#sakuverse kayson

[aestheticpearl]

when you call them ‘baby girl’

✧·˚feat: kayson mayer, jonah, xanthus claiborne, andrew marston, issac rhoades, elias, zaros athat’lin, luca pearce, rowan

✧·˚genre: fluff

✧·˚requested: yes!

✧·˚a/n: i just know y’all have been waiting so patiently for another text fic

.love always <3 pearl

.text masterlist

[claiestve]

ꨄ sakuverse tweets ! pt. 5 :

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

well hello pickle

[zsakuva]

SUPER RANDOM! but which characters do you think would tolerate/make/laugh at dirty jokes?

Elias, Jonah, Kayson, Alex, Luca, and Zaros most likely.

[belladonnadawn]

Happy Halloween!

Spending Halloween with Sakuverse men (Ft. Dontis, Kayson Mayer, Isaac Rhoades, Xanthus Claiborne, Andrew Marston, and Elias) Happy Halloween!

Dontis

Descending down the stairs, his black cape trailed softly. Along with his attire is a poet blouse and black slacks. To top it off, he wore fake plastic fangs. He was very proud of his chosen costume. Incredibly proud.

"What the fuck?" Xanthus looked at him up and down, recognizing his costume.

"What? Did you not like my costume?" Dontis grinned, posing for him.

"No, take it off." Xanthus replied sternly, crossing his arms as he continued to glare at him.

Dontis only smirked, enjoying the irritation in his face. "Straight to the point, I like it." His grin widened at his scoff and eye roll.

Xanthus held back a groan from his teasing, "You know what, just go. Your hunter needs you more than we do."

"Don't miss me!" Dontis chuckled as he heads towards the door.

New Orleans is as lively as ever, the streets were filled with people in costumes, decorations from different establishments, and confetti littered the floor. He made his way through the crowd, greeting "trick or treat" with a smile to others as he passed by. As he arrived at the destination, he made a beeline towards you.

"Happy Halloween!" Dontis greeted with a wide smile.

"Happy Halloween," You replied, raising a drink to him. It felt strange. The man– incubus– that you tied to your basement is now beside you, celebrating a holiday. It was a sudden twist of fate, but you wouldn't have it the other way.

"I'm glad you decided to celebrate this with me," His gaze soft as he turned to you.

You gave him a nod, not wanting to show how flustered and charmed you are towards him, but you know that he can see through you. "I should be the one thankful. I'm sure that you have plenty of ways to spend this occasion."

A hearty laugh escaped his lips, "Please, you're on top of my list when it comes to these occasions. I can't set you aside, especially when you made an effort to dress like a pirate."

You rolled your eyes, "It's nothing. I just put on whatever I can."

"Still, I appreciate your effort." Dontis spoke, planting a soft kiss on your knuckles. Holding his hand out, he looked at you with his charming gaze, "So, are you ready to go trick and treating?"

Kayson Mayer

"Babe, a little help please?" You called him out as you tried to reach the highest point of the wall so you can decorate it. Since it's Halloween, decorating the house became your hobbies whenever you both have spare time.

"Babe?" Your brows furrowed, it never took that long for Kayson to answer to your calls. With a sigh, you put the banner down to find Kayson yourself.

"Kayson, where are you?" You continued to call out.

As you arrived upstairs, you made a beeline to your shared room. Opening the door, you're welcomed with darkness, except for the faint light in the corner of the room.

"Kay—"

"My angel of music has arrived!" He exclaimed, raising the lantern that was hidden on his cape to his face, revealing a white mask that covered his face.

"Alright, Erik. Now let's go back to decorating or a disaster beyond your imagination will occur."

You turned the light on, causing him to let out a small 'aww'. A chuckle escaped your lips as you realized that he's only wearing the cape and the mask as his costume. No wonder why the lights are off.

"I was feeling it." He sighed.

"I can see that."

Kayson put the lamp down and removed the mask and the cape. "Did you like my costume?" He eagerly asked with a smile on his face.

"No."

His smile fell.

"I loved it."

Kayson grinned at your answer, "I knew it. I'm so excited to wear the full costume and give out candies!" He beamed.

"We will, but first, let's finish decorating. Okay?"

He nodded, kissing your cheek. "This is gonna be one of the best Halloween ever. I'll make sure of that, my angel of music."

