how you know said persons, but I will keep that in mind. Personally, I hope that it never comes to that.” He mirrored the gesture back to her, a reluctant grin cracked across his face in a way only Ariana could force out of him, “yes ma’am. You stay out of trouble kiddo.” Somehow he knew, as soon as he said it, trouble and Ariana were never too far away from each other.

[themangoyogurt]

Misguided Youth: And The Third

Chapter 3

Bouncing on your heels, you roughly rubbed your hands up and down your biceps in an attempt to stave off the cold. The brisk autumnal air was nipping at your exposed neck, and you mentally cursed Phasma’s friend for being late. Knowing what a shitstorm coatcheck usually was after concerts, you decided to forgo wearing a coat, and instead braved the chill in a lightweight military jacket you could tie around your waist. Unsure of what kind of music was being played, you erred on the side of caution with your typical Dr. Martens, ripped skinny jeans, and a thin ribbed henley top in your favorite color.

It would do. It wasn’t like you were here to impress anyone.

Certainly not Kylo.

You groaned thinking about the dark haired man, and immediately hated yourself for it. The guy was a total jackass, and didn’t deserve a single second of your precious time. Not even if he was built like roman statue. The size of his hands didn’t go unnoticed by you either. You definitely didn’t imagine said hands wrapped around your throat while he...

“Hey! You’re Phasma’s guest, right?”

You snapped to attention as a short dark-haired man appeared in front of you. He took in your nod, and immediately reached for a handshake while introducing himself as Mitaka. You followed him towards a metal door marked “Restricted Access” while tugging on a lanyard with a flimsy laminated card that read “VIP”.

He chatted about his job as a freelance writer pitching stories to various magazines and newspapers. Mitaka was ecstatic when Phasma found you. He was hoping to write an article where he would “expose” individuals to musical artists they had never heard, and record the reactions.

Turning to you, he exclaimed, “I didn’t think that I’d ever fine someone who didn’t know K.O.REN! When Phasma told me about you, I felt like I hit a gold mine. Thanks again for coming out!”

“Uh, no problem. This band...they’re really big, huh? Then why are they playing at such a small venue tonight?”

The current building seemed rather small. At least too small for a supposed "big name" band to be messing around in. Didn’t world famous musicians sell out stadiums or something?

“They just got back from Rock am Ring in Germany. It’s a huge three-day metal festival with over 150,000 people. Whenever they finish tours with large audiences, they make sure to book smaller and more intimate venues afterwards. The lead singer says it keeps them grounded.”

It seemed like a respectable thing to do. In fact, it was almost kind of sweet. Suddenly, a word from Mitaka’s sentence jumped out at you.

“Wait...did you just say metal festival?”

“Yeah, they’re a metal-ish band. More hard rock I’d say, but they’re still really popular.”

You thought back to Phasma’s cropped hair bleached white, and the multitude of studs peppered along the collar of her denim jacket. Yeah, she definitely looked “metal-ish”. But Hux and Kylo were dressed far more “normal” in just jeans and simple tops. Maybe they didn’t listen to the same music? But people don’t need to dress a certain way to enjoy different types of music...

Mitaka suddenly cleared his throat, and you were jerked back to the present. He gestured towards a section partitioned off by ropes. The spot was perfect - just out of sight from the audience but with a perfect view of the stage. It seemed as if the concert was close to starting, since everything was set up and the room was filled to the brim with chattering people.

Clear across the stage, you noticed the silhouettes of three people. Even from this distance they all looked ridiculously tall. Squinting your eyes, you tried to make out the individuals, but the bright stage lights were blinding. The only thing you could do was huff and patiently wait for the show to start.

In the meantime, Mitaka rattled off a few key facts regarding the band. He was about to begin a history on their first Grammy nomination, when the house lights suddenly went down. It was clear that the band was much loved, because the crowd immediately went wild. The way bodies shoved towards the front as people began to chant “Knights of Ren” over and over again almost seemed violent.

The first individual stepped out, and you stifled a cry of shock. Phasma was decked out in leopard print leggings, combat boots, and a ripped black shirt. Her denim vest rippled as she lifted up an arm holding onto two drumsticks. The woman struck a pose before settling in behind a drum kit situated on top of a raised platform.

The next individual was no less surprising. Hux strolled out onto the stage, and you were taken aback by how relaxed the man seemed. It almost looked as if he were bored by the entire idea of playing any show, and lazily paused to wave before picking up a bass. Even his wardrobe mimicked his attitude, as he only donned a pair of slim fit black jeans and a thin grey sweater. Mitaka leaned over and whispered that it was a running joke that Hux enjoyed looking as un-metal as possible. In fact, security often mistook him for a pedestrian, and there had been many attempts to escort the man away from backstage.

But the last individual to come out made the greatest impact of all - both with yourself and the crowd. Kylo strutted onto the stage in all of his glory. Full hair swept backwards with tight jeans hugging every curve of his muscular thighs. You didn’t think that you were an ass girl, but shit - Kylo was making you change your mind. Shaking your head, you willed yourself to not find the bastard attractive.

The fact that he was already fucking shirtless was making the job difficult though.

Taut muscle rippled along his forearm and back as he reached out to sling a guitar over his shoulder. Your eyes followed the instrument as it rested over his front, right where two sharp line’s ended at a “v” by his hips.

As if he couldn’t have been hotter, the man opened his mouth and began to sing. You swore that the Beatles had nothing on this man in terms of swooning fans. Men and women alike were clamoring towards the stage as Kylo switched between melodic singing and hard shouts.

Although the music was foreign, something (or rather someone) was compelling you to want more. Just as you were taken into the swell of the chorus, Kylo’s head turned and his eyes felt like a lazer as he stared you down. His gaze remained sharp, and you felt all of the air sucked out of your lungs. For a moment, you thought that you saw something different in his eyes. Perhaps the music made him a softer and more vulnerable man.

But then his face twisted into a smirk as he gave you a cheeky wink before directing your attention with a jerk of his head towards a crying female fan attempting to take her shirt off.

Just like that, your softened feelings for the man dissipated in a single second.

The asshole was peacocking right in front of you - shoving his fame into your face. He is the worst. He is literally the worst. You decided right in that moment that there was nobody in the whole of New York City that you hated more than Kylo Ren. Rage surged in your chest as an ugly thought bloomed - you were brought here to be made into a joke.

The rest of the night flew by in a blur as your emotions flittered between embarrassment and fury. Was the whole plan to make a mockery of you? Pay to take the poor student out for brunch and then laugh at her ignorance behind her back?

You cringed thinking back on how you practically ate half of Hux’s entree even after shoveling several pounds of potatoes into your mouth right in front of a trio of mega-stars.

When the concert came to an end, Kylo’s voice sounded like a faraway echo as his fans screamed over his farewell bid. Stumbling backwards, you wanted nothing more than to escape the impending awkward and upsetting confrontation with the band. You felt your back suddenly collide with a wall and spun around in surprise.

Your eyes widened into open disks as you not only saw, but felt, the sweaty naked torso of Kylo Ren. His lips were pulled up in a lopsided grin as he took in your shocked expression. Your gaze trailed upwards as you took in the way sweat pooled at the tips of his hair and fell to rest in the divot of his clavicle.

“So the firecracker is finally rendered speechless. How’d you like the concert, princess?”

“You...”

Kylo gave you an expectant wink, and you felt fire surge in your chest. Whether it was from anger or lust though, that was up for debate. Finding courage from within, you spat, “You’re an asshole, Kylo Ren.”

With one final glare, you shoved against his chest to brush past the man. He looked towards your back in surprise and shouted, “What the hell is your problem? A ‘thank you’ would be appreciated.”

Whipping around to face the singer you hissed, “Thank you? Thank you? For what? Why did you guys even bring me here? To embarrass me? To laugh at the poor girl who didn’t recognize the ‘biggest rock band in the world’? To shove my face in your success and wealth?”

It was now Kylo’s turn to look surprised. That was certainly not his intention at all. When he got back to his penthouse and had some time to think, the entire situation seemed humorous and rather innocent. And although one could argue that he was an asshole most of the time, he would never consider himself mean spirited. Sure, maybe he did want to show off a little bit, but he definitely wouldn’t go out of his way just to embarrass you.

Always one with words though, he huffed, “Please. Don’t think so highly of yourself.”

Your face blanched at his response, and you angrily ripped the lanyard from your neck and threw it at his face while shouting, “Go to hell, Kylo. Go find someone else to fuck with.” Gesturing towards the man with two middle fingers, you backed away and stormed out through the exit.

Phasma arrived just as the door slammed shut. With hands on her hips, she turned to Kylo and laughed, “Man, I’ve never see you flop so badly with a girl before.”

Kylo looked offended as he scoffed, “Flop? That would imply I would want anything to do with...that.” He jabbed his finger towards the empty space you once occupied.

The drummer gave her friend a look and slowly shook her head. Giving him a pat on the back she replied, “For the longest time I assumed that you had the emotional range of a caterpillar, but she’s proven me wrong. You’re just telling yourself that you hate this chick because you’re worried that you might actually be interested in actually getting to know the girl.”

The man rolled his eyes and replied, “I would hardly consider a minimum wage waitress with a foul mouth interesting.”

Phasma gave him an all-knowing look and shrugged her shoulders. “Well, then you definitely won’t care that I invited her to the afterparty at your place.”

She gave him a wink, and then strolled back on stage to pack up some equipment. Left alone, Kylo slowly considered his friend’s words right before he turned to punch a hole into the wall.

[war--lords]

Congratulations on your followers milestone 😊🌸 then can I request a Nobunaga for hot god... Thank you

So this kind of got out of hand haha

Warnings: Female!Reader, mild family conflict, possible inaccuracyWord count: 2,435Tagged:#hanayomeTranslations and important notes:

Tengu (lit. heavenly dog) are Japanese legendary creatures that are regarded as either youkai (supernatural beings) or kami (gods). This fic treats Tengu as the latter.

Obi, as you may already know, is the ‘belt’ of the kimono.

Shinsoku means abbot/head priest of an abbey or temple.

Miko refers to a priestess.

Geta are traditional wooden clogs that resemble flip-flops.

Oshiroi is the name of the white powder used as makeup.

Aneue is a highly formal and archaic way of addressing one’s elder sister.

FYI, Kiku means ‘chrysanthemum’.

Enjoy!

Part 2 Part 3

1.

Sounds of hurried footsteps echo through the wooden flooring of the temple, and along with them, the chatterings of people. They come for one second, allowing the listener to grasp only a few words, before ultimately becoming an auditory blur as they grow further away. You are in a room tucked away in one corner of the temple, sewing the last few stitches that would make the final adjustments to a white over-robe. 

Once the moon is at her highest tonight, your little sister is to become a bride. Her procession begins in no more than two hours.

A couple other elderly priestesses are by her side, gently folding and twisting her hair up into an intricate hairstyle reserved only for those about to marry with delicate ornamental hairpins. Another is fixing up the wataboshi, the bridal hood that will hide Kiku’s face from all eyes except her groom’s. 

Never have you heard silence so loud that even the hustle and bustle in the hallways feel like a great distance away. The air is cold and tense, a complete antithesis of wedding preparation. Faces are grim and eyes are tearful—if only she were wearing black, you’d think this was a funeral instead. 

Young Kiku’s beautiful ebony eyes are narrowed in a mix of emotions even as one of the priestesses tucks a fan into her obi, the symbol for a happy future. Despite her general optimism, you know that she feels more like an item to be sold than a bride. 

Because it truly was a transaction.

——————————

Your family is a long line of clerical servants of the god Tengu who rules over war and prosperity. (You’ve always disliked that dichotomy.) The men and women of your family devote their whole lives as priests and priestesses with the privilege to communicate with him in his dwelling—a lone temple on top of the mountain Kurama that towers over your village. Seiiki—‘sanctuary’, they call it.

It has been decreed since the days of old that once a year, each autumn solstice, on the day of the full moon, the abbot would climb the perilous steps up the mountain to speak to the god Tengu. Tonight is that of a full moon, and so your father, the abbot, made the ascent. The news he delivered was unusual, but at that time you know little of how bitter it would all turn out.

“The god Tengu demands a young virgin as his bride in exchange for the earth’s eternal yield. At sundown, a fiery arrow shall descend from the sky and pierce the roof of the house in which this virgin dwells. When night falls, she will climb up to the peak of Mount Kurama to meet her groom and dwell with him in the Seiiki forever.” 

A girl for lifelong milk and honey, when each previous year the god Tengu would demand only a portion of the harvest he had already given. Of course, the atypicality wasn’t lost to the people, but they faithfully waited until sundown. The gods were never the most sympathetical beings anyway, and the people felt lucky that Tengu’s demands were not as outlandish as the others.

You were among the people at the temple grounds when the promised arrow indeed descended, appearing as a faraway white dot floating against the violet-pink sky. Before the last of the sun’s rays faded it flew towards the village, but what you didn’t expect was for those pale flames to pierce the very roof you were under.

Tied on its stem is a paper with ‘marriage’ written on it.

——————————

If she was composed during her dressing, now Kiku is anything but. In your arms she sobs, a pure white mess, smearing your miko uniform with the red face paint around her eyes. When she looks up at you, shaking her head in disdain, it looks as though she cried blood.

“I don’t want to go,” she croaks, “I don’t want to leave you.” 

“And I don’t want you to leave,” you reply. 

There are no tears in your eyes, for this predicament seems too fatal, too fast, like a bad dream. You wish it were a dream. You don’t tell your little sister you wish it were you—because she has her whole life ahead of her and because it is probably easier for your family to let you go.

The two of you are the abbot’s dear children, yes, but you are the eldest daughter instead of the eldest son—one that can continue his name. Even in your adulthood your father still looks at you the same way, like you’re something he didn’t ask for. It’s different for Kiku because Kiku is different. “She is the temperate lake to your forest fire.” That was what your father once said to you. Through it all, your mother is ultimately the one that loved you unconditionally, but behind her gentle smile, she hides the same sadness from your father’s disappointment for not having a son.

If you were to tell the truth, you’d rather be the god Tengu’s bride than stay here, but alas, he demands a young bride. Moreover, your father sees this as an absolute honor for Kiku to be chosen, though eventually you know he’ll grow bitter from only having your mediocrity left in his house.

The sliding door opens. It’s your father and mother.

“Procession will begin soon.”

“I need to fix her rouge,” you say without looking at him, “and then she’ll have to wear her wataboshi.” You hear a choked sound coming from your mother as she embraces Kiku. You look on somberly, but can’t stop yourself from stealing a glance at your father, who remains unmoving. You’ve never seen him look that sad before.

A shuffle of footsteps and you see the silhouette of a monk beyond the screen door—he’s considerate enough not to stand where your sister can be seen, at least.

“Shinsoku-sama, the procession is ready.” 

The moon is at its biggest and brightest, looking as though she is peering down to watch the events unfolding under her soft light. You’ve moved to the edge of the temple grounds with your parents and the clerics. The procession is only to be done by the betrothed and their attendants, and with the absence of the groom, Kiku was left to walk with only two other lesser miko and four monks to carry the traditional harvest offering. The click-clack of their geta is loud against the masonry floor, it being the only sound other than the buzzing crickets. There are no more exchanged words or touches allowed in this holy rite—the only thing Kiku can spare you and your family is a meaningful look before she takes her first step beyond the red gate, lantern in hand to guide her through the dark of the night. 

She makes her way up, up, following the curves of the stone steps, and not long after, all you can see is the flickering light of lanterns like gold slowly pumping through a vein. The bamboo forests surrounding the stairs sway left and right in the night wind, and it reminds you of a worried man rocking on his feet. The stairs twist and turn in a serpent-like manner, and the trees, taller and thicker, conceal their light, infrequently at first, but more and more as they venture higher before eventually they disappear out of sight.

Next to you, your mother is the first to break, letting out a long breath and a sob. You reach for her hand. When her cold fingers wrap around yours, you allow yourself to cry.

——————————

It is the fourth hour after Kiku stepped out the red gate, and the attendants who went with her haven’t returned. Rain started to pour not too long ago, and though it isn’t heavy, it’s enough to cause concern. You are in a prayer room with the other miko, joining them in their quiet chants. Your mother’s body and mind are too exhausted to participate, and it’s not like she can pray to a god that chose to take her daughter away forever. 