Isaac Rhoades

Occasions like these are something that Isaac never bothered with. He lived like an island, isolated from others for his job and safety. Isaac only spent those holidays with himself and his job, he knew that these occasions does not stop other people from doing whatever what they want to others.

But now, he found himself focused in front of the pumpkin, not minding the mess from the carving.

"No peeking," Isaac caught your eyes towards his carvings.

"I wasn't." Returning to your work with a small huff as he caught you. It was your suggestion to have a little pumpkin carving competition with Isaac and you're glad he agreed.

You searched for the face your should do for the pumpkin, settling on the one where they have cresent eyes, triangular nose, and sharp grin. It was nerve-wracking since it's your first, but there's no way you're backing out.

As you secretly glanced at him, you can't help but wonder what his design was. Isaac looked relaxed as he continued to carve; from time to time he'd look at his phone for reference, then he'll continue his carving. You silently admired him, the way he's so concentrated towards his work stirred something in you.

"Tadaaa!" You presented the carved pumpkin in front of him with pride. There may be some rough edges, but the pumpkin looked better than you expected.

Isaac nodded at the reveal, "That's very good."

"Really? Are you conceding?"

"Not quite," Isaac finally presented his pumpkin. It had horn-like eyes, triangular nose, and stitches as a grin. It looked horrifying.

You stared at it for a while, speechless at his skill and the neatness of his design. Against your pride, you admit that he won the competition.

"Is this good?" Isaac asked. You don't know if he's boasting or he's genuinely asking.

"Good? That's scary."

Isaac chuckled, "So I won?"

You nodded, "I'm not even mad that you did."

He walked towards you, cupping your cheeks, "At least yours are still good. I like it."

"Really?"

"Yes, really."

"Maybe next year I'll beat you."

Isaac smiled, heart melting at the thought of another year with you, "Yes, maybe next year."

Xanthus Claiborne

"This recipe is passed down through generations."

"I believe you," You replied as you began preparing the ingredients.

To celebrate the Halloween, you both decided to bake some spooky themed cookies. The idea was exciting, especially when it's something that you wanted to try with him. Checking all the ingredients, you were now ready to bake with him.

Xanthus was hands on– very hands on. He'll guide your hand as you bake, teaching you how to do it just like what the recipe says. You didn't mind his clingy behavior towards you. In fact, you found his excuses to touch you hilarious.

"That smells delicious. I think you're a professional, love," He praised as you continued to mix the batter.

"It was your recipe. No wonder why it was passed down through generations."

As you finished, you gently put the batter on the tray on its mold. Xanthus helped preheat the oven, making sure it's on the right temperature. Finally, both of you popped the tray in the oven, waiting for it to cook.

You head snapped towards the oven as you heard the soft ring. Wearing your kitchen gloves, you opened the oven, grabbing the tray where the cookies are. "They look delicious," Excitement is evident in your voice as you placed the tray on the counter.

"Careful, love. You need to cool it down a bit before we decorate it."

You nodded, fanning the tray with your hands. After it cooled down, Xanthus brought the frosting as you both began decorating the cookies.

"I knew it, it's so delicious," You sighed in satisfaction as you took a bite of the cookies you both made.

"Not as delicious as you," He winked, kissing your cheek, causing your cheeks to heat up at the gesture. "This is the best Halloween ever," Xanthus added.

"Why?" You turned to him with brows furrowed.

"Because I get to spend it with you."

Andrew Marston

"I think that's all of it," He smiled as he poured all the candies to the jack-o-lantern container.

You let out a sigh of relief, ticking one task off the to do list. You and Andrew decided to celebrate Halloween by having a movie night with all the classic scary movies you can find. So far, the preparation is going as smooth as ever.

Andrew helped you prepare the snacks. Once you both finished, you flopped down the couch, letting his arms wrap around you as the movie began to play.

"I wonder what costumes we're going to see later," He hummed, tracing soft circles on your skin, eyes focused on the film.

"I'm so excited, I'm sure they're all adorable."

"Or scary."

You gasped as an idea came to your mind, "Maybe we should dress up next Halloween."

Andrew smiled, open to that thought, "Any characters you want?"

"Maybe we can try being the sun and moon? Angel and devil? Or thing 1 and thing 2!"

Andrew let out a chuckle at your enthusiasm, "Seems like you already have a list."

"I do and I'm very excited to try it with you."

"So am I," He leaned in, planting a soft kiss on your lips as he looked forward to another Halloween with you.

Elias

"I wish I was Dr. Doom," Elias sighed as he came out with a green plaid polo and green pants.

"You lost the game, it's all fair." You spoke, taking off the mask to properly look at him. "Now slowly turn around for me," You chuckled as you began filming him.

Elias slowly turned around, showing off his costume, "Thank god you didn't ask for a wig."

A gasp escaped your lips, "Oh my god, maybe we should get one!" You teased, trying to rile him up further. As his face contorted into horror, you can't help but laugh harder.

"No way! It wasn't part of the deal. You said dress– just dress! No wig or whatsoever," Elias protested.

"I know," You stopped the recording, walking towards him. "You're the most handsome Isabelle I've ever seen," A soft smile plastered on your lips as you pinched his cheek.

"Really?" He muttered, still wearing his small pout.

"Uh huh."

He finally smiled, holding your hips, "I'll be Isabelle as long as you're Dr. Doom."

Divider: kodaswrld and strangergraphics

[baked-mango]

This is them drawn from my memory only

And my pookie bookie bear

I FEEL LIKE THEY'RE KINDA CLOSE

slayed

[peppymintdreams]

I present to you my first ever Sakuverse meme compilation

[miyuuthegreatest]

Hey guys I did it

First of all, thank you guys so much for not hating me with this stupid idea LOL, I recently been obsessed with this game so I tried making some character in dti, I will probably make part 2 If I have the time! but for now, enjoy the screenshots </3

Also I do not know tumblr's control at all! So I have to send all the images all together ૮(˶ㅠ︿ㅠ)ა

All characters in order :

Elias

Xanthus

Kayson

Isaac

Andrew

Cevyk

Also note this is very much not accurate at all! I did it for fun / outfits that are inspired by the characters, that's why I tried to do some custom fits and why It's all women ദ്ദി(｡•̀ ,<)~✩‧₊

[penelopesbaby]

It wont let me add anymore 🥲

[literary-motif]

Late Night

Kayson x Reader

“Perfect?” Kayson whispered, poking his head into the living room. His shift ended late since the guests were not keen to leave the restaurant, and company policy forbade him to kick anyone out, no matter the time. 

He had hoped you two would get dinner together, but it was two in the morning. He gazed at you asleep on the couch — having failed to stay up for him — and could not help the affectionate smile from breaking across his face.

You never stopped trying to welcome him back late at night. The gesture never failed to make his heart melt.

[chilliesillie]

Kayson ──★ ˙ ̟!!

R U Mine? ★!!

“She's a silver linin', lone ranger ridin' through an open space”

I LOVE HOW THIS TURNED OUT PLZ LIKE IT

[soscarlett1twas]

one single thread of gold (tied me to you)

↳ The invisible strings laced into the Sakuverse. ↳ 7.2k words / also available on ao3!

Matias stared at the screen, unable to formulate his thoughts. His fingers hesitated above the keyboard, and for each word he punched out, he purged the sentence before it was even finished.

He had suffered this problem before. It was always the first words, then the rest would flow – but with a mind full of ideas and hands eager to type, it was hard to push himself when all he got was a blank screen staring back at him. 

Tension grew in his jaw as his teeth ground together. He pulled his hands back and strategically cracked each knuckle, first the distal joints, then the center, until he was left with were slightly looser hands and a still-blank screen. Each crack drifted up into the atrium's echo. 

He refocused on the document, but all he perceived was the cursor, blinking in a staccato rhythm. Matias groaned.

His hand found a pen and clicked it a few times, scanning the open pages of his notebook as a refresher. Outlined on them was a short story about a nightmare he had wanted — not so much tried — to write for ages. He had written and rewritten the “stage directions", so-to-speak, of the story many times, finally settling on this version he was quite happy about. And the imagery he painted in his own head, of the scenes of the man's nightmare, how he could link it to the broader narrative of the man's life, how it would predict his future, it made him excited. 

So he sat down to write, hands hovering over the keyboard of a school-issued laptop to start crafting what would surely be something great. 

And yet. Yet. 

A bar (the only black on his empty page) faded and reappeared again and again as Matias tried to conjure the right vocab, the right atmosphere, the right... something.

His hand moved to cover his face, fingertips pressing down his clenched eyebrows and curving down his face, until his palms holstered his jowls and his sides were warmed from the laptop-heat of his hands. His words were nothing to his imagination. 

His hands moved once again to cover his face completely.

He was nothing to his imagination. 