Truth be told, you feel the same, as the prayer beads on your palm feel much heavier than they should. The chants lose their meaning, replaced only by questions only the god Tengu can answer. You realize the futility of the situation and contemplate whether you should just run up those stairs and confront him yourself.

You’re picturing it with your eyes closed. The flight of stairs might be steep and many, and it might be dangerous going up there in the rain, but you’d be fueled with enough rage to overcome them. What happens there, you’d worry about later—the holy grounds are supposed to be accessible only to the abbot. Should the sacred boundary be created by a spell, you could always try to break it. Once the barrier is broken, you’d be able to come face-to-face with the god Tengu. 

You realize you don’t know what he really looks like, but it hardly matters. What then? Would you attempt to kill him for taking your sister away? No, that’s not really what you want. What do you really want?

Fatigue makes it easier for your consciousness to escape you, and unbeknownst to you, your wandering thoughts lull you into the beginnings of slumber. Your prayer beads are now stationary, and your chants are reduced into incomprehensible murmurs before they stop completely. 

Mind clouded with fog, the only thing you could see in your head is the lantern light flickering as it makes its way up the stairs. Golden light, twisting and turning. The wind’s howl in your ear, deafening. The orange leaves’ crackle as they are dragged across stone floors by the gale.

…lady…

The god Tengu’s arrow floats again in your dream as if waiting for its time to strike. Your eyebrows knit in anticipation, your eyes dare not look away.

…Milady…

The flames on the arrow’s tail seem to flicker before it grows stronger, its shape becoming larger and larger. In the blink of an eye, it flies, but this time not towards the roof of the temple.

It’s coming towards you.

“Milady!”

Just as the arrow pierces through your heart, you open your eyes with a pained gasp, but the trickle of cold sweat on your nape and your feverish breath makes you feel as though you’re still trapped in a dream. Some of the elder priestesses crowd around you, one of them holding your trembling hand as she places her own against your forehead. 

“You were shaking,” she says, eyes worriedly darting around to inspect your face, “Milady, you’re very warm.”

You’re still trying to gain your bearings when you hear a pair of footsteps dash towards the room. One second later, the screen doors open with a loud bang, revealing a young miko drenched from the rain—you vaguely remember her as one of Kiku’s company. Her eyes search the room before falling on you, and the look on her damp face turns into that of bewildered trepidation. She calls your name once and kneels in front of you, gently tugging at your arm to get you to stand.

“It’s Lady Kiku, she—when we got up there, we—I’m sorry, it’d be better for her to tell you in person. Please come with me. She’s downstairs, she—we need you.”

Equally, if not more confused than the miko, you force your numb legs to carry you out of the room and down the steps with her help. The cold of her clothes against your warm skin wakes you up a little. She guides you to the main hall, her footsteps leaving trails of water droplets as she goes. Once the door slides open, you’re equal parts baffled and relieved to see your little sister. The floor around her is littered with discarded hairpins and baskets of fine products, reduced into a dirty mess. She is weeping, her face buried in her hands. You unlatch yourself from the miko’s arm to rush to Kiku’s side, your arm around her. 

“What happened?”

“He…” she begins, looking up at you with wet eyes. She looks like a wreck, the oshiroi powder washed out from her face and her hair in a disheveled state. “W-We went into the Seiiki and everything seems fine, but then he—”

It is then your father interrupts, his voice booming in the cold, dim room.

“It isn’t Kiku the god Tengu wants.”

“—he saw my face as we entered, it was a huge room and we weren’t even face-to-face! I don’t know how, but he saw me, and a gust of strong wind blew, he… he told me that I wasn’t the one. And then he said your name. He told me to bring you. Aneue, he… he wants you.”

Your heart sinks, and it clenches as if responding to a piercing wound. One that’s left by a flaming arrow.

Kiku then proceeds to gather her now loose hair and moved it across one shoulder, revealing her bare neck to you.

You almost can’t believe your eyes—a crimson string blooms from the side of her throat, and when you reach out to touch it with a finger, it doesn’t smear or fade, as if it’s permanently embedded within her skin. As if she was marked. Stepping closer to see it, you realize that it is alive, its two ends moving ever so slowly around her. It would be a complete circle once it meets on the other side of her neck.

“You have until sunrise to see him,” your mother finally speaks, her face a tired blank canvas. Her daughter was returned, only for the other to be taken away. “We concluded that this string will make one complete round by then. He didn’t tell Kiku what would happen if the ends meet.”

“It’s a timekeeper enchantment,” your father supplies, “to make sure you make the ascent.”  

Every bit of composure in you snaps just then and you make for the door as fast as you can. Kiku captures your wrist just in time, a concerned look on her face. She gently places something into your open palm and you take it, inspecting it.

It’s a crumpled up piece of paper with the kanji ‘marriage’ on it. The look on Kiku’s face tells you not to question how that item came to her possession.

Your mouth runs dry. It seems like Kiku also has trouble speaking because her voice cracks as she says this to you:

“Aneue, he wants to see you in red.”  

[wistfulcynic]

To Keep It All The Year (2 /4)

The second chapter of my Christmas gift for the brilliant @katie-dub​​ who noticed straight away, because she IS so brilliant, that the title is a quote from A Christmas Carol. This is deliberate, and not just because A Christmas Carol is one of my favourite books and one that my family used to (and still does, via Skype) read out loud together on the days leading up to every Christmas since I was about 9 or 10. It’s because this story is Killian’s Christmas carol, without the ghosts of past, present, or future, but certainly with some other forms of supernatural interference and intervention for good in his life. As you will soon see. 

SUMMARY: Killian Jones is a broken man, betrayed by everyone and everything he thought he could believe in. He’s all but given up on life until a fateful meeting with bartender Emma Swan and her son Henry gives him a reason to live again, and a chance to redeem his past.

All it takes is a little Christmas magic.

On AO3 | Tumblr: Part One

Tremendous and effusive love and gratitude as always to @thisonesatellite​ who, despite her insanely (and I do mean INSANELY) busy schedule still finds the time to read and encourage not just me but many other people, AND write her own brilliant fic ❤️❤️❤️

Tagging all the folks from the last tag list, PLEASE do let me know if you want to be added or removed. @kmomof4​​​​​​​​​ @shireness-says​​​​​​​​ @snidgetsafan​​​​​​​​ @darkcolinodonorgasm​​​​​​​ @snowbellewells​​​​​​​​ @stahlop​​​​​​​​ @mariakov81​​​​​​​​ @courtorderedcake​​​​​​ @jonirobinson64​​​​​ @tiganasummertree​​​​​​ @ohmightydevviepuu​​​​​​​​ @shardminds​​​​​ @jennjenn615​​​​​ @superchocovian​​​​​

-

PART TWO: THE PRESENT

Killian awakes to the sound of shrieks, and it takes a minute of confusion and breathless panic for him to realise they are shrieks of laughter. 

He is alone in Henry’s bed, bright, early-morning sunlight slanting across him from the room’s lone window. The door is open a crack and he can hear Henry and Emma in the living room laughing and chattering, their voices light and happy.

Closing his eyes and forcing his muscles to relax, he breathes deliberately, evenly, until his heart rate slows and the tightness in his chest eases. He rises carefully from the bed, rolling his shoulders and rubbing his sore neck, arching his back and wincing at the way his joints audibly creak before slipping silently through the door. 

Henry and Emma are sitting together on the living room floor, bits of wrapping paper and ribbon strewn around them. They are playing with a new toy train, rolling it back and forth between them, laughing uproariously. They have the same laugh, Killian thinks, loud and boisterous and full of joy. He knows he should go, leave them to their Christmas revels, but instead he hovers in the bedroom doorway, arrested by the sight and sound of them. They are sweet and pure and beautiful, and he never expected to find any of those things in this place. 

He swallows over the lump that’s back in his throat and forces himself to move, tiptoeing forward and picking up his coat from where it is draped over a kitchen chair then heading towards the door. 

“You leaving so soon?” 

“Ah.” He turns a bit sheepishly to find Emma regarding him with raised eyebrows, one hand on her hip. “I shouldn’t have stayed this long. I apologise for trespassing on your hospitality.” 

“You didn’t. I could have woken you but you looked like you could use the rest.” 

“Indeed.” He rolls his shoulders again. “Aside from a crick in my neck I feel better rested than I have in some time. Thank you, love.” 

“No problem. Do you, um,” she shifts her weight, stuffs her hand into her back pocket “do you want some coffee before you go?” 

“Oh, I couldn’t trouble you.” 

“Please.” She shoots a glance at his face and then away. “I—I made extra for you.” 

The lump in his throat threatens to choke him. “All right, then,” he says hoarsely. “Thank you.” 

She smiles. “How do you take it?” 

“Black.” 

He returns his coat to the back of the chair and hovers awkwardly for a moment until Emma hands him a steaming mug and motions for him to sit down. He does and she takes the other chair, settling into it with a sigh and picking up her mug. Killian cradles his in both hands, inhales deeply then takes a long sip. The coffee is rich and smooth and he hums, savouring the flavour. “This is excellent,” he says with a smile. 

The smile comes much more easily this morning. 

Emma doesn’t reply and he looks over to find her watching him with a small smile of her own, just teasing the corners of her mouth. 

“What?” he asks her. “Have I got something on my nose?” 

“No.” She laughs. “I was just looking at you.” An enchanting rose-coloured flush creeps across her cheekbones. “I guess you’re used to that.” 

“Not at all.” 

“Seriously?” 

“Aye. I often feel quite invisible in this city. Why does that surprise you?”

“Well, because you’re— I mean, you’re so— you know.” She waves her hand in a vague gesture. The look on her face suggests she’s on to his game, but he is genuinely baffled. 

“On the contrary love, I’ve no idea what you mean,” he says. “I’m so what?” 

She gives a small and surprisingly elegant snort. “Come on, you must know how good looking you are.” She throws the statement down like a challenge, daring him to deny it. 

He feels a hot flush bloom on his own face. “Maybe once, perhaps, before I started to go grey.” He gestures at his temples. “But now…” 

“Now you’d just be called a silver fox,” she retorts. “And your face is still, you know, fine.” 

He laughs, a short, sharp sound that falls oddly on his ears, unexpected but but far from unwelcome. “I’m not too proud to admit that there was once a time when I used that face to my advantage,” he says. “But that was long ago.” He pauses, struggles against the familiar bile rising in his chest. “I look at myself now and all I see are the ravages of guilt and the wear of the life I’ve lived,” he says, staring into the black depths of the coffee. Bitterness drips from these words, this confession, and he hates it. It has no business being here, with Emma, on this day. His darkness has no right to touch her. 

Firmly he forces it down and drags back the smile, as near as he can feign it. “I’ve been through rather a lot these past few years,” he murmurs, risking a glance at her, dreading what he might see on her face. Her expression is soft, eyes brimming with empathy and not a drop of judgement, and he suddenly fears he might cry. 

A crash sounds from the living room and they both turn to see Henry, collapsed in a fit of giggles, his new train capsized from what was apparently a collision with the sofa leg. 

“Henry, please wait at least twenty-four hours before you destroy that thing,” says Emma, attempting and wholly failing to sound stern. 

Killian clears his throat. “What have you got there, lad?” he asks. 

“It’s a train!” cries Henry, holding up the toy for Killian to see. Killian downs the rest of his coffee in one burning, bracing gulp and goes to sit next to Henry on the living room floor. 

“Aye, and a splendid one it is too,” he says, taking it and subjecting it to solemn examination. “A steam train?” 

“Yeah! How did you know?” 

“When I was about your age, my father took me to see a real steam train,” says Killian. “It came through our village on a special run and I got to sit in the engineer’s seat and wear his striped cap.” 

“That’s what I’m gonna do!” Henry is all but vibrating with excitement. “For my other present! Mom says we can go to the museum and there’s a train there I can sit in!” 

Killian smiles at his enthusiasm. “It’s an experience you won’t forget,” he says. He puts the train on the floor and pushes it back towards Henry, then gets to his feet.  

“Well, lass,” he says, turning to Emma. “I’m grateful for the coffee but I should really—” 

“What are you doing later?” 

“Er—later?” 

“For Christmas dinner,” she clarifies. “Any plans?” 

“No.” Unless sitting at home with a bottle of rum counts as a plan, he thinks. 

“Would you like to have dinner with us?” she asks. “Me and Henry?”

“I—” Killian hesitates. He knows he should refuse. Already he’s overstayed his welcome to a shameful degree, but the prospect of spending more time in Emma and Henry’s company is painfully tempting. 

“Oh please, Killian!” says Henry. “We’re having ham and pie for dessert!” 

“Who can resist ham and pie?” teases Emma. 

Killian looks at their faces, both wearing the same hopeful, expectant look, and gives in to the yearning in his chest. “I’d love to,” he says. “Thank you.” 

A glorious smile spreads across Emma’s face. “Come back around two,” she says. 

—

Returning to his apartment Killian finds it far colder and darker than he recalls. Or perhaps he’s simply never noticed. He looks around with a small frown, thinking how very barren the place seems. There’s nothing of him in this space, no personal touches at all. He feels both glad and deeply saddened by this. He wants nothing of himself in this miserable hole, but also he wonders if enough of him remains to leave a mark on it. On anywhere. 

He takes a brief shower under the weak, lukewarm spray then quickly towels himself dry, in which process he catches a glimpse of his reflection in the mirror and pauses to examine it. He’d been rather vain about his appearance, once, taking the time each morning to style his hair into calculated dishevelment and keeping his body lean and firm. Now his stomach is soft and his arms undefined, the skin hanging loosely from his bones. The lines fanning out from his eyes have deepened, joined by new ones across his forehead and around his mouth. His hair has grey not just at the temples but scattered throughout, with a streak of silver rising up from his forehead that he supposes might be considered rather dashing. His complexion, always pale, has gone sallow, and there are dark smudges beneath his eyes. 

He cannot fathom how a woman like Emma could look at him and see an attractive man. He cannot fathom how it never occurred to him that she might find him attractive. It’s not so many years since he would have taken her interest very much for granted. How many years? Three? Four? 

He wonders how old Emma is. She can’t be much more than twenty-two or three. He’s more than ten years her senior. Far too old to be thinking of her as anything other than a lovely young woman who’s chosen to offer him kindness. 

With a start he realises he’s standing naked in his icy bathroom, goose pimples prickling his skin. He gives himself a final rubdown with the towel then hurries to dress, digging out a clean and ironed shirt from the back of his closet and a pair of jeans without holes. On a whim he pulls his suitcase down from the shelf and takes out one of his old waistcoats. It still fits, barely, and he feels a warm glow of pleasure as he runs his hands down the fine brocade. 

He scrubs a washcloth over his face and does his best to style his hair with his fingers and then he is, he supposes, as ready as he’ll ever be. 

It’s too early to go back to Emma’s but there’s nothing to do in his flat except drink so he decides to take a walk. The morning is bright and crisp, cold but in a cleaner way than the foggy damp of night before. It’s the cold of brittle icicles and sharp-edged snowflakes that collect into fluffy piles just right for forming into balls, the kind that nips at your nose and ears but leaves you warm within your coat. It’s bracing cold, and Killian finds himself walking at a brisk pace, enjoying the crunch of the frozen slush beneath his feet and the blinding blue of the sky. 

Another burst of whimsy—and if you can’t be whimsical on Christmas Day, when can you? he thinks, with a wry grin—has him turning a corner into a street he can’t recall ever noticing before. It’s a small street, narrow and lined with shops, each boasting brightly painted signs and engaging displays in their wide and frosty windows. The air seems different here, he thinks, and the light, and then his attention is caught by a magnificent train set in the window of one of the shops. 

He wishes he had something to bring today, some small token of his gratitude. A toy for Henry perhaps, and a trinket for Emma. Something to brighten up their little flat a bit more, something Henry can play with that will also help him learn. He’s such a bright lad, and Emma clearly has a taste for beautiful things. But it’s Christmas Day and all the lovely little stores are closed. 

All but one. One solitary pale blue door with a red-lettered sign hung upon it that reads “Come in we’re OPEN.” 

Tentatively he pushes open the door and slips through it. It’s a florist and gift shop, and he’s astonished by the variety of colours and scents that surround him. There must be every sort of flower here, plus shelf upon shelf of toys and knickknacks. It seems impossible that so much could fit into such a small space. 

“Hello?” he calls. 