And he had tried, for so long, to believe that was okay. What were these stories for if not practice? Surely, once he was older, they would flow naturally. His prose would be enchanting, but not purple; his plots would be grand, but not confusing. He would look back on these old words as the small stepping stones to the majesty he would write eventually. 

But why must it be eventually? Why couldn’t it be now?

Matias, who had subconsciously slumped down so far in the chair that his back connected more with the seat than his legs, exhaled and pulled himself back up. With one more look at white screen, he opened a new tab. 

Pressing the My Drive bookmark at the top of his screen, he navigated through a swamp of miscellaneous documents, scattered thoughts spread across countless files. But what he was looking for would not be recently opened. He typed in its title in the search bar, bringing up a document untouched for months.

As with all his finished stories, this one was formatted all nicely, unlike the standard Arial he drafted in. He scrolled through it with mild attention and read a couple lines from assorted paragraphs. 

This was a tale about two people who, throughout the work, became tentative friends. They did not like each other at first, but came around through their joint love of the stars, though very different in how they viewed them – one for science, one for mythology. 

It was not fun to write. It is never fun to write, at least, in the moment. But Matias always found himself looking back on the process with more fondness than the finished product. And this was a work he was particularly fond of. (For as fond as one can be about their own work – that is to say, anything net neutral is ‘positive’, and anything less than is negative.) 

The descriptions of the sky did it for him and he yearned to be able to write it again. He wanted to describe the world and its beauty, not a man's nightmare. He wanted back that process where, even if it was difficult at the moment, he was writing. Not stuck in his mind with the imaginary dreamscape of a nightmare, his own self an unfit conduit for the ideas he wanted to share. At least with skies and stars, they were pretty just to read. They created a fantasy that, even if the reader was not imagining what Matias wrote, they were substituting it for their own memories of nightfall. 

When he exited the tab, the laptop lid closed with it. He needed to do something other than look at the screen.

Matias stood and stretched, rolling his neck and pushing in the chair to the desk. Just waiting for the right words wouldn’t work and he needed to stretch his legs a bit. Before walking away, he took one last look at his notebook, and closed it softly. Anywhere else, he would’ve had some more precaution, but it was doubtful anyone would steal his things at the library. 

So he walked away, leaving any thoughts of the story behind him. 

He had set up shop at the back of the building, so he flitted between rows and rows of bookshelves. He wove between CD’s on language learning to the record books, to the young adult and fantasy sections. Assorted mangas greeted him in the aisle he walked into. 

He scanned a couple of titles with no intentions to take them out, but he liked to window shop. He’d even pull a couple out and read their back, or, if he was feeling particularly dangerous, flip to a random page and read a couple sentences. Then he’d slip them back in and walk away. 

He threaded like this between three bookcases, reading spines which fled his mind the second he glanced away. He made one last turn, and, thoroughly unimpressed by his own attempt at clearing his thoughts, turned back the way he came. 

On the way back to his desolate writing, he walked up to a World Atlas. It was large, pages spread across its entire podium and then some, open to a random page on Denmark. Matias had little interest in the country, but he liked maps, and this one was so detailed. He approached the atlas and began to leaf through it. 

From French topography to the Indian Ocean to the specifics of Somalia’s economics, Matias skimmed through each section, finding himself smiling at it. It was dumb, he knew – but the world was so very big and so very complex, and that was where he found beauty. What a wonder to be able to see it one day. What he would give to make something like this. 

He skimmed his fingers along the thick stack of right-aligned pages, opening up to a random one. It was about Iceland. 

A map of the country was offset to the left hand corner, most of the spread being taken up by photos about the northern lights. He had heard of them of course, but he found himself in awe of the colors. Even in a stagnant image he could see them pulsing with different hues, the greens fading to blues to purples. 

Oh, the sky. What a beautiful thing it is. 

His finger traced the harsher lines of the aurora, where the lights hardened to a sheet of color. The flimsy paper beneath his fingertips folded as he shifted them upwards, but Matias quickly fixed it and kept going: Over and over, wondering it how could exist in this world. And how unfair it was that it is out of his reach. 

It would be incredible to see the aurora. It was inspiring even in photo form, and what could it be in person? What basin of inspiration could this be for him? His fingers, just tracing the photo, felt as if they had dipped into a pool of magic, drenching themself in the motivation he needed to write. 

And the nightmare came back to him, fully written around his inked skeleton, ready to be shaped.

Still staring at the basin, he –

– pulled his fingers away from the aurora clipping and flipped it, as carefully as he could, and lifted his glue stick. Purple glue coated the underside and he pressed it into the paper of his notebook, besides the Icelandic mountains and waterfalls he had cut out earlier. Once satisfied it was secure, he began to reach out for the magazine he left sprawled open, silhouettes now chopped from its pages. 

Beside it, scattered atop of the carpeted floor, were many other magazines. Some were still safe, though many more were torn through and falling apart, their confetti guts sticking to the carpet fuzz. Their own images had been sniped and pasted into the notebook, from stills of people to landscapes. 

Really, the subject didn’t matter. If Alex liked the composition, or the filter, or the lightning… well, into his notebook it went. 

He hummed as he flipped through the magazine, eyes skimming over landscapes far and wide. Nothing quite did it for him, though he did wonder if he should cut out a particularly pretty iceberg… until the church. 

Formed like a sharp bell curve, the structure rose into the clear blue sky, its golden lights projected onto the front, bleeding into each crevice of the jagged building. Three windows glowed at the top, small from the perspective, contrasting the dark, tinted part of the building. A singular rainbow window sat above the entrance door, its hood molding casting a deep purple shadow upwards. 

Alex turned to grab his scissors when he spied the building's name, unpronounceable on his English tongue: Hallgrímskirkja. He still tried and snorted when it was butchered.

He began the incision at the base, silently wondering if he should only cut out the church or keep the sky (no, he decided, he needed the sky – it established the blues to contrast the rising yellow light), and began to snip away. 

He worked cautiously, creating an arch that reached above the church and back down. Once done, he smiled and placed the scissors on the floor, pulling the clipping free from the page. He moved the magazine away and placed the photo down beside him, flipping to a new two-page spread in it. The church was too big to be added to the current page he was on. Besides, something like this deserved its own spread. 

Again, methodically, he lifted his gluestick and spread it in curved motions behind the image, and stamped it into his book, careful to center it correctly. Just to be sure, he closed the book and pressed his palms onto its cover, forcing his body weight down to really stick it in there. 

Satisfied, he opened the notebook back to Hallgrímskirkja, eyes scoring the photo and smiled.

He turned back the pages to old spreads. He just liked looking at them, to glimpse at his handiwork of images not his own. But they could be. 

Alex was giddy at the thought, to do this for a living one day. Taking photos of the world's beauty, where it was its people or landscapes, or even gold-encrusted perfume bottles. He wanted it all. 

He was about to turn back to the magazine when a knock echoed through his door. Before he could answer, his parents walked in. 

“Alex?” His father walked into the bedroom, eyes catching on the photo clippings before landing on his son. 

“Hey,” he responded, sitting up from his floor. 

His mother took a couple steps forward. “What are you doing, Alex?” 

Smiling at the chance to talk about photography, he immediately opened back up the Hallgrímskirkja page, eager to show them. He stood and held it out to her, his father coming around his mother’s shoulder to see. 

He explained he was looking through photos for inspiration, that one day, he was going to take these photos for magazines. Maybe they could take a trip to Iceland as a family! He was about to offer up the idea when his father said:

“So… you want to be a photographer?”

He nodded. 

He missed the glances his parents exchanged as he flipped to the back of the notebook, again holding the spread open for them to see. 

Plastered across these pages were Polaroids he had taken with the disposable camera they bought him for a school day-trip. They were nothing much – just some landscapes, a couple candids of his friends, but they were his photos, and he displayed them with the same honor as his inspirations. 

But this time, he did not miss the waver in his mothers eyes nor his father’s throat bobbing. 

“Oh, these are so pretty hunny… why didn’t you show us these before?”

He didn’t quite have an answer to that. He just… didn’t. Alex’s arms loosened, bringing the open book down from their sights and against his chest, where he folded it, subconsciously hugging it. 

“Photography is a great hobby, but a career?” His mother sat on his bed. 

Still, he had nothing to say, throat dry. He shrugged. How could she go from praising his work to this in the same breath?

The room fell to awkward silence as Alex refused to meet their sights, still clinging to his notebook, and his parents didn’t speak. 

“I came to ask,” his father finally began, “if you wanted to come and play with the neighbor kids. They set up a volleyball net – you like volleyball, right?”

“Yeah.” He first tried it on a beach vacation. It was a lot of fun playing with kids his age, and he liked the neighbors plenty, but he was busy. Before he could say so, though, his father clapped his back.