A man appears from a door at the back of the shop. A tall man, lean but strong with broad shoulders and a friendly grin. He doesn’t strike Killian at all as the sort of man who would run a shop like this. 

“Can I help you?” says the man. 

“Erm, yes. I’m uh, looking for a gift. It’s rather last minute, but—” 

“Last minute is the reason we’re open on Christmas Day, mate,” says the man jovially. His blue eyes twinkle merrily as he regards Killian with a peculiar sort of fondness. “No need to explain. Who is it you’re buying for?” 

“Ah. It’s, well, not precisely a friend. A young woman and her son, the lad about four I imagine. I’m having dinner with them this afternoon and I feel rather a prat not bringing anything. Do you think… do you think she’d like some flowers?”

“Women always like flowers,” laughs the man. “You can’t go wrong.” He begins to move around the shop, selecting blossoms and buds and leaves and assembling them into a bouquet. “Tell me about this woman,” he says as he works.  

“Well, she’s… she’s rather remarkable. Warm and clever and tough and far too kind. I think perhaps she pities me a little.” Killian isn’t sure what’s loosened his tongue but the urge to unburden himself to this odd florist is one he finds he can’t resist. 

“What makes you say that? She’s invited you for dinner, hasn’t she?” 

“Out of pity.” 

“Surely not. Perhaps she simply likes you.” 

“She hardly knows me.” 

“Yet you like her.” 

“Aye. I suppose I do.” 

The florist shifts his flowers into the crook of one elbow and claps Killian on the shoulder in a way that makes his heart clench with the almost-memory of something, a feeling so achingly familiar and yet he can’t quite put his finger on what it is. “Mate, I will put together a bouquet for this remarkable woman that will dazzle her, and for her son perhaps he might enjoy a sailing ship?”

“A ship?” Killian blinks in surprise. A ship is in fact precisely what he had in mind for Henry, the perfect gift for a curious boy who loves both steam trains and sailor stories.

The florist reaches up to a high shelf and takes down a toy ship, handing it to Killian with a triumphant grin. It’s made of wood, in the full-rigged style of the old classic sailing vessels, minutely detailed and exquisitely rendered. “Can he… play with this?” asks Killian doubtfully.

“Of course! Fully functional in the bathtub, and more resilient than she looks. Now about that bouquet.” 

As the florist arranges his selections into an artful bouquet and secures them with tissue paper and ribbon, Killian wanders around the shop, browsing the flowers and gifts. There are soft toys and porcelain figurines, cards and puzzles and magnets, and in the corner a display of jolly little Christmas wreaths exactly like the one he saw on the door of Emma’s bar last night, with a small sign proclaiming them handmade with love. He smiles to himself. That wreath was what drew him to the bar, what led to his meeting Emma. And now the same person who made it was making a bouquet for him to give her. How peculiar life could be. 

He makes his way around to the back of the shop just as the florist is putting the finishing touches on the bouquet. It’s huge, and stunningly gorgeous, and as he hands it to Killian his cheery smile turns bittersweet. 

“You strike me as a man who’s seen some difficult times,” he says. “If you’ll forgive me for saying so. I hope you won’t allow the past to blind you to the possibilities of the present, or the future.” 

Killian feels as though he ought to object to this presumption and prying into his personal life. But the man’s smile is warm despite the ache behind it and so strangely caring, and there’s that familiarity that tickles again just at the corner of Killian’s consciousness and prompts him to return the smile along with thanks and a sincere promise that he’ll try. 

“Good,” says the florist, smiling even harder. “Good.” He swallows audibly and blinks misty eyes, and when he shakes Killian’s hand he grips it almost painfully, clasping it between both of his own. “Goodbye, br—mate,” he says. “Happy Christmas.” 

“Happy Christmas,” Killian replies, then blinks in astonishment at finding himself quite suddenly back on the familiar city streets, not far from the bar. Emma’s house is easily visible from where he’s standing. He has no recollection of leaving the shop or even of paying for the bouquet and the ship, both now gorgeously wrapped and in his arms. But he must have done. Mustn’t he? 

He pulls out his phone to see what time it is. Three minutes to two, though he could have sworn that it was no later than ten thirty when he left his own place. How much time did he spend in the shop? And who was it that florist reminded him of? He shakes his head as he slips his phone back into his pocket. More things in heaven and earth, Horatio, he thinks, and starts walking towards Emma’s house, where the pleasure of seeing her again, and her blushing delight at the flowers, and Henry’s shrieks of joy at the ship, all contrive to wipe the odd little street and the odder florist wholly from his mind.  

It’s quite a long time before he remembers them again.  

—

There’s no tub in Emma’s bathroom but she produces a large, wide plastic container big enough for the toy ship to sail in, and Killian spends and enjoyable and quite splashy hour playing with Henry while she finishes preparing the meal. 

She calls them when it’s nearly ready and Henry runs to set the table, something Killian gathers is his regular mealtime chore. They have only the two chairs so Emma drags in the one from the bedroom for Henry, reminding him to be careful and not to rock in it, and soon they are seated and waiting as Emma takes the ham from the oven. 

It’s not a large ham, but the way Henry’s eyes widen when she sets it on the table anyone would think it was the whole pig. 

“Wow,” he says, clapping his hands. “How much are we saving for leftovers?” 

“None,” says Emma. 

“None?” 

“Nope. It’s Christmas. Today we eat as much as we like.” 

“Ohhh,” Henry breathes, his eyes like saucers as Emma piles his plate with ham and mashed potatoes and roasted carrots and some garlicky greens Killian doesn’t recognise. 

She places a similarly laden plate in front of him and he finds to his surprise that his stomach rumbles in anticipation. He can’t recall the last time he had a full meal, or indeed the desire to eat one. 

Henry waits, quivering with impatience, until Emma has served Killian and herself and then she sits and gives him a nod and he dives in. 

“Mmmm,” he says through a mouthful of ham and potato, “so good, Mom.” 

“Chew it first before you speak,” says Emma, in a tone that suggests this is something she’s said before. 

Henry chews and swallows hugely. “It’s good,” he repeats. 

“It is good,” Killian agrees, and Emma flushes with pleasure. 

“I’m not much of a cook,” she says with a shrug. “But I got the recipe off the internet and I guess it turned out okay.” 

“More than okay.” Killian has to force himself not to talk with his mouth full. “It’s delicious, Emma.” 

Emma bites her lip and ducks her head, focuses on her own plate. “Thank you,” she whispers.  

Henry and Killian each have seconds of ham and potatoes, though Killian observes, with an amused exchange of glances with Emma, that the boy has a valiant struggle to finish off his last few mouthfuls. When both their plates are clean and neither could manage another bite they retreat to the living room to play a game of Candy Land, at which Henry sails to a triumphant victory, Killian never having played the game before, while Emma clears the table and gets the pie ready. 

“Are you sure I can’t help you, love?” Killian calls, as Henry hops his little plastic gingerbread man along the rainbow path. 

“Nope, it’s all under control,” she replies. “You’re actually most helpful keeping Henry occupied so I can get everything done.” 

The pie is pumpkin, an American innovation at which Killian has always looked rather askance, and has only tried once during his years in this country. It’s not an experience he would have chosen to repeat but he’s determined to choke down the whole slice and a second one besides if it will make Emma smile. 

To his surprise the pie is not just palatable but actually good, creamy and delicately spiced, nothing like the limp and watery concoction he tried before. The first piece goes down easily accompanied by another cup of her excellent coffee, and when she offers him a second he accepts gladly despite the protests of his stomach. 

“You know, you say you’re not much of a cook, but this is delightful,” he tells her. “Everything has been.” 

“I guess I can follow a recipe,” she says in a dismissive tone. Killian frowns. This shrugging off of praise seems so ingrained she’s not even aware she does it. 

“Mom’s a great cook,” says Henry, confirming his suspicions. “She just thinks she’s not.” 

Emma opens her mouth to argue but Killian beats her to it. “From the mouths of babes, love,” he says.

“I guess,” replies Emma, avoiding his eyes. She seems so embarrassed he lets the subject drop, polishing off his pie and coffee in silence. Emma moves to take his plate but he snatches it away and insists on clearing the table and washing the plates and cups while Emma and Henry play another round of Candy Land—a far more hotly contested one—and then it’s time for Henry to get ready for bed. He washes his face and hands and brushes his teeth and puts on his pyjamas, then returns to the living room to fling his arms around Killian and squeeze him tightly. 

“I’m glad you came today,” he says. “Thank you for the ship, I love it so much.”

“You’re welcome, Henry.” The lump is back in Killian’s throat and he has to force the words around it. “I had a wonderful time.”  

—

When Emma returns from putting Henry to bed Killian is standing in the living room with his hands shoved in his pockets, staring at the twinkling lights of the Christmas tree. He turns when he hears her approach, with a smile that almost feels natural now, when she inspires it. 

“Do you want some more coffee?” she asks with a smile of her own and a nervous quaver in her voice. 

He doesn’t really, but he does want to sit with her for a while before he has to go back out into the cold of his flat and his life and so he accepts. They sit on the sofa with their knees inches apart and sip in silence for a moment. 

“You must be wondering what kind of horrible mother leaves her kid with a total stranger she found in a bar,” says Emma, startling him.  

“Of course not,” he replies.   

She gives him a skeptical look. 

“Well, speaking as the total stranger in question, I was just glad I could help,” he says. “I figured you must have had your reasons for needing me.” 

She nods. “I’ve had so many problems with childcare lately. They just never seem to end, no matter what I do. August is just about fed up with it, and I need this job, for a while longer at least. I—”

“Emma, you don’t have to explain. It’s plain to see what a happy and healthy lad Henry is, and how much he loves you. You’re a wonderful mother, and I’m sure you only do what’s best for him.” 

“I try,” she says. “I try so hard but it never seems like enough, and I can’t help worrying about him. He has has these nightmares...” 

“Surely all children do?” 

“His seem so bad though. I just—I want him out of this place,” she bursts out, suddenly angry. “If he has to grow up here I just don’t know what it’ll do to him. The schools in this district are terrible, there’s drugs everywhere and the kids are so rough. And when I think of sending him out into that, my sweet little boy...” She trails off, brushing tears angrily from her cheeks as Killian grips his coffee in a white-knuckled fist and feels thoroughly useless. Emma takes a deep breath and he swears he can see her pulling herself together. “Henry can’t stay here,” she continues, a hard edge of determination now in her voice. “But the only way I can get him out is to finish college and the only way I can do that is by keeping this job. If I have to find another one farther away it will just make things harder, and—”

“Love, you really don’t need to explain,” says Killian gently. “You’re doing the best you can and that’s all that can be asked of anyone.”

It occurs to him that he’s being kinder to Emma than he’s ever been to himself. She deserves it, though, whereas he has fully earned his tribulations. Emma has done nothing but fight to give her son the best life she can manage, holding down a job and apparently studying as well, raising Henry to be sweet and respectful and curious and happy. She doesn’t deserve to be trapped in this place, neither of them do. They don’t deserve to have their futures stolen from them by their circumstances or the harsh cruelties of the economic and societal structures they are forced to live in. They deserve far, far more than what they’ve got and it strikes Killian like the proverbial thunderbolt that it is within his power to change their lives greatly for the better. 

He sets his coffee cup down on the floor with a hand that has begun to tremble and looks at Emma.    

“Can I tell you a story, love?” he asks. 

“A sailor story?” she asks with small smile. 

“In a manner of speaking.” Something in his tone seems to catch her attention and she sets her own cup down and turns to look at him with solemn attention. 

He takes a deep breath. “Not long ago, though it seems a lifetime now, I was an officer in the British Royal Navy,” he begins. 

“Wow.” 

“Aye.” He can’t help smiling at her expression. “I was the commander of a destroyer, effectively the first mate under my brother Liam, who was the captain. We worked well together, he was an outstanding leader and I would have followed him anywhere. We were on that ship for about three years, side by side through quite a few adventures, and then—” he swallows hard, squeezes his eyes shut, “one night there was a storm… not an unusual thing on the sea, of course, and though this was a bad one it wasn’t so bad we couldn’t have managed to weather it.”

He pauses as the memories surge up and over him just as the waves did on that horrible night and he’s drowning in them again, fighting for air as the water flings him across the deck and fills his lungs and crushes him mercilessly beneath its weight, and he feels again the stark terror and helplessness in the face of forces he cannot hope to control. The terror presses down on him and all he can think of is getting out, getting away—and then Emma takes his hand. 

“Hey,” she says softly, lacing their fingers together. “It’s okay. You’re okay.” 

Killian grips her hand, far too tightly he’s sure, but she feels like a lifeline. He focuses on breathing, in and out, slowly, letting the air fill his lungs and then expelling it until his heart rate slows and the panic ebbs away. 

He doesn’t release her hand, and she makes no attempt to extract it. 

Instead they sit, fingers entwined, as he haltingly tells her of the glitch in the steering controls he noticed and reported through the proper channels when their ship was in dock for routine maintenance. How investigation into his report revealed a serious fault that would be time consuming and expensive to repair, and how the Naval Command, wanting the ship back in service as soon as possible, dismissed it and instructed Liam to take her out again regardless. How Liam knew corners had been cut but believed his commanders when they claimed everything that was necessary to keep the ship and crew safe had been done. 

“He didn’t tell me,” Killian chokes. “Not until it was too late. When we were caught in the storm and the ship wouldn’t steer and we were at the mercy of the waves… Liam was killed. I couldn’t stop it, I tried but I couldn’t… the wave came… and I nearly went overboard… the ship was wrecked with only a handful of survivors… and then… the navy put the blame on Liam.” His lip curls as the old, bitter fury rises up in him. “They said he was negligent, putting the ship back in service without carrying out the proper maintenance. And they knew that was a lie, and what’s more they knew that I knew it. I wanted to take it to a court martial to clear Liam’s name but every attempt I made was blocked by some higher-up. I was informed that if I continued to press the issue I could face a court martial of my own for insubordination, and then they offered me a deal. An honourable discharge and a financial settlement. For my silence.” He spits the word. “And I took it.” 

“Oh, Killian.” 

“I thought, if I can’t exonerate Liam I can at least gouge the bloody navy for an obscene amount of money, enough to make them feel it. I thought it might be cathartic.” He snorts. “It wasn’t. That damned money has been a weight around my neck ever since. I haven’t touched a penny of it and I never will. I can’t bear to. It’s blood money, my brother’s blood, and as far as I’m concerned it can rot in the bank forever.” He pauses, draws a steadying breath. “As far as I was concerned.” 

He looks up at her, holding her gaze as his thumb moves gently across her knuckles. “I want to give it to you, Emma. You and Henry.” 

She gasps. “Oh, I couldn’t—” 

“Yes you could. I’m serious when I say I’ll never spend it. There’s nothing I could buy that would bring my brother back, and nothing I could use it for that wouldn’t remind me of him. Except this.” 

“But I—”

“I know it’s a huge thing to ask of you, but please, love. Please take it. I don’t deserve to have it and you don’t deserve the life you’re living. Let me make this right. Let me do something good, just one good thing in Liam’s memory.”

He has a thought, and smiles at his own whimsy. “Think of it as a Christmas miracle.”  

Emma shakes her head, looking shell-shocked. “It certainly is a Christmas something,” she replies. “I—I don’t really know what to think.” 

“That’s more than understandable.” 

“Killian when I—when I told you about myself and our situation I wasn’t—I didn’t expect—” 

“Of course you didn’t. How could you possibly have known that the strange man you invited to Christmas dinner was sitting on a pile of cash?” He attempts to tease her to lighten the mood and is gratified when she laughs, albeit with an edge of hysteria. 

“True,” she says. She looks down at their hands, palms pressed together and fingers tangled, and slowly brings her other one up to curl around the back of his. Her hands are soft and he tries not to notice the way their touch makes his skin tingle. 

“Please let me do this, Emma,” he pleads, adding his other hand to the pile to stop himself reaching up to caress her cheek. “For Henry, and for yourself. And for me. You’d be doing me a great favour.” She looks up, into his eyes and beyond them, into the very depths of him. He holds his breath for what feels like eternity and then she nods. 

“Okay,” she says. “Okay.”

—

They meet at the bank the following morning. The procedure is quick and surprisingly painless—papers signed and wire transfers made, business cards exchanged and financial management advice offered—and it’s not yet eleven o’clock when they find themselves back out on the snowy street staring awkwardly at each other. 