“Great! I’ll tell them you’ll be there soon,” and walked out of his bedroom, his mother kissed his cheek before leaving as well. 

Left alone, he let out a little sigh, and flipped the book in his hands. He looked at its cover, plain compared to its pages, made of woven cloth. He bought it ages ago with his allowance. The same allowance he had shoved in a jar, on top of his nightstand, containing a total on its top. His savings for a camera, because they refused to buy him even a disposable one unless it was on a school to-have list for field trips. 

Outside, he could just barely make out the sounds of the kids playing, calling for the first – 

– serve spiked down and, after hitting inside the lines, bounced out of bounds. Kayson whooped as his team cheered in his honor, and they all shuffled one spot to the left. 

The other team stood stagnant, as they had for the last three serves, unable to score a point and move. It wasn’t traditional volleyball: the game the class was playing was altered to give everyone a chance at each position. When your team scored a point, everyone shifted a position to the left. Kayson bounded from the server to the middle of the back row. 

And up to serve was a girl who spent the entire class glancing at the clock, anxious to get out of here. He couldn’t blame her. The teams had been randomly chosen, and she had fallen into a group of tryhards who were thriving on the competition – which is to say, Kayson got real lucky. 

She squirmed in the position, smiling only when she caught the glimpse of her friends on the other side of the net, as if to mock herself and say “We know this won’t end well, but how funny will it be when I fail?” 

The ball got tossed over the net, ending up closer to Kayson than her. He caught it and walked over, handing it over in a quick toss. 

“Alright, Mia.” Kayson crouched his knees and balled his fist, swinging it with clear direction to the hypothetical ball in his other. “Just like we talked about. Get some leverage and,” he thrust his fist up and through the ghostly volleyball, “swing up. Make sure to keep your hand balled!” He tread back to his spot, walking backwards to nod as she mirrored his actions. 

She curled her lip slightly, knees bending as her arm straightened. Kayson watched, still nodding his head as Mia took a couple practice swings. 

They barely knew each other. The only class they shared was this one, and Kayson would be hesitant to call them acquaintances, much less friends. But when Mia had messed up her first serve at the beginning of the unit, laughing at herself before anyone else got the chance to, he had called out some advice at the reserve. And that time, it made it over the net. 

He hoped his aid held true again. 

She took one last swing and thrust her arm back with more certainty, pushing it forward at just the right angle. He watched as it nearly hit the ceiling before arching back down, landing in the center of the back row. 

“Oh! Oh!” Mia’s voice grew in excitement as she realized that not only was it a decent serve, it was a good one – and Kayson shouted back a “Let’s go!” in the rising choir of middle schoolers getting into a good game. 

The two teams went back for approximately two passes before the bell rang. 

Kayson went to grab his backpack, not missing the small wave from Mia when he turned around. He returned the gesture and smiled. 

His friends caught up to him, laughing and jostling each other around as they walked out of the gym. Kayson pushed the one away, claiming his was too sweaty, and the boy retorted that Kayson was worse. Which, he was.

“Alright, I’ve got to go…” Kayson said, trailing away from his friends. His next class was halfway across the school and didn’t want to be late. They said their goodbyes and split directions.

The hallways were packed as they were every passing period. Kayson maneuvered between people, often bumping shoulders, his smile fading to neutrality. Everyone around him looked the same, minds somewhere beyond the cramped halls.

With gym – his favorite class today – done with, Kayson adapted to the melancholy which awaited him at his next classes, feeling any leftover adrenaline bleeding out of him. The rest of the day had little interest to him.

Kayson left the main, packed hallway for the smaller math hall. People loitered outside doors, not wanting to go to their classes yet, or walked beside their friends in twos or threes. He could spy a small crowd inside the bathroom as he passed. Turning the corner, the open door of his Algebra class beckoned. 

Cool air hit his sweaty skin when Kayson walked in. His desk was close to the back of the room, a choice he made at the start of the year. His bag slinked to the floor as he dropped it and sat on the even colder chair. His legs stuck to the plastic. 

While his table was still empty, others had a filled somewhat. The teacher walked up to one and handed her a paper. She flipped it over and flashed it to her friend, with a big A written in red up top. 

And Kayson remembered the test from last class. 

The little spark still in him died at the realization, being replaced by the pooling dread of known failure. He had studied, and he had felt good while taking it, but he also knew to be realistic. And realistically, he did not know math. 