Killian almost offers her his number, almost begs her to stay in touch. But she’s a wealthy woman now, with a degree to finish and a child to care for. She has a whole new life before her, one with no place in it for a broken-down sailor with a drinking problem.  

The money is hers, completely. No strings are attached to it and he doesn’t want her feeling in any way obligated to him, or like she has to make any justifications for the way she spends it. He doesn’t want her wasting thoughts on him when she’ll have far better and happier things to think about. And despite the painful knot that tightens in his chest at the thought of never seeing her again he feels lighter than he has in years. He feels free, and he wants that same freedom for her. 

He doesn’t need to see her, he tells himself. Not so long as he knows she’s taken care of. That she’s happy.

“Well.” He clears his throat. “That’s that then.” 

“Yeah I guess it is. Killian, I—” 

“Please.” He cuts her off. “Please don’t say anything.” He lets his eyes caress her face, fixes it for forever in his memory. “Goodbye, Emma,” he says. “Have a wonderful life.” 

He turns and walks away, losing himself in the shifting crowd of people, never once looking back. 

-

[satoshi-mochida]

Square Enix has released new information and screenshots of Final Fantasy VII Remake highlighting the Turks, Avalanche, more of the battle system and materia, the Chocobo & Moogle summon, and the church and Aerith’s house in Sector 5. Additionally, Square Enix revealed two new visuals featuring Aerith and Barrett and shared 11 developer comments.

Get the details below.

■ New Visuals

■ The Turks

The Investigation Sector of the General Affairs Department of the Shinra Electric Power Company. A small, elite organization that carries out special operations, the Turks operate behind the scenes and handle everything from scouting out SOLDIER candidates to protecting VIPs, intelligence activities, and even assassination.

Reno (voiced by Keiji Fujiwara)

A member of the Turks, the Investigation Sector of the General Affairs Department of the Shinra Electric Power Company. With fiery red hair and a cynical smile, he always does his own thing. He is agile in battle and uses a specialized weaponry to unleash a multitude of attacks.

Rude (voiced by Taiten Kusunoki)

A member of the Turks, the Investigation Sector of the General Affairs Department of the Shinra Electric Power Company. A giant with a shaved head and sunglasses. He is not one for mindless chatter, and faithfully handles his duties. He does not carry a weapon, but rather fights using only martial arts that put his strong body to work.

■ Avalanche

An anti-Shinra group acting to protect the planet. Mako is the life energy of the planet, and Avalanche alleges that Shinra Company is draining the planet’s lifespan. There are currently several factions within Avalanche, and the group that oversees Midgar, which consists of Barrett and company, is a dynamic one that does not hesitate to use force.

Biggs (voiced by Shuuhei Sakaguchi)

A member of the anti-Shinra group Avalanche. The sharpest and most capable person on the team, he is in charge of strategic planning. He calmly follows Barrett, who has habit of going wild one way or another. He has a tidy personality, and loves taking showers and cleaning.

Wedge (voiced by Takayuki Asai)

A member of the anti-Shinra group Avalanche. He uses his connections and charm to gather information and conciliate with opposing forces. He also plays an important role in taste-testing new menu items for 7th Heaven. A mood maker, he is the indispensable lubricant of the team.

Jessie (voiced by Satomi Moriya)

A member of the anti-Shinra group Avalanche. She is in charge of procurement for Avalanche, getting everything necessary to carry out its operations, from explosive to fake IDs. She is also a skilled engineer, and manufactures and sells things such as water filtration devices to earn income. She is caring and has a weakness for handsome men.

■ Battle System: Classic Mode

By changing the difficulty level to “Classic,” you will switch to “Classic Mode.” In Classic Mode, characters automatically take action while the ATB gauge accumulates. Players can battle by selecting commands such as “Ability,” “Magic,” and “Item,” which consume the ATB gauge, similarly to the command-based battle system of the original Final Fantasy VII. While in Classic Mode, you can switch back to action-based gameplay at any time.

■ Battle System: Cloud

Cloud can “Attack” with his sword at close range with the Square button and build up combos by repeatedly pressing Square. By holding Square, Cloud can unleash a radial attack.

Unique Ability

Pressing the Triangle button activates a character’s unique ability. Cloud’s unique ability switches him from his balanced “Assault Mode” to the attack-specialized “Punisher Mode.” In Punisher Mode, Cloud’s movement speed is reduced, but his attack’s become more powerful.

—Assault Mode: “Attack.”

—Punisher Mode: “Strong Attack.”

Abilities

—Triple Slash

Cloud slashes surrounding enemies with three consecutive strikes. Its power increases by hitting multiple enemies.

—Blade Burst

A long range attack in which Cloud fires a magic burst from his blade.

■ Weapon Enhancement

By unlocking the abilities of the core materia in weapons, you can upgrade them to increase their power.

—Cloud’s Buster Sword. You can also increase the character’s stats and increase the materia slots.

Weapon Abilities

Each weapon has a dedicated weapon ability that increases in proficiency each time it is used. By increasing a proficiency to the maximum level, you can learn the weapon ability to use at any time, even when that weapon is not equipped.

■ Materia

Fire

Materia that enables the use of flame-attribute magic such as “Fire.” It evolves from “Fire” to “Fira” to “Firaga.”

Sense

Materia that enables the use of “Sense.” By using Sense on an enemy, you can see that enemy’s traits, resistances, and weaknesses.

■ Summons

When equipped, summoning materia adds an additional gauge that, when filled, grants you the ability to call forth otherworldly entities to fight alongside you for a limited time. These summoned beings possess a will of their own and will engage enemies independently, culminating in a devastating attack they execute before departing the battlefield.

Chocobo & Moogle

A world-traveling moogle riding atop his partner chocobo. It is cute on cute, the simple sight of which provides healing.

—Ability: “Mog Bomb.”

—Ability: “Stampede.”

■ Locations

Locations from Final Fantasy VII have been faithfully recreated in high quality. Several locations that could not be explored in the original version have also been added.

Church in the Slums

The old church at the edge of the Sector 5 Slums. The building is old and houses the crashed test rocket launched by Shinra. One of the few places where flowers grow in the ruined slums, Aerith takes care of the garden there in her spare time.

Aerith’s House

A house located in a corner of the Sector 5 Slums. Aerith and her mother Elmyra live there. They grow a variety of colorful flowers in their garden, and every day Aerith delivers them to the residents of Midgar. Clear water flows down from the cliff behind the house, which coupled with the loveliness of the house itself, make for a beautiful scene unseemly of the slums.

Screenshots

—Playing darts in 7th Heaven.

—A bike battle against Shinra with Jessie on board.

■ Developer Comments

Yoshinori Kitase (Producer)

In the several years following 2009, when I was running around all over the world promoting the Final Fantasy XIII series, I had opportunity to speak to many fans and journalists. The question that I always got as we got up to part ways was, “When are you making the Final Fantasy VII Remake?”

It was to the point where it almost felt like an alternative way to say goodbye, so eventually I started pre-emptively giving my response to the question before they’d even asked it. “If we were to create a remake of that now, it would be an enormous amount of data, and who knows how many years it would take. But, if the ‘right time’ comes along, we might just do it someday!” This is how I’d respond back then, who knows how many hundreds of times. To all the people I had a chance to meet with back then, the “right time” has finally arrived.

For the Final Fantasy VII Remake, developers who worked on the original game have come onboard once again as core members, including myself as Producer, Tetsuya Nomura as Director, Motomu Toriyama as Co-Director, and Kazushige Nojima on Story & Scenario.

Additionally, we also have people like Co-Director Naoki Hamaguchi who are now part of the core development team, who was just a fan of Final Fantasy VII back then. And, to my delight, creators from younger generations all over the world have come forth upon hearing news of Final Fantasy VII Remake’s production. While ensuring that the spirit of the original game is kept intact, these members are adding to it the power of a new generation.

As a result, the game that is about to be born surpasses even my own expectations as the one who voiced the desire to take this endeavor on in the first place. In fact, the one who’s looking forward to playing this game the most right now might actually be me.

Tetsuya Nomura (Director / Concept Design)

I started up the Final Fantasy VII Remake project around the time of Compilation of Final Fantasy VII. We’d gone through Advent Children, Before Crisis, Crisis Core, and Dirge of Cerberus, and I was planning this by myself for about a year as the fifth and final entry in the compilation.

Since that initial plan and my first ideas, other projects took-shape and I became very busy as they moved forward, but I never stopped thinking about VII. As such, I feel like I’m looking forward to the release as much as anyone, as I’ve been carrying around these ideas for a long time.

Opportunities for discussing our true intentions are few, but with regard to the size of the game that many are asking about – there’s no reason at all to worry. Even in this Midgar portion alone, the density and volume are so great that I had to give directions to lighten them.

With regard to new characters, of whom I said during past interviews that there would be “none” – though they aren’t main characters, their numbers ended up growing considerably in the process of creating a rich depiction of Midgar. When you think of Midgar’s final boss, you probably think of the M.O.T.O.R., but in this game new bosses will appear and add to the excitement of the story even more.

We’ve already begun working on the next one as well, but I’m confident that playing through this title will expand your expectations just like the world that extends beyond Midgar.

Until next time.

Kazushige Nojima (Story / Scenario)

It must have been in the very beginning stages of developing Final Fantasy VII Remake that I got to see the Remake version of Cloud for the first time. It wasn’t post-Advent Children Cloud, with kindness brimming from within. Rather, here was a young man with fiery features, looking straight at me through the screen with aggression in his eyes. I knew right t hen: “Oh, this is it.”

This time, it was this Cloud that I needed to depict. When Cloud came to Midgar and was hired by Avalanche, this was the sort of look that he would have had on his face. So I revisited the experiences that he’d had in his life so far, thinking of the effect that each individual event would have had on him. His attitude toward his childhood friend Tifa. How would he act toward Barret? What sort of distance would he keep while interacting with passers-by on the street? I picture the scene of Midgar in my mind and imagine Cloud moving through it. Write new lines of dialogue to add for him. This is how Cloud in the Remake Version came to be.

It was an exciting task to introduce a new current of wind to Final Fantasy VII, but at the same time, there was some fear. The original game used cartoon-like, stylised art, and the story was completed by players using their imagination to supplement portions that couldn’t be depicted as a result. Even if they were seeing the same scene, the information they took away from it and how they interpreted it differed depending on the viewer. Perhaps it’s what might be considered a narrative form of storytelling nowadays.

In Final Fantasy VII Remake, there will be much less room for player imagination. This fact will probably change the feel of the story considerably. People who know the original might not know quite how to take it. Such is the fear that I have. But I also have conviction. It should be possible to feel a much deeper connection to Cloud as you join alongside him. It would be amazing if you could feel that fiery flame together with him.

Naoki Hamaguchi (Co-Director / Game Design / Programming)

When the original Final Fantasy VII was released, I was just another student who dreamed of being in the gaming industry. I of course played the game, but I also re-read the guidebook over and over again, my heart stolen by the engaging universe. I remember wishing strongly that I’d be able to create a game like it someday.

Twenty-two years later, that student who dreamed of Final Fantasy VII is now involved in developing the remake. I can’t help but feel like it’s fate.

In this title, I handled overseeing the development team overall, such as deciding development milestones, constructing a workflow using Unreal Engine, and taking responsibility for game design.

Here, I met staff members who were involved in the original game, who entered the industry with childhood dreams of Final Fantasy VII just like me, and those who were drawn by the allure of Final Fantasy VII and joined the dev team from overseas. It was a gathering of amazing creators with passion and ambition towards the game. All I have is gratitude for having the opportunity to meet this team.

With all this in mind, I’ve considered the following phrase important: “respect for the original.” Final Fantasy VII Remake takes on the challenge of creating something that’s created specifically thanks to the technological power and entertainment quality that matches the current generation, while treating the captivating elements of the original game with respect.

For those who’ve played it: “new but familiar.” For those who haven’t played it: “experience the charm of Final Fantasy VII which moved the hearts of many, now created with the most exciting modern technology available.” I hope you enjoy it!

Motomu Toriyama (Co-Director / Scenario Design)

For the original game, I joined the project as a planner who was just starting out on my career, and I worked on Sector 7 slums and Wall Market.

In producing Final Fantasy VII Remake, the thoughts and feelings I had when I was just starting out back then were revived, and at the same time, I took on the challenge of new methods of expression that I’m able to execute now that I have the experience.

The original version was a forerunner when it came to RPGs that used 3D CG, but the characters were made of polygons, the dialogue was in text only, and cameras weren’t able to be used for cutscenes.

In Final Fantasy VII Remake, we’re using the newest visuals, voice acting, and character facial expressions to redesign the Final Fantasy VII universe to be more realistic. By increasing the realism of the universe within the city of Midgar, which is made prosperous by mako energy, we of course also reimagined the characters who reside there, like Cloud and Tifa, more vividly as living and breathing human beings, depicting their daily lives and feelings in a more in-depth manner.

We took care to remake not only the main characters, but also characters like Johnny and the Shinra Middle Manager who I created back then. Please keep your eye out to see how they make their new appearances. Additionally, when remaking the Honey-Bee Inn at the Wall Market, we revived it is as a pantheon of entertainment, which couldn’t be realized back then. Here, the scene that many of you have been eager to see, where Cloud disguises himself. Please enjoy.”

Shintaro Takai (Graphics / VFX Director)

I created the effects for the original Final Fantasy VII. Back then, the scope of development was so exorbitantly massive that I just threw myself into the tasks for which I was responsible, without even fully understanding what sort of game we were creating.

Near the final stages of development, when I finally tried playing the test version, I remember being surprised by the graphics and the depth of the story, as well as how fully realized it was, and I remember enjoying the game as a player. It’s been 22 years after that, and I’m participating in the Final Fantasy VII Remake project as a developer, and today, I’m able to experience the impact and fun similar to that of the previous title.

For the remake, I’ve mainly directed the effects section, while also crossing over into other sections for decisions and directions on overall graphics.

Among the many major games that are celebrated for their photorealistic graphics, FINAL FANTASY VII is a little different. Not only is it realistic, but I believe you’ll notice that it incorporates “playfulness” in the design and colours for an originality not found in other games. Effects are an area that is particularly conducive to expressing various elements of “playfulness.”

I hope you’ll enjoy various effects that are not only beautiful, but also convincingly portray realism and magic!! Various elements of game design and graphic design have been packed into every corner of the vast Midgar. I hope you enjoy it!!

Teruki Endo (Battle Director)

When I played the original version, I wasn’t on the game creation side of things, and I remember enjoying it as a player and feeling constant surprise at the evolution of games. The three-dimensionality of the stage and the dynamism of the battle scenes have left a strong impression on me. Back then, I never even imagined that I would someday be on the side of creating games, or that I would be able to be involved in that game.

Speaking to my own personal experience, I had mostly been creating action games thus far, so for this title, I took on the challenge of remaking a system that was not of an action game originally and incorporating action elements into it.

Production was completely different than that of a pure action game, and the need for new design philosophy often arose. Production involved constantly searching for the best balance between action and command elements, but I believe we’ve managed to do this in an exciting new way.

In order to create battles that are surprising and never boring, we worked hard to create a variety of strategic elements for each boss and enemy. Also, in constructing battle systems for each character, we wanted to respect the image of the original version while additionally introducing many new abilities. I hope you’re able to find your own style of battle by combining those abilities with Materia.

Takako Miyake (Environment Director)

For Final Fantasy VII Remake, the graphics team worked to the theme of “how would Midgar look if it existed in real life?” As such, as the environments team, we examined those portions that were once left to the players’ imaginations, fell outside of the on-screen area, or were between scenes, and tried to supplement them in detail.

For all the fans out there, we worked our hardest in hopes that you’ll be able to relive an experience that also surpasses your memories.

For all of you who are playing for the first time, we worked our hardest with the sole hope that you’ll experience this amazing universe that has remained beloved by so many for 22 years, and to be able to convey its charm.

Additionally, in order to create a fitting backdrop for the drama unfolding around the main characters, and in order for it to be a stage where the various characters living in Midgar can be their vibrant selves, all of teams, including the environments section, came up with ideas and worked collaboratively. Midgar is a closed city. However, I would be very happy if by experiencing the drama unfolding around its residents and the main characters who go through it, you feel as though Midgar actually exists.

I am a Final Fantasy VII fan, so being able to take part in the Remake was something that made me happy but also nervous. It’s been an unforgettable development experience. I truly hope that everyone enjoys it.

Iichiro Yamaguchi (Lighting Director)

Final Fantasy VII, for me, at the time when I was in school, was a very impactful game. It really pierced my heart as I was at such a sensitive age, with not only a rich story, but charming characters, world setting and music, not to mention that it was the first in the series to be in 3D polygon format. This was the piece that really brought out my interest in CG in general.

When I was able to join the Final Fantasy VII Remake team, I started by thinking back to how I felt when I first played it. Midgar, with its’ abundant mix of different elements and original characters like Cloud, became something unbreakable and the “standard” for me in Final Fantasy VII.

In the world of the game, just like in real life, if there is not some form of light then you won’t be able to see anything. So when putting up lights just anywhere, Midgar could lose its token Midgar-ness, and Cloud wouldn’t be Cloud anymore. I’ve taken as much care as possible to recreate the world that I had saved in my mind and attempted to remake it to a fresh and modern standard.

The positions of the few lights that illuminate the entirety of Midgar, the adjustments made to each and every voluminous cut-scene… it’s all a lot of work to do! However, alongside the rest of the wonderful lighting team we feel that we’ve brought something great to the table. We’ve left in the elements that will have you going “Ah, that’s what it was like!”, and yet you’ll still be able to enjoy the world of Final Fantasy VII in its new and fresh style!

Masaaki Kazeno (Character Modeling Director)

I was among those who bought the original game on the day of its release and played it constantly, clearing it in under a week. Those that also have cleared it will understand this, but I also wasn’t quite satisfied with the locations, so I continued to play it after clearing in the same places as well.

And so, my memory of Final Fantasy VII was how I actually started studying CG, after being left with the strong motivation to want to create a Final Fantasy game when playing it and truly being moved by it.

So I just made my mind up and bought a PC to help me study – something that I had never even touched before. So for me, someone who had been so strongly influenced by the original, to be working on the characters of the remake, I want to do everything I can to make them in a way that shows both a charm and freshness whilst keeping that nostalgia.

So I want them to reflect in a fresh way that that also allows players of the original to remember the time that they played the original, as well as make them detailed and charming enough to give first-time players the understanding of just how charming they are.

I’ve ensured to arrange things like hairstyles and outfits to re-create the design from the original, so I encourage anyone to take time with their camera angles when playing to take a look. Also, there are several characters that stand out other than just the main characters that you’ll find. So please see for yourself as to what kind of appearance and characteristics they have! Other than that, we’ve got enemies in there perhaps too close to the original, and there are many surprises coming in the Remake for you to all look forward to! Keep your eyes out!

Yoshiyuki Soma (Animation Director)

When Final Fantasy VII came out, I was actually more of a Sega Saturn fan, so I didn’t play it straight away. However, when it was decided that I was to join SQUARE, I was put on the development of Final Fantasy VIII, and so I thought to myself “I’m screwed if I don’t know about Final Fantasy VII!”. That’s when I bought a PlayStation and played it so much.

Those memories feel like only yesterday. So I can’t say this too loudly, but I actually started it out of obligation rather than as a fan. However, I was absolutely enthralled by the world and lore as soon as I picked it up!

For the animations; each and every member of the team – from those responsible for battles, fields, simple events, cut scenes, mini-games, facial expressions, to swinging things in the background, actual behavior settings—have all worked together to improve as one.

We’ve done our best to ensure that whatever you do, it feels like the characters are alive there with you. We really hope you enjoy the story of Midgar on a huge screen, with Cloud and his friends.

Final Fantasy VII Remake is due out for PlayStation 4 on March 3, 2020.

View the screenshots at the gallery.

[ethereousdelirious]

I wrote another thing for some OCs of mine! I’ll put context under the cut.

I will say this: it’s a long read for what turned out to be not a lot of sick content. Just so you know that going in, haha

Content Warnings: oblique mentions of sex, brief references to emotionally abusive parents, semi-realistic depiction of urgent care/hospitalization and panic attacks

Please don’t bother correcting me on details i may have gotten wrong regarding flu symptoms/the hospitalization process :) I’m not shooting for absolute realism here and likely never will be. Thanks!

Oh, one more thing! This was based off a prompt that I will try to find so I can properly credit OP. It was basically about Character A getting hospitalized on Christmas and Character B decorating their room for them as a surprise.

This is based off a WIP of mine about 2 college roommates who go on a road trip after graduating and fall in love :) This story takes place in their Junior year and isn’t actually part of the WIP. Canon fanfiction? Is that a thing? Anyway.

The 2 characters that matter are:

Gaël Moreno

(Face claim: Reece King)

Santiago “Santi” Velez

(Face claim: Diego Boneta)

That’s p much all you need to know in terms of context!

--

Gaël swirled the last of his cider around the bottom of his plastic cup and sighed. As far as parties went, this one was rather small. Most of the attendees were playing Jenga Truth or Dare in the kitchen and the rest had broken off into small groups and were talking on their own.

With another sigh, Gaël tossed back the last of his cider. He glanced longingly into the kitchen, wondering if Santi would be upset if he slipped out.

"Hey."

Gaël jumped at a sudden voice behind him. He turned and came face to face with one of the GSA regulars. "Hey, Keith."

"I'll get to the point." Keith's strawberry blond hair was styled into spikes that quivered slightly as he talked. "This party blows and you look miserable. Do you wanna," he gestured at the hallway and made a suggestive hand motion. "I have condoms."

Gaël glanced back at the kitchen. Santi was pounding the table and chanting with the rest of the group while one of them clumsily attempted to shotgun a beer. "Yeah."

"Thank God, this night isn't gonna be a total waste of time." Keith took Gaël by the hand and led him farther into the house.

When they emerged, Keith said goodbye and left for the night, leaving Gaël to gloomily resume his spot on the couch. The game in the kitchen had gotten quieter. Santi was talking to the host, gesturing wildly with a half-empty beer bottle.

His eyes lit up when he noticed Gaël on the couch.

"Hey!" he called, a little too loudly than was appropriate for the close quarters. "You ready to go?"

"Yeah." Gaël stood up and pulled his coat back on. "Are you?"

"Yeah, we're winding down here." Santi turned back to the party host, someone with whom Gaël was unfamiliar. "Hit me up tomorrow, I'll totally help you clean up."

"Thanks, bro. Appreciate it "

"You bet." Santi saluted with his bottle, finished the contents, and deposited it in a cardboard box labeled 'recycling.' "Alright, later. Seriously, text me."

"Night," Gaël said stiffly. He took Santi by the arm and led him toward the door.

They walked along side by side, Santi chattering aimlessly about the party and what they were going to do with themselves now that it was winter break.

Finally, he seemed to notice that Gaël didn't want to talk and fell silent. 

The clock on the microwave, only just visible from the front door, read 2:58.

"Shit," Gaël groaned. "Tomorrow is gonna suck."

Santi shut the door behind them and locked it with a clumsy hand. "Least you don't have anywhere to be. Unless you wanna come with me to help clean up tomorrow?"

"You're really doing that?" Gaël kicked off his shoes and lined them up by the door. "You're crazy."

Santi waved a hand. "Nah. I mean. I'd appreciate the help if I were in their shoes."

"Fair enough. I'm going to bed."

"Think I'm gonna wait 'til the room stops spinning." Santi sat heavily on the couch. "G'night."

"Night."

Gaël woke to the sound of the front door opening, meaning Santi was either just leaving or just getting back. That, or they were being robbed by the world's most polite burglar.

Yawning, Gaël rolled out of bed and shuffled into the living room. Thankfully, he hadn't drunk enough to earn himself a hangover.

"Hey," Santi greeted him from the couch.

"Hey." Gaël paused on the way to the kitchen. "How did cleanup go?"

"Uhh. I cleaned. I came back. I think I died somewhere on the way home."

"You take any painkillers?"

"Yeah. Like 2 hours ago."

Gaël sighed fondly and rolled his eyes. "I'll get you some painkillers and water."

"Coffee?" Santi pleaded.

"I haven't made any yet." Gaël went to the kitchen to rectify this before bringing Santi a glass of water and some aspirin.

"Thaaaanks." Santi hauled himself into an upright position and took the pills.

Gaël took a seat in one of the armchairs across from the couch and assessed Santi. He looked as bad as Gaël guessed he felt. He was still wearing last night's clothes and his tanned skin was sallow in the late morning sun. His hair was down, which was unusual, and from the way he was squinting, he hadn't bothered putting his contacts in.

They sat quietly for a while, listening to the coffee maker percolating.

"Did you ever end up getting a job or anything?" Santi asked suddenly.

"Oh. No." Gaël shrugged. "I made enough from tutoring that I felt okay not subjecting myself to some heinous seasonal retail job."

"Hell yeah, dude. Enjoy that time off."

"What about you?"

"You know me. Got my busking permit all signed and up to date. One of the choir guys got a hand pan and wants to team up."

"Sexy. Is he going with you to play at the old folks' home?"

"Nah, that's all me. Well, and the rest of the choir but you know." Santi waved his hands aimlessly. "I'm the master musician." He swept his hair back like he was going to tie it up, then noticed he didn't have a hair tie on his wrist. He let his hands drop. His hair fanned back out in unruly waves. "You wanna come?"

"I don't sing," Gaël answered. They had this conversation every year. 

"Come on, everyone can sing."

"I can open my mouth and make noises." Gaël couldn't help but blush. Whether he was good at singing was beside the point. He was no good in front of crowds and Santi well knew it. "I'll stay here and hold the fort."

"Alright, alright." Santi leaned back and closed his eyes.

--

Despite the lack of school or work, Gaël actually saw very little of Santi in the following days.

Between busking, practicing for the Christmas concert, and attending house parties, Santi was absent for most of the weekend.

Not that Gaël was sitting around at home waiting for him. Most of his friends had gone home for the holidays, but several members of the GSA had not. Gaël spent much of the weekend with Keith and a few other GSA regulars at various coffee shops and bars in the area.

It wasn't until Monday afternoon that Gaël and Santi had the opportunity for another real conversation.

Gaël came in from a late lunch and found Santi halfway to horizontal on the couch, awkwardly balancing a glass of red wine on his chest.

"I'm not buying us a new couch if you spill that," Gaël said. He locked the front door behind him and came inside properly. There was already an empty glass waiting for him on the coffee table.

"I won't spill," Santi insisted. He sat up a little straighter. Wine sloshed perilously in his glass, a few drops escaping over the side and running onto his hand. "That didn't count."

"You look tired." Gaël sat in the space previously occupied by Santi's legs.

Santi heaved himself properly upright and poured out a glass of wine for Gaël.

"I've never had a Winter Break this hectic before, and that includes the time I was in high school and my parents tried to drag me to Hawaii at the last minute and the airline lost our luggage and my mother threatened to sue them for emotional damages because her favorite Chanel dress was in her suitcase," Santi said all in one breath. He downed half his glass and ran a hand down his face. His hair was down again, which was unusual. In the low light it almost framed his head like a halo. "So it turns out Avi, the guy with the hand pan, has stage fright or something so he wanted to practice until everything was perfect and he kept freaking out every time I tried to improvise. Then we finally get out to our spot and he doesn't want to leave even though I have an agreement with the knife-juggling guy." He paused. "Choir's going fine, though. Except they keep inviting me out to Denny's after every practice and it feels weird saying no. Gaël, I am so sick of pancakes."

"I wondered what all the to-go boxes in the fridge were about." Gaël took a sip from his glass. "Where did this come from, by the way?"

"Oh." Santi sighed. "The choir did a Secret Santa thing which I didn't know about because I'm not technically in the choir and this was the 'backup gift'."

"Not a bad gift," Gaël said with a shrug.

"I agree, especially considering some of the other gifts that were given out."

"Let me guess, candles and hand lotion?"

"You nailed it." Santi drained his glass and leaned over like he was going to refill it before evidently changing his mind and setting the empty glass on the coffee table. "Luckily I have tomorrow off. The concert is on Christmas Eve and then I have the rest of the break to myself. More or less."

"Is there anything you want to do?" Gaël asked. "We could go out for lunch or something. To a real restaurant."

"No pancakes?"

"No pancakes."

"Excellent."

They slipped into silence.

Gaël sighed through his nose. Although he told himself he was over his juvenile crush on Santi, sometimes it came creeping back into his thoughts. This was one of those times. Gaël wanted to run his fingers through Santi's dark blond hair and feel him relax, wanted to run his hands down Santi's neck, his chest--

Blushing furiously, Gaël cut off that train of thought before it could travel any farther south. He just wanted to make Santi feel better, that was all. Because they were friends.

"What is a hand pan?" Gaël asked, mostly to distract himself.

"Oh, it's like…" Santi made a vague hand gesture over his lap. "Like a faceted dome made of metal, and when you hit certain parts of it in a certain way, it makes noise. Kinda like a steel drum."

"Oh. Is Avi any good?"

"He's not bad," Santi said. "Better than I would be anyway. Hang on, let me see if I can find his Instagram."

They spent the rest of the day lounging in the living room, alternating between silence and light conversation. The bottle of wine remained on the coffee table, untouched since Gaël's arrival.

The sun sank below the horizon.

Gaël stretched and shifted positions. "No parties tonight?" he asked, looking sideways at Santi.

"Why, d'you wanna go to one? I think some of the Drama kids are having some sort of get together."

"No." Gaël stuck out his tongue. "I was just wondering."

"You sure? I know some of them. I could introduce you. Or we could have some of your friends over." Santi seemed poised to go on, but instead was overtaken by a yawn. He shook his head.

"Yeah, you look ready to party." Gaël raised an eyebrow. "Maybe you should get to bed."

"Hm, yeah," Santi agreed. He didn't move. "Later."

"Alright, but don't expect me to make you coffee tomorrow."

"Of course." Santi smiled brightly.

Gaël refused to meet his eyes.

--

Ever the early riser, Gaël woke up the next day shortly after the sunrise. Unlike Santi, whose morning routine seemed to involve a lot of squinting and spilling water all over the kitchen in the process of making coffee or tea, Gaël's first act of the day was always to brush his teeth.

Half-awake, he staggered to the bathroom, brushed his teeth, and lazily dragged some product through his dark brown curls. He took his time getting ready, knowing that Santi often preferred to sleep in.

To Gaël's surprise, Santi was waiting for him on the couch. He had wrapped himself up in his duvet and sheet and bundled up against one of the armrests. He appeared to be sleeping, but his hazel eyes cracked open upon hearing Gaël approach. 

"Morning," Gaël said with a little wave. He poked his head into the kitchen to double check the time. "You're up early. Or did you stay up all night?"

"I was having trouble sleeping so I came out here."

"Did it help?"

"Not really." Santi sniffled and ducked his head under the duvet. After a moment, he sneezed sharply and then emerged. "If you want, you can have my leftover pancakes for breakfast."

"Thanks." Gaël went back into the kitchen to retrieve the to go box. While he was microwaving it, he heard Santi sneeze a few more times. "Bless you," he called over the hum of the microwave.

"Thanks," Santi called back.

He sounded a bit congested, Gaël thought. A familiar wave of anxiety began to rise in his chest. He abandoned his post at the microwave and stuck his head through the doorway into the living room. "Are you okay?"

"I think so." Sanri frowned, confused. "Do I seem not okay?"

Gaël made a face and gestured at the scene before him. Santi was wrapped head to toe in his bedding. Only his face was visible from beneath the pile of blankets. "You seem like you're trying to become one with your duvet."

The microwave beeped. Santi sneezed into his sleeve.

Gaël frowned, but went to go get his pancakes. When he got back to the living room, Santi was attempting to extricate himself from the tangle of sheets and blankets. 

"Is the milk still good?" he asked Gaël when he was finally free.

Gaël shrugged. "Go check."

"Just figured I'd ask."

Santi was shivering when he came back into the living room, a bowl of cereal in hand.

Gaël couldn't help but notice. Winters in San Diego weren't exactly harsh, and Gaël was comfortable enough in his boxers and T-shirt. Yet Santi was shivering noticeably.

"Hey," Gaël said. "I think you're sick."

Santi paused in the act of arranging his duvet around himself. "So it's not weirdly cold in here?"

Gaël rolled his eyes. "Go take your temperature."

"But my cereal will get all soggy," Santi whined.

"Alright, whatever. I'm not your mom."

"Thank god for that."

Santi finished eating before Gaël and wandered off. He came back wearing an undersized Grateful Dead hoodie that kept trying to ride up.

"I'm doing it," he said.

"Huh?" Gaël was staring at the little bit of skin that was showing just above the waistband of Santi's sweatpants. He shook his head and looked up. Santi was brandishing a thermometer. "Oh. Good. I mean--" he stuttered. Santi sat down and stuck the thermometer under his tongue. "I hope you're not sick."

"Mm'" Santi hummed in agreement.

They waited a few seconds and the thermometer beeped. Santi made a face. "101.1."

"Huh." Gaël leaned forward. For the most part, Santi looked fine. He was a little pale and he did look tired, but not unusually so. "And you feel okay?"

Santi shrugged. "Yeah, aside from the fact that I'm freezing."

"Huh. Well." Gaël frowned. "I guess let's keep an eye on you."

For a moment, it was quiet.  Then Santi shifted under the pile of blankets.

"I need to brush my teeth."

"Go brush your teeth," Gaël said, not looking up from his phone.

"Yeah." Santi got up and left.

The day was, by and large, anticlimactic. Gaël spent most of it on his phone, switching between the couch, an armchair, and his bed whenever he felt the need to move. It went without saying that their lunch plans were cancelled, and Santi went back to bed around noon, leaving Gaël to his own devices.

It would have been a lovely day for a hike, he thought as he looked wistfully out the window, but it wouldn't feel right leaving Santi behind.

So Gaël resigned himself to a boring, lonely day. He did receive a few texts from his friends, but everyone was mostly too busy to have a proper conversation.

At around 6:00, Santi emerged from his bedroom looking noticeably worse, downed a handful of painkillers, and retreated back into the darkness of his room.

"You okay?" Gaël asked as he passed.

"Sleepy," Santi answered, and shut his door.

--

They both woke early the next morning. 

"Feeling any better?" Gaël asked upon emerging from the bathroom to see Santi sprawled out on the couch.

Santi said something akin to "not really." The words came out muffled with half his face pressed into the faux suede couch cushion.

Deciding to forgo breakfast for the moment, Gaël came out to the living room to take a better look at his roommate. "Oh. Shit."

Santi was a mess. His dark blond hair was hopelessly tangled around the dangling cross earring he had evidently neglected to take out, and matted to his sweaty forehead. His cheeks were an angry, feverish red and his eyes were blank, not seeming to focus on Gaël or anything at all.

He didn't say anything, just lay there motionless but for the frantic rise and fall of his chest, and let himself be examined.

"Shit," Gaël repeated. Then, "um."

The thermometer was still on the coffee table where Santi had left it last night.

"Can you sit up for me?"

Santi hummed a dissent. "Dizzy."

"Just… Roll over onto your side, then. I need to take your temperature."

"'Kay." Santi rolled over and allowed Gaël to slip the thermometer under his tongue.

For a few tense seconds, Gaël waited and tried desperately not to freak out. They both got sick all the time. This was nothing. Everything was fine.

Then the thermometer beeped and the panic roared again, loud in Gaël's ears. "104.2. How long--"

"I don't know." Santi closed his eyes and scrubbed at his face. "I woke up feeling really bad."

"What time?"

"Night?"

"And you said you were dizzy?"

"Yeah."

"Okay." Gaël bit his lip, thinking. "I think you should go to urgent care."

"Mm." Santi didn't open his eyes or attempt to move. "I don't know if I can--" He shuddered and pulled his knees up to his chest with a quiet moan. "I feel really bad."

"Just try to sit up. I need to grab some things and I'll help get you to the car."

"My wallet's, um… In my backpack. I'm still on my parents' insurance."

This made Gaël pause. "Really?" Then he shook himself. "Sorry, not the time. Just try to sit up."

He darted off. Keeping his wits about him was a constant battle. His body wanted so badly to panic. It was all he could do to not hyperventilate as he packed a few essentials into his school bag and started the car.

Santi was sitting up with his head in his hands and his knees braced against his elbows.

"Hey," Gaël said, kneeling beside him. "I'm gonna help you stand, okay?"

"I'm tired," Santi said, sounding almost on the verge of tears.

"I know. You can rest in the car, okay? Put your arm around me."

Santi's body was frightfully hot. It was hard to walk with him leaning so heavily on Gaël's shoulder, but they managed.

After a short drive, they had to repeat the maneuver to get into the urgent care.

"'I'll check you in," Gaël said. "Are you okay to go sit?"

"No," Santi said, clinging on harder. He leaned heavily to the side and Gaël staggered to try and keep them both upright.

One of the receptionists seemed to take notice of their plight. "I'm sending someone out to help, okay?"

Gaël said nothing. He couldn't. All he could do was try to breathe and to lower Santi to the floor as gently as possible.

Breath, he reminded himself. Breathe. Breathe. Breathe. It wouldn't do any good if he passed out too.

So he knelt on the carpeted floor of the urgent care, sinking into a strange feeling of numbness. Santi was attended to by a doctor and a team of medical assistants and Gaël had to answer questions for them but the answers seemed far away in his mind.

His hands fumbled over Santi's wallet, words clumsy and faltering on his lips until every other sentence was "I don't know, I don't know, I don't know."

The carpeting was blue-gray, patterned with rosettes. Gaël watched his cream-colored skate shoes obscure it until it disappeared, replaced by pale orange linoleum.

One of the medical assistants was talking to him. Gaël looked around at the walls of the exam room. The words bounced around in his head without really sinking in.

His body seemed to catch on before his brain did, his shoulders beginning to shake with sobs. He was crying without really feeling it. Tears made dark stains on his pants. Gaël stared blankly down at the orange linoleum and let them fall.

--

"Gaël, I'm going to be fine," Santi said for what must have been the 50th time.

He didn't look fine. It was impossible to look fine laid up in a hospital bed. Gaël would have said so, but he was too busy crying. He hadn't really stopped since he'd started sobbing in the exam room and his head was starting to ache.

"Come on, Gaël, look at me. It's just the flu."

There was a whole list of things Gaël wanted to say to that, but all he could manage was "But I— And you…"

"You need to calm down or you're going to get admitted too," Santi joked. "Can I tell you a secret?"

This caught Gaël off guard. He looked up and wiped his eyes. "Y-yes."

"I'm not actually sick," Santi said in a stage whisper. "I just faked it to get out of the concert."

"Oh, shit," Gaël said as Santi's eyes widened.

"Oh, shit!" Santi echoed, flailing around aimlessly in the hospital bed. "My phone, I need— Ah, shit, shit, shit. What time is it?"

Gaël dived for his backpack, digging around for Santi's phone. He found it and tossed it over to Santi, who unlocked it and began typing furiously.

"Did you miss it?" Gaël asked, watching Santi's awkward attempt at typing without bending his left arm and messing up his IV.

"No, it starts in 2 hours." Santi sank back against the pillows and closed his eyes. "Ugh." The brief moment of panic had robbed him of breath. He was silent for a moment while he breathed. "Gaël," he said, opening his eyes. "I need you to bust me out of here. Steal a wheelchair while I distract the nurses, and we'll go from there."

"Wh--" Gaël squinted, his eyes darting over the medical equipment in the room. "You— No!"

"I'm kidding," Santi said, but his smile faded too quickly. "I just…" He sighed and ran a hand down his face. "I've been looking forward to this, you know? It's kinda the only thing I get to do for Christmas now that my family's all--" He waved his hand dismissively. He sniffled and scrubbed at his eyes even though there were no tears to wipe away. "Sorry, I know it's stupid to freak out like this."

"You just saw me have a panic attack for like three hours and you want to call that a freakout?" Gaël laughed. He wanted to put a hand on Santi's shoulder to hug him, to brush his hair, anything to make him feel even slightly better. As it was, self-deprecation was all he could muster. "I think you're entitled to cry a little bit considering where you are."

"Yeah." Santi gave a heavy sigh. "Merry Christmas, by the way. Your present is in my sock drawer. You can't miss it. It's the only thing in there that isn't socks."

"We can open presents tomorrow. Did they say when they were releasing you?"

"Yeah, hopefully tomorrow. Christmas Day." Santi wiggled his fingers. "They just want to keep me overnight to make sure I don't keel over again. Apparently I'm 'severely dehydrated' and 'drink too much alcohol'."

Gaël scoffed. "They know you're in college, right?"

"That's what I said. Well. Would have said if I could've felt my face at the time."

They fell into silence for a moment.

"I didn't know you liked Christmas so much," Gaël said. "You're always so enthusiastic about everything it's hard to tell sometimes."

Santi raised an eyebrow but didn't comment on the character analysis. "Yeah, I've always liked it. I'm not going to go into a Hallmark movie spiel or anything, but it's just nice. Although out of everything, I think the lights are my favorite." He sighed wistfully. "Quiet Harbor, the old folks' home we always perform for, always has the prettiest decorations in the lobby. Speaking of." He picked his phone up off the sheets. "The group chat is blowing up."

"They're not going to cancel, are they?" Gaël asked anxiously, knowing it would upset Santi.

"No, no. I'm not that important. They're just gonna do it without me."

"Ah."

"Can you do me a huge favor, by the way?"

"Of course."

"Can you swing by home and grab my phone charger? And toothbrush? Mm, and regular brush?" Santi attempted to run a hand through his hair and was instantly stopped by tangled up knots.

"Oh, yeah." Gaël blushed. "I'm sorry, I should have thought of that sooner. I'll go right now."

"Thanks," Santi said. He pulled the covers further up around his shoulders. "I'm going to sleep. Possibly for several thousand years."

Gaël drove home in contemplative silence. He gathered up Santi's things and put them all in his trusty backpack, but did not immediately head back to the hospital.

Instead, he drove.

Surely there were stores open on Christmas Eve. Not everything could be closed.

Sure enough, a dollar store was open. Gaël rushed in and surveyed their selection of holiday decor with a discerning eye. He grabbed a few things, even finding a few cheap strings of battery-operated lights.

Once he'd paid, he hopped back into the car and rearranged his backpack, sticking his new purchases at the bottom and Santi's belongings at the top. The backpack' zipper just barely managed to close, straining the seams. Gaël set it in the passenger seat and, after a moment's thought, strapped it in.

Then he headed back to the hospital.

--

Gaël's plan was not going quite as smoothly as he'd hoped. After an uneventful evening, he'd made the decision to stay the night in Santi's room.

It wasn't, as he'd feared, against hospital policy and Santi didn't protest beyond a few token attempts to get Gaël to leave and spend Christmas Eve with his other friends.

However, Santi was not as heavy a sleeper as Gaël had been hoping and he woke up almost every time a nurse came in to record his vitals.

After one such visit from a nurse, when the sky was just beginning to lighten, Gaël sat up. Tooth by tooth, he unzipped his backpack and set about decorating Santi's hospital room as lavishly as he could without obstructing anything too important.

This might've been against hospital policy, but it wouldn't have to be up for very long.

Since much of the room was taken up by the IV pole, hospital bed, and guest seating, Gaël tried to focus on the windowsill and tables. He set up the lights in careful loops and hung up paper ornaments everywhere he could think of.

When he was done, the room wasn't exactly covered in Christmas decorations, but it was certainly cheerier than before.

Satisfied that Santi was still fast asleep, Gaël set off to get himself a coffee.

"That's lovely," said the nurse, coming in. Her name was Permata. Gaël had met her earlier when she had come in to check Santi's vital signs.

"What's lovely?" Santi asked blearily.

"You'll see."

Santi must have been too tired to argue, because he didn't press the point any further.

From his position by the window, all Gaël could see was Permata's back. She finished what she was doing and left again.

"You awake?" Gaël asked.

"I guess so." Santi yawned. "What did she mean when— Oh." He looked around at all the Christmas decorations: the paper ornaments hung from the edge of the table, the streamers hanging from the message board on the wall, the lights on the windowsill. "Gaël, did you…?"

"You seemed really upset yesterday, and I wanted…" Gaël hesitated. "I didn't want you to be sad on Christmas."

"Gaël." Santi's eyes were wet with unshed tears. "Thank you." He held out his arm for a hug. "Seriously, thank you."

"Of course." Gaël leaned over the bed and embraced Santi. It was an awkward and slightly painful position, with his knees jammed into the plastic safety rail and his body twisted to an odd degree. But it didn't matter. Santi was safe.

That was all that was important. 

[ichigo-daifuku]

Sunkissed

SLBP Fanfiction [Read on AO3]

Honda Tadakatsu/MC

The story of The Warrior Who Surpassed Death Itself meeting his match.

Mature | Implied Sexual Content; Mild S&M (Very Lowkey)

Word Count: ~7.7k

Part 2 of 春夏秋冬 | Shunkashūtō

木漏れ日 | Komorebi

The sunlight filtering through the leaves of the trees.

The melody of the cuckoo’s song marked the beginning of the new season.

Light hues of spring blossoms faded into earthy shades of green all over the country. Day by day, the temperature rose higher, and together with it was the air that carried the season’s humidity. The very same afternoon breeze caressed her face as she emerged from the castle, finished with her duties. She tied her hair in a ribbon, which offered her a small reprieve after being cooped up indoors since morning. At the sigh of relief she let out, a frown soon followed, the hot breath she released tickling the tip of her nose.

During that time of the day, the garden was the best place to rest. It was an open area surrounded by various trees and flowers. However, unlike most days when she would have a peaceful time in the garden by herself, she instead arrived to see samurai gathered all over the space. She paused to stand by a tree in the sidelines, a spectator to whatever activity was about to take place.

Oda Nobunaga, the Lord of the Clan, stood in front of them all, proud and tall. He unfurled his extravagant fan with an elegant flick of his wrist and in seconds, the chatter of men shifted into pindrop silence. He fanned his face, almost in a lazy fashion, while his eyes scanned over the place. “Today, we will have a martial arts tournament,” he declared.

Thrilled murmurs returned as quick as they were silenced a moment before the announcement. Most retainers hurried to grab their wooden practice swords, while some began to place bets on who would emerge as the ultimate victor.

In the distance, a burst of excitement caught her attention. “Oooooohhh! A martial arts tournament?! I’m so ready for this!” a burly man gushed to an elderly retainer.

The elderly retainer did not share the other’s joyous attitude and instead regarded him seriously, “Tadakatsu. You may participate, but please do so with respect to Lord Oda and his retainers.”

“Ah… yes… right. Understood.” He grimaced.

Beside the two, another samurai in golden robes stood, foot tapping on the ground in an impatient rhythm. His petulant complaints found themselves passing through her one ear to the other as her attention was solely focused on the burly man, Tadakatsu. It was not the first time she saw him. She encountered him a couple of times in the last few days while she served tea and snacks during war councils. He sat there, stock-still with a neutral expression on his face while the clan’s retainers proposed the best strategy for the next military campaign. One time, she poured green tea in his cup and felt his gaze on her person. Unable to fight the curiosity that had sparked inside of her, she rose her head and looked at him straight in the eye.

A familiar voice pulled her out of her reverie, “Look at you, undressing him with your eyes.”

“Hello to you, too, Umeko. No, I was not.”

“Whatever you say.”

“What brings you here?” she asked in feigned disinterest, inspecting her nails.

Umeko held up a tray, “I was just serving refreshments.” She went on to balance it with one hand while she used the other to pour a cool drink in the last cup left. “Here.”

She shook her head. “No, thank you. I’m not thirsty.”

“Oh, really? Then, this isn’t for you.” Umeko leaned closer and covered the side of her mouth with one hand to whisper conspiratorially, “For him. That’s Lord Tadakatsu, by the way. From the Tokugawa Clan.”

“I know that – I mean, I wasn’t asking!” Her eyes widened on the little slip of her tongue. Umeko would never let her get away with that and she knew it.

“So you say.” Umeko giggled. “Best of luck!” She gave her one last playful smile and turned to leave.

“Ugh…” She walked closer to the nearby tree and dusted its trunk and roots before sitting down. She balanced the cup of water on top of her knees and cradled it with her palms. During her exchange with Umeko, the tournament had begun without her awareness. Her index finger tapped on the glass as she took in the show of strength in the usually tranquil garden.

Nobunaga sat on the veranda as he would on a dais while Mitsuhide supervised the matches of the tournament. After a few bouts, Mitsunari expressed refusal to fight the specific person he was pitted against, Hideyoshi. The latter simply laughed, brushed it off, and said that the former should do it as his faithful retainer. A little later, it was a match between Hideyoshi and Inuchiyo, which was both physical and verbal as usual. It entertained not only the two of them but also the audience, who laughed and cheered at the same time while the sparring continued.

As the tournament progressed, she didn’t see him from where she sat. In the end, she found herself sipping the water Umeko had poured for her – or him, rather – little by little. She reminded herself to thank her friend later, once they see each other during dinner. With her cup empty, she stood and went to the kitchen to return it, having no desire to hold on to it until the end of the tournament. After doing so, she fetched water from the well, enough to wash her face with, which she did in order to cool down from the afternoon heat.

The atmosphere crackled with tension and excitement the moment she returned to the garden.

The men had sat down and formed a wide circle where Mitsuhide stood in the middle and spoke loudly, “The final match will be between Honda Tadakatsu and Maeda Toshiie.”

“Don’t embarrass me,” the man in golden robes said.

Tadakatsu laughed. “I won’t, Lord Ieyasu!”

“I’m betting against Puppy!” Hideyoshi teased.

Inuchiyo looked back at him and growled, “Why you!”

“Fighters to your positions!” Mitsuhide announced, his voice uncharacteristically fierce as it boomed over the area.

Tadakatsu and Inuchiyo went to stand on either side of Mitsuhide and faced each other with serious expressions. They bowed and shifted their bodies into attacking positions with their wooden swords. Upon closer observation, it was evident that Tadakatsu’s physique was even larger than that of Inuchiyo, albeit only by a considerable fraction. Whether or not that would be an advantage or disadvantage was yet to be seen, the amount of the bets rising higher than ever.

“Begin!” Mitsuhide signaled for the match to commence and went back to stand in the sidelines.

Inuchiyo attacked first. She had witnessed him fight countless of times since their childhood and until now, it was always that very same hunger to best his opponent that made his every move wild. A berserker, as those he had faced in battle would call him. Still, she merely watched under the same tree, neither cheering nor saying anything, simply an onlooker from afar to the highlight of today’s tournament.

Tadakatsu was quick to block Inuchiyo’s next attack. It was such a strong clash of swords one after another that Hideyoshi pointed out that two of them would break the wood into pieces with their strength and wins from previous matches. Soon enough, both Tadakatsu and Inuchiyo panted from the physical exertion. There was nothing like a good fight. Their skills were in a similar spectrum which made the battle both tough and exhilarating.

“That’s my boy!” Old Man Katsuie cheered as Inuchiyo landed a blow on his opponent’s shoulder. Tadakatsu backed away and Inuchiyo watched him, sword ready as he anticipated his next move. Tadakatsu’s eyes remained fixated to the ground, his breathing erratic as he clutched his shoulder and gave it a squeeze.

Then, he smiled.

She watched, entranced, as Tadakatsu moved with the fluid grace of a seasoned fighter. If what he did earlier was called fighting, then she didn’t quite have the name for what he was doing now. The blow he took had fueled Tadakatsu’s will in combat as he charged towards Inuchiyo’s direction with a fierce battle cry. He was relentless, shouting louder with every swing his sword and grunting heavily with every blow he parried. His every move was the epitome of sparring with vitality. It was something worthy of a legend.

She wondered, was it just her or were the surroundings becoming warmer? She glanced at Nobunaga and wished she had one of those fans like the one he had. The rest of the audience didn’t dare blink, not wanting to miss the fight of a lifetime happening right in front of them. She began to see the why tournaments like this one were exciting not just for the participants but also for the crowd.

The two fighters charged towards each other with their practice swords in the air, aiming for the win. The stakes were high. Everybody was silent, holding their breath in anticipation with the knowledge that this would be the final blow. The wooden sword flew to the ground at the force of the superior fighter. At last, Mitsuhide announced, “Point and match! The final bout goes to Honda Tadakatsu!”

The shouts of Tadakatsu’s victory rung throughout Kiyosu. Immediately, Tadakatsu strode towards the direction of his liege lord. “Lord Ieyasu! Lord Ieyasuuu! I, Tadakatsu, have brought victory to the Tokugawa Clan, in your name!”

“Hmph, whatever.” Ieyasu brushed off his retainer and returned inside the castle with a few men in tow. Most of those who participated in the tournament went and congratulated Tadakatsu, while the others led by Old Man Katsuie patted Inuchiyo’s back and praised his stellar performance for finishing second.

The crowd slowly thinned. “You,” Nobunaga beckoned Tadakatsu with a gesture. “Your skill as a warrior is promising, indeed. You are to be rewarded for your victory today… Right there.”

“What?” she couldn’t help but whisper, uncertain if she saw it correctly – Nobunaga pointing towards the direction where she sat – towards her.

“I see. Thank you so much, Lord Nobunaga. I shall make sure to share with the rest of the Tokugawa Clan,” Tadakatsu replied.

Her eyes widened at the implication. She looked around her if there were any gold or pearls that could be classified as reward. There were none. “No, it couldn’t possibly be…?” she asked herself.

But before she could come up with any sort of conclusion, Nobunaga simply told Tadakatsu “See to it,” and left.

Tadakatsu took a deep breath and sighed. He placed the cracked and beaten up wooden sword on the floor of the veranda. He stretched his arms and yawned, exhausted from the tournament, and walked towards the specific tree he was pointed to. He started to strip the upper part of his kimono from his body, the fabric damp with sweat and grime, his mind already wandering to the baths.

“Hey! What are you doing? Pervert!”

Tadakatsu froze at the sound of her voice. She emerged from the thicket of leaves that hung lowly from the lithe branches and faced him with crossed arms. Instead of answering, he stared at her, his lips slightly agape and cheeks reddened with a blush.

She snapped her fingers right in front of his face. “I thought you were going to claim your reward?”

His surprised face turned a darker shade of crimson, if that was even possible. “A-Ah…! Y-Yes!”

“What? Well? Where is it?” she prodded, prepared to defend herself should he say the word ‘you’ .

He tilted his head upwards and pointed to the branches of the tree. Her eyes followed suit in both curiosity and confusion. There, hanging high up in abundance, were peaches that the tree bore for the season. He put his hand down and seemed to get a hold of himself before he turned towards her with a sunny smile, “Want me to get you some?”

“Erm… sure?” Whether he knew of her assumption or not, she found impossible to tell. She could do nothing to suppress the mild embarrassment she felt at the realization. In spite of that, it wasn’t the end of the world. She would get over it soon enough, maybe.

“I’m Tadakatsu, by the way,” he offered, still standing in front of her.

“Nice to meet you.”

“Aren’t you going to give me your name?”

“No.”

Tadakatsu took a deep breath and released it in a chuckle. He began to circle the tree, choosing which of the fruits were ripe enough to pick. “Lord Oda’s men really take these kinds of things seriously, don’t they?! I can’t wait to face Lord Ishida and Lord Maeda again… They were both so strong!”

She stood awkwardly, shifting from one foot to another, unsure of why was trying to make any form of conversation. “Oh, yeah. You did Inuchiyo good.”

“Inuchiyo?” He turned his head to her in question.

“Oh... Toshiie.”

“So that’s why they kept calling him Puppy!”

He passed by her side and easily towered over her form. Up close to him once more, she observed that his face was surprisingly kind. It was a stark contrast to the brave warrior who fought the men of Oda a while ago and won. He was not an ordinary person. No doubt, he would be known for his tremendous skill as a samurai, if not already.

“I know what you’re thinking,” Tadakatsu spoke out of the blue, his fingers around one of the peaches as he inspected it.

“What am I thinking?”

“How shameful it is for me not to have critical battle scars on my body! I seem to always escape the battlefield without an honorable mark to tell my tale.” He began to pick the peaches from the tree one by one, tall enough to reach higher ones easily. “It’s true. I’m a disgrace of a warrior!”

“What is he saying?” she asked herself. It was the last thing she expected to hear from someone who just stood above all contenders in a martial arts tournament. “No, I don’t think that way at all,” she blurted out, “I was here during the tournament and I saw the way you fought. I think you don’t have critical battle scars on your body because no one has bested you, not because you are incompetent as a samurai.”

He didn’t answer. Instead, he turned to her with a handful of peaches, eyes wide and full of an emotion she could not name.

“You’re a weirdo.”

Tadakatsu smiled. “A-Ah… Yes, of course I am! Thank you!”

“What?” She meant to say that he was a weirdo for thinking he was a disgrace and all that. She didn’t know if her message got across her recipient, but he seemed to be pleased. Very much so.

“Since I am a weirdo, it wouldn’t be farfetched for me to ask you for your name again, wouldn’t it?” He thrust his hand out towards her direction, a beautiful, ripe peach in his palm.

With how strange this man was, she couldn’t help but give him a sharp glare. To the least of all her expectations, her response only spurred the blush on his cheeks to grow redder and the light in his eyes to grow brighter. In that moment, the sun spread throughout the place its mighty light and brought a haze as the rays that flitted through the leaves illuminated his form. For all his strange antics, he looked like a divine creature. Yes, definitely far from a disgrace.

Her hand laid on top of his as she accepted his offering. She couldn’t help but laugh.

Their paths only crossed again a few days after their serendipitous meeting by the peach tree. It occurred one morning while she walked along the pathway in the castle grounds, basket in hand, and Tadakatsu happened to pass by the area.

“Good morning,” Tadakatsu greeted, followed by her name. He was pleased to see her so early in the morning and it showed. “What are you doing around today?”

There was a small hint of awkwardness in the air, but there was also a sense of comfort and friendship that grew from their previous encounter. She held up an empty woven basket. “I’m going to pick some mandarin oranges.”

“What for?”

���For a dessert Lord Nobunaga requested.”

“I see…”

“Do you want to join me?”

“You don’t mind?”

“If you don’t mind, too. I can pick some oranges for you. You know, as thanks for the peaches the other day.”

“Then, sure!” Tadakatsu smiled with his eyes. She wondered how he was always bursting with energy, even at that early time of the day. Immediately, he offered her a hand, “Here, let me hold the basket for you.”

The intoxicating perfume of the mandarin trees permeated their senses once they arrived at the area of their plantation. She took the basket from Tadakatsu and set in on the ground, shifting into a crouching positing and dusting her palms to begin the harvest. To her surprise, Tadakatsu bent down beside her and picked some of the small, sweet fruits himself, speeding up the process. Soon, the basket was full and she gave him his share.

“Thank you! I’ll share them with the guys later,” he said, his expression still bright as ever. The tiny oranges filled his large palms. “Thanks again for today!”

She watched his retreating figure, dazed. Her walk to the kitchens was slow and consisted of a recount of the events that happened a few minutes ago; his smile etched in her mind for some reason.

After their early morning encounter, she felt as if she was seeing Tadakatsu more often. The next week was filled with his presence at the most random of moments, carrying her purchases from the greengrocer the moment she passed from the gates, chatting with her as she hung the day’s laundry, watching the koi fish swirl around the pond as she gave them their food. Not that she minded his company, she found that she didn’t, peculiar as he may be. All the same, the whole situation was a bit odd considering that prior to the martial arts tournament, their only interaction had been a meeting of their gazes.

One afternoon, she walked along the veranda and happened to overheard a snippet of a conversation nearby.

The first voice was that of a young man she has never heard of before, “You don’t want to come on too strong…”

“I know, but…” The person who replied was someone she recognized, someone she had grown familiar with in the short time they spent together. She turned to the corner and sure enough, Tadakatsu was there with his friend, Toramatsu. They stood on the grass, seemingly on a break from swordsmanship practice. Their heads turned her way as she appeared and she felt a bit guilty for her accidental eavesdropping, although their conversation didn’t make much sense to her.

Tadakatsu was quick to greet her as he always did, “Hello! What are you doing around today?”

“Good afternoon to you both. I am going to town, that’s all,” she told them.

“Mind if I come with you?”

“You don’t have anything to do?”

“No. Nothing. Right, Toramatsu?”

“...Right.”

She tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear, feeling a bit self-conscious. “Oh, okay then.”

“Later, Toramatsu!” Tadakatsu patted him on the back.

Toramatsu gave a slight wave of his hand as Tadakatsu walked to her side. “Have fun.”

“Thank you,” she replied and the two of them bid him goodbye.

The route on the way to town consisted mostly of small talk and occasional silence, the most comfortable kind. The sun beamed down from the sky, which she felt on the crown of her head and through the layers of her clothing. Even more, she was aware of how their warmed sleeves brushed together as they walked side by side in the crowd. Women stared and whispered to each other their thoughts and compliments directed towards her companion. She thought about it and realized that she couldn’t blame them.

Just then, she was pulled by the hand, and her fall was broken by Tadakatsu’s hard chest. “Hey, careful now,” he murmured, his tone full of worry.

At the sound of a neigh, she tilted her head to witness a stray horse gallop away followed by an angry young man who presumably was its owner. Her heartbeat accelerated at the close encounter of being rammed by a horse due to her wayward thoughts. The warmth that enveloped her hand and body made her conscious of the fact that their hands were still intertwined and the space between them was close to none. She squeezed his hand and let go.

“Sorry!” she said and walked a few steps to distance herself. She wanted to say something – anything – and ended up blurting out, “Want to stop by that restaurant?”

The weather was the perfect excuse to simply grab refreshments and relax in a place with a shade. She told herself it was a good call. The two of them sat on a table for two. They already had their fair share of time alone together, but in a way, she couldn’t help but feel nervous being with him in such an intimate setting. She sipped her drink and watched him from the corners of her eyes. Tadakatsu looked as comfortable as ever as he took the sights in. She reminded herself that this was the man who shared the fruits of his victory with her, the man who had no qualms in admitting his weird quirks, the man whose smile beamed down on her like the sun in the recent of her days.

This was Tadakatsu, and all at once, it was okay.

“I’m not from Owari, so I can’t really give you a proper tour of the area. I’m sorry,” she told him sincerely.

“No need to apologize,” he responded without hesitation, “Just spending time like this is enough.”

“Have you been to Owari before?” There were so many things she was curious of, so many things she wanted to discover about him.

“Only a few times. Lord Ieyasu is allied with Lord Nobunaga, so we have to drop by from time to time.” He looked around the area before he continued, “But between the two of us, Lord Ieyasu doesn’t like it. He’d rather stay in his room to read books and eat strawberry daifuku, to be honest. I take the brunt of his biting words during trips like this.” He ended his words with a look of dazed pleasure on his face.

“And you love it,” she pointed out casually, “Still as strange as ever, I see.”

“Yes… I – Thank you…!” At his words, Tadakatsu’s facial morphed into something more serious. “Oh no,” he whispered to himself and grabbed his drink only to down it in one go. He set the cup back down the table with a small thud, “There.”

“What was that all about?”

“Toramatsu said I shouldn’t come on too strong.”

“Okay…?”

“Well then, where were we? Oh, yeah! You said you weren’t from Owari?”

“Yes, I was born and raised in Kyoto,” she humored his question, a little amused, a little more curious about the way everything went with him.

“Do you miss home?” he asked.

“I do,” she admitted in a bittersweet moment. “I make sure to write to my family frequently. What about you? Do you… miss home?”

“Well, most of the samurai in the clan are with us when we visit here, so not much.” He laughed. “Although sometimes, I miss the food in Mikawa.”

Ah, that she could completely understand. There was something about food that made home truly home. It was the aroma one would recognize even after such a long time of being parted with, the taste that would bring back dear memories of one’s childhood. There was no better person to understand him in that sentiment but her, who has witnessed and experienced the happiness that only the food in a place called home could bring. She smiled.

The rest of their day was filled with light conversation, uninhibited laughter, and sightseeing. It was something new for the both of them. Tadakatsu explored the roads their clan passed fleetingly. Meanwhile, she saw the streets she often passed through when out on errands in a new, memorable way. It was a day well-spent for the both of them; enjoyable in the best and most unexpected ways.

Somehow, his words reverberated in her mind as she laid on her bedding that night. The following morning, she set out to find someone who could help her in the task she set out for herself. She had no clue where to find him and settled on wandering around the castle’s corridors in hopes of seeing him. Luckily, she did.

“Lord Tadatsugu…?” The retainer came out of one of the rooms and she approached him hesitantly, unsure of how he would react to her presence.

Tadatsugu smiled. The two of them had been introduced in passing by a certain someone who had shared a few anecdotes of her. “If it isn’t Miss! How may I help you?”

“Good morning,” she greeted, relieved that he remembered her at least. “Lord Tadatsugu, if it’s not too much, may I ask you about something?”

It took her a couple of days to gather everything necessary for her task. There was sneaking around involved, knowing that anytime Tadakatsu might appear and discover what she has been up to. She couldn’t have that. When all was set and done, she felt nervous excitement and set out to find him.

There he was, Tadakatsu, in the garden, sparring with a dummy.

“Oh, great! You’re here. I’ve been looking for you,” she said in greeting.

He set his practice sword aside upon her arrival. “You’re looking for me? I didn’t expect that.”

“Well, I am. Let’s go.” She grabbed a confused Tadakatsu by the sleeve and pulled him to the direction of the kitchen. She gestured to one of the seats, “Sit down.”

Tadakatsu was pliant to her wishes, immediately doing as she said so. She went to the corner of the room, grabbed a plate, and set it down in front of him.

“No way! Ooanmaki?” he exclaimed, surprised to see a dish from Mikawa on the table. “When and where did you learn how to make this?”

“It’s a secret.”

“Mind if I dig in?”

“Be my guest.”

Nerve-wracking, that was how it felt the moment Tadakatsu bit into the rolled piece of pancake. “I didn’t know which filling you’d prefer, so I thought I’d stick with the basic one, anko.” She wanted to see his reaction as he ate the ooanmaki, but what if he didn’t like it? Or if she didn’t get the recipe right? Even with Lord Tadatsugu’s assistance, she suddenly felt uncertain at that moment. “Well, how does it taste?”

“Delicious, of course. I’m convinced anything from you is delicious. And this? It’s like a woman of Mikawa made it.”

There was an odd feeling in her chest at the sound of his voice when he said those words.

“Hm? Your cheeks are flushed. Are you alright?”

“I’m fine. The weather’s just very warm.”

Her heart, too, felt warm.

Somehow, the two of them two fell into a routine. After regular war councils, Tadakatsu would disappear to find her, which did not go unnoticed by certain people.

“Where is that pervert going off to?” Ieyasu asked out loud, referring to Tadakatsu slipping out of the grand sliding doors of the Main Hall. On a regular day, Tadakatsu would stick around longer for a chance to hear a few choice hostile words and would even seek them out from him actively. This was strange behavior for someone like him.

Yasumasa, who sat beside Ieyasu, frowned. “Lately, he has been disappearing like that.”

“I believe he is courting someone, Lord Ieyasu,” Toramatsu stated.

“It’s true, Milord.” Tadatsugu smiled in agreement. “I have seen it with my own eyes!”

Ieyasu smiled that poison smile of his. “Don’t make me laugh.”

Meanwhile, most of her spare time would be spent by the peach tree. If Tadakatsu wasn’t there yet, she would read a book. A few times, she opted for embroidery, if not naps. Even if she was preoccupied, one thing was for sure, if he wasn’t there yet, then he would be soon enough after she arrived. Always.

Yet, dark clouds loomed over the sky and replaced the warm rays of the sunshine.

It rained during the summer.

The summer season was strange; the rainfall came late that year. The sky had been grey when she and Tadakatsu left the castle. It was something spontaneous. Tadakatsu insisted that they should go to town on that day and the next thing they knew, they were under the awning of the town’s temple, taking shelter from the downpour. Around them, colored strips of paper hung from the bamboo trees. As they swayed with the wind, the inked wishes began to fade and streak down with the raindrops to the ground.

That reminded her of the upcoming festival. “It’s Tanabata tomorrow. Will you go?” She looked over the profile of his face and tried to find it in herself to dare add the two words, ‘with me’. She didn’t have the chance to.

“We’re going back to Mikawa tomorrow,” Tadakatsu replied, apologetic.

Everything was too good to be true. She knew it. Last night, she saw that some retainers’ luggage were already being packed, but she never would have guessed that they were for the men of Mikawa, one of them Tadakatsu’s. Despite all the time they spent together, it was all temporary, something two strangers could never keep up for a long time. She should have kept her distance from the beginning instead of falling into a false sense of security with whatever was going on between them – instead of falling for him.

The sound of raindrops hitting the eaves coupled with the wind chimes hanging from the temple flowed through her ears. She had no response for him. Partings could be the best or worst moment between people. She couldn’t tell which it would be in their case. She didn’t even know if he felt the same way. She wondered if everything she had with him had been a mistake, but how was it that a mistake made her feel so happy?

He turned his head to meet her gaze, “I promise you, I will – ”

“No. Don’t.” She looked away, unable to take it any longer. “Don’t promise me anything. We’re different, Lord Tadakatsu.”

The both of them fell quiet.

With the sky’s blessing, the hydrangeas finished dyeing its petals into beautiful blues with hints of pink and purple all around, a beauty immortalized in her mind. It was time to say goodbye. Her eyes stung with the realization that their time was over, that it was time to wake up from her summertime dream. It had been a good one.

On the outside, she fixed a self-deprecating smile but her insides overflowed with the need to get away. “I’ll get us both umbrellas, so please stay here.”

Without waiting for an answer, she ran in the rain.

The hurt on her face pained Tadakatsu in a way that he never thought pain could possibly feel; displeasurable. He hated that he was the cause of her loneliness, he only wanted to see her happy always. In a decisive moment, his hurried footsteps followed her like lightning. Warm and welcoming arms circled her slightly shaking body. Thunder clapped but there was only his voice. “No. That won’t work on me. Don’t do this, please,” he begged, tightening his embrace. Strange as he may be, Tadakatsu was not a clueless one in terms of the matters of the heart. “If you really don’t want me to promise anything, then I won’t. I’ll just do it.”

She turned to face him. Her palms rested on his chest and she wondered if he realized she was crying, or if he would mistake it for something else. The look in his earnest eyes told her that he knew, and that he meant everything he just said. His steadfast heart beating under her fingers told her that he felt the same way. She gazed at him so closely that afternoon, when it were not the rays of the sun that came down on his face but rather the haze of the fog and the raindrops from the skies that wept for their parting.

“May I kiss you…?” he asked, eyes filled with longing.

The fabric of their clothes clung to their skin with each passing second, but the two of them couldn’t care less. Her arms went around his neck as she returned his warm embrace. She stood on her tiptoes and met his awaiting lips in response to his question. He hugged her by the waist closer until she no longer felt the ground beneath her feet, their faces on the same level as their lips reveled in their first meeting.

In that very moment, it was as if she was one of the wishes hanging from the bamboo trees all around them. But there was one tiny difference that separated her from them all.

She had already come true.

The tinkle of their laughter, so much like the wind chimes on a certain summer day, marked the beginning of a new chapter in their lives.

Hamamatsu was in high spirits. The food served on their tables was nothing short of exquisite and lavish, each cup filled with sake to the brim. Ieyasu, the Lord of Mikawa, watched his retainer from his seat during the celebratory feast. “Who would have thought that the pervert would be the first to get married?”

Yasumasa took a sip of his sake before he commented, “I have to agree with you there, Milord.” He set his cup down on the table and looked at the couple as well, not quite putting two and two together.

Tadatsugu, who was one of the happiest people that day, crinkled his eyes and laughed. “Even the matchmakers said that their match was made in heaven. Congratulations once again to the both of you!”

It was true. Their wedding was set on a day declared auspicious by the matchmakers, who fussed about their names, birthdays, and whatnot, and concluded that the two of them were, indeed, perfect for each other.

Not that they needed the matchmakers’ reassurance to know so.

“Lord Tadatsugu… Thank you so much.” She looked at the elder retainer with unshed tears in her eyes and remembered that day she asked for his assistance. It was one of the best decisions she has ever made, one of the things that led them to the happiest days of their lives.

“More like, in hell.” Ieyasu replied and took a bite of the strawberry daifuku served especially for him.

Tadakatsu chimed in, “As long as we are a match, then either is fine.” Although he looked handsome in his ceremonial robes, to her, he was even more handsome because of that sunny smile of his that was so dear to her.

“His tendencies have toned down as of late,” Toramatsu observed, the contents of his cup yet to be touched, opting for other dishes instead.

Ieyasu only responded with a slight, “Hmph,” already busy with his favorite dessert.

The former’s response did nothing to dampen Tadatsugu’s mood, looking like a proud grandfather who had just married off one of his grandsons. “Well, it’s all thanks to the Miss, isn’t it?”

Tadakatsu laughed. “That’s right. No one knows me better than my wife.”

“I have to agree with that,” she said, her loving gaze meeting her husband’s.

Yasumasa frowned slightly, still confused as ever. “How did he even manage to ask her to marry him?”

“We’ll keep that our little secret, won’t we, my husband?” she answered in jest. Yasumasa’s question brought back pleasant memories of the recent past, of the times that led her to this moment.

After their passionate confession and parting, it took three months before the Tokugawa came back to Owari. She sat under a peach tree, the very same one where they met each other officially, to read a book. She flipped it open to one of her most favorite tales, Tanabata. Before she even had the chance to begin, large palms obstructed her field of vision. “I knew I’d find you here. Guess who.”

A smile lit up her face. She would never forget that voice, nor that scent, nor the feel of those hands on her skin. “Hey! What are you doing? Pervert!”

He leaned closer. “Only for you, Milady,” his breath tickled her ear as he spoke. He uncovered her eyes and within seconds, she turned around and flung her arms around him.

“I didn’t know you were coming today,” she murmured, her words muffled by his chest.

“It’s not a surprise if I tell you, you know?” He ran his hand up and down the back of her hair. “You didn’t respond to my letters. Every second of the trip from Mikawa to Owari was pure torture to me, did you know? You’re so cruel, making me worry like that.”

She hummed, a hidden smile gracing her lips. “You love that, though.”

“I love everything about you,” he stated easily. “But have you read them?”

“Yes.”

“You know how I feel?”

“Yes.”

“You still feel the same way?”

“Yes.”

“May I kiss you now?”

There was only one response to that question.

It turned out that Tadakatsu was in Owari in preparation for war. The both of them became busy with their respective duties, but they still made time to see each other, their days incomplete if they were not given the chance to be in each other’s presence, even just for a short while. The night before the samurai departed, she asked Tadakatsu to meet her in the garden for the reason that she had something important to say.

She had been pacing back and forth by the time he arrived. He gave her a comforting hug immediately, already knowing that the upcoming war was the reason for her distraught. The moment she calmed down, he let go of her and asked what she wanted to say.

“Hold on,” she asked him. Then, she bent down and picked up a small box which had gone unnoticed by him from the moment of his arrival. She set it on his hands and gestured for him to open it.

“These are…”

“My letters to you, Tadakatsu. I responded every single one you wrote to me.”

He took her hand and led her to the pond, where the koi fish swam without a care in the world. They sat on a nearby bench where a lantern was lit. Tadakatsu unfolded the sheets of parchment one by one, his handsome face calm, and an occasional chuckle at a remark she wrote in passing. When he was finished, he carefully folded them, tucked them back to the box, and turned to her. He took her in his arms for the second time that night and pressed a gentle kiss on her forehead.

War broke out soon afterwards. She sent him off by the gates with a smile, aware of how much of a force he was to be reckoned with, in war and in everything. He wrote to her, still, and this time she wrote to him back with courage, sending her affection through the paper and ink. She knew of their victory, and of the moment their forces would come back to Kiyosu. She awaited him by the gates with the same smile, calm and pleased of his return after a long, long time.

Tadakatsu survived another war with no critical injuries, not a single drop of his blood shed on the battlefield once more. “I told you I’d be back soon.”

“I never doubted it.”

Months and months of back and forth heartfelt letters. Spontaneous rendezvous. Distance that made hearts grow fonder. It was never easy. But to them, it was worth it. It was worth everything.

And then, it was summer again.

In a season when days were long and nights were short, they made the most out of the time and the sweltering heat of their passion. In the privacy of their respective rooms, the two of them had no reason to hide themselves and bundle up their feelings. Their affections were out in the open, laid bare, basking in the glow of the bond and intimacy they shared.

She sat on a desk in the middle of her room, his bright green robes, colors reminiscent of leaves in the garden, draped over her bare skin. Her short stature towered over his kneeled form. Tadakatsu, his lovely sunkissed skin revealed to her in its entirety, beads of sweat dripping down his muscular body. In that moment, she felt as if she were Orihime looking upon her lover, Hikoboshi, from the skies and wanting nothing more than to be with him. Except she was no princess and her lover was no cowherd.

“Look at you, Tadakatsu. Are you not the Lord of the Honda Clan? Why are you on your knees for a mere kitchen wench like me?”

Her words ignited a fire in his blood. Oh, how she knew it. But that night, it was not the trance state of pleasure her ruthlessly blunt words evoked in him that she saw in his eyes. Instead, it was a fierce determination that was nothing like she had ever seen before. He uttered the words she least expected to hear in the least likeliest of the situations.

“I, Honda Heihachiro Tadakatsu, ask for your hand in marriage. Be my Lady Honda, please.”

Tadakatsu bent down in a formal bow and sat straight as he did on that day their eyes first met. “I love you,” he said. He had been the first to express his feelings, never been one to hold back from saying them out loud. It suited him, being outspoken. She loved that about him, among many other qualities of his persona.

“I love you, too,” she replied without any misgivings, already past the stage of bashfulness in terms of her affections. “I… Are you sure?”

“I’ve never been more certain of anything in my entire life.”

She should have known from the moment their eyes met during that fateful day when she served him tea how much of a trouble he would be in her life. Her trouble, who she so loved and loved her in return, who she would spend the rest of her life with.

“Yes, it would be my honor.” She stood and walked closer to him, kneeling down and bowing to him in return.

“Come here.” The moment she straightened up, he took her in his arms, strong as sturdiest tree in the land. There was no place she would rather be.

They made nothing but love that night. It was always passionate with the two of them. Since her appearance in his life, no one else came close to stirring the desire that burned within him as it did to her. With him, she discovered not only her preferences, but also the extent of her ardor that she would never would have even thought was even possible. Still, that night was even more special than the previous, maybe even more than the first. Two hearts beat as one in every sense of the word and sunrise loomed over the horizon.

News of their betrothal traveled fast. Some of the retainers from Mikawa had already been introduced to her. It seemed she had nothing to worry about as Tadakatsu had already asked for Ieyasu’s permission for their marriage, who in turn had to discuss it with her liege lord, Nobunaga. She wondered how that went as she prepared the ingredients for dinner, one of the final meals she would cook for the Oda Clan.

Umeko, who had volunteered to help her that night, unexpectedly asked her, “Are you sure of your choice?”

“I’ve never been more certain of anything in my entire life.” She smiled at her friend, truly happy. “I love him.”

“Oh, I am so happy for you! I knew it! I knew it from the day I saw you undressing him with your eyes!”

The next thing she knew, she was in a palanquin on the way to Kyoto, where Tadakatsu asked her mother and Yahiko formally for her hand in marriage. Afterwards, they were off to Mikawa, including her family. She and Tadakatsu declared their love in front of the most special people in their lives, their destinies intertwined from that day onwards.

As they bid the last of their guests goodbye, Tadakatsu shifted his gaze to her, his fervent wish, his dream personified, his wife. In his lifetime, Tadakatsu longed to meet an opponent who would crush him thoroughly. He met his match in the form of the goddess who stood beside him, whose existence never failed to be the fresh air in the turbulent world they lived in. He reached out and held her hand. She held tighter, over the clouds at the reality that they are finally wed; the Lord and Lady of the Honda Clan.

It was nothing but pure bliss the morning after their big day. They woke up in each others arms as husband and wife for the very first time. Beyond the sliding doors of their chambers was a garden where hydrangeas bloomed and with them, the melody of the cuckoo’s song marked the solstice of forever of what once was thought as a fleeting memory of a summer love.

As usual, this work was beta read by @photoproses! I like to think that there is more to Tadakatsu than the comical masochism often depicted in the game. 🐻

🎐☀️ This has been the summer chapter of my Four Seasons series. Thanks for reading! 🎋🌦️

春夏秋冬 | Shunkashūtō [AO3]

lit. spring, summer, autumn, winter

春 || Heartstrings (Tokugawa Ieyasu/MC)

夏 || Sunkissed (Honda Tadakatsu/MC)

秋 || Crossroads (Sakakibara Yasumasa/MC)

| 秋 | Destiny [Crossroads Alternate Ending]

冬 || ???

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