The teacher finished handing off papers to the rest of the table before making her way over to Kayson, smiling softly. 

“Good morning, Kayson.” She rifled through her papers. 

“Morning,” he muttered. 

She pulled a sheet from the middle of the stack and gave it to him, already moving to another table. He barely looked at it. All he needed was the D before flipping it back over, the pen used to mark his paper bleeding through the back. 

He groaned as he lowered his head. He was fine with his B average. Hell, he’d even scored a couple A’s in classes this year, but with the way his math grade was going… 

When the C came in last quarter on his report card, he hated showing it to his mom, hated the class, hated himself for it. He promised her with one more bad grade, he’d go to tutoring. And here was his ticket to ride. 

He rose and walked over to the teacher, skin like suction ripping from the chair. “Can I go to the bathroom?” He muttered as she turned to him. At her nod, he left, passing the TA’s desk who’d surely be his new tormentor after school.

There was still a line, made up of kids who had yet to leave for class. But when the bell rang they began to trickle out, leaving Kayson to tap his foot on the dirty floor, waiting for a stall, also not quite here to actually use the facilities. 

He took a deep breath when he finally got to sit on a non-plastic chair, in that suffocatingly cold classroom, instead relatively alone in the middle stall. He took a deep breath as he shut the door, clicking the – 

– lock into place, Luca sat, scratching at his eyes. 

His breath was already wavering, but with the final swallow of air came his break, and he folded over on the porcelain, knees pressed to soaking lashes. 

He had tried. God, Luca had tried so hard. There hadn’t even been a triggering event. But a building wave must eventually fall. 

And out it came, pouring from his eyes with the crash of croaking breaths. 

Luca’s hands clawed from cupping his mouth to running along his waterline, wiping tears before they even traced his face. Yet still more came, and for all the grief which choked him, for all the loneliness which sparked the display, his only thought was how to make it stop. 

Which made it all the worse when he couldn’t. The resounding loneliness just echoed back to him as one breath became too loud, as even in his misery Luca was still consciously fearful of others, and even more aware that there was simply no one around. 

His parents were worried, of course. When he brought home the permission slip, excitedly bobbing at the chance to go to New York City with his class, his parents sat him down to talk through it. What to expect, how to stay safe, whether or not he should go… the last point got brought up a lot. 

He insisted he’d be fine. After all, his bullies weren’t in classes who’d go on the trip. His parents asked if he’d have any friends with him instead. 

Despite him drawing a blank at the question, his parents still let him go. Oh, how he wished they didn’t anymore.

Luca pressed his palms to his eyes. 

It hadn’t even been a bully – if it were, at least somebody was thinking about him, talking to him – instead it was complete isolation. Not a single conversation with another kid for the two days they’d spent in the city. When he tried, he was met with some form of swift rejection. 

He convinced himself it was fine. He was fine, until he wasn’t, and at dinner it was all too much. He sat with the teachers, glanced over at the table he should be at, and excused himself politely. 

Only to end up in the bathroom, the only place he could let the feeling engulf him, ironically praying he was left alone in his sadness as if that wasn’t the cause of it. 

No, he didn’t want to be alone. He wanted his mom. He wanted his dad. He wanted the people who loved him. But they were unreachable. 

At the thought, another wave of sadness crested over him. 

This time he let himself cry.

He did not know how much time had passed, only that he was spent when tears turned to a thin plaster on his skin. He had barely moved from his hunched position and an ache grew in the small of his back.

Luca swallowed the rising weight in his throat and sat up. His eyelashes brushed his face as he shut his eyes tightly, feeling the cool tears on both. His mind started to work again, no longer suffocated with his misery, instead slowly turning with coherent thoughts. 

But remain did the feeling of hollowness in his chest, perhaps sculpted out from his sobs – Luca felt it as he breathed, tasting iron on the lip he was biting, eyebrows furrowed. If anyone could see him, the uncharacteristic look of anger would shock them. Or would it? To recognize it’s unrecognizably would be to know him, to know he was not angry, to know he was simply clenching trying not to cry again. But nobody did.

Or perhaps they would be affronted by it not because he was him, but because of what he seemed to be. He was small, frail in stature and always looking if trying to hide away. He was meant to be unseen, not to be unseemly.

For what he hoped to be the final time, Luca rolled toilet paper and dabbed it to his eyes, then promptly threw it into the bowl. He watched it flush.

The door opened with a shove. Luca appreciated it’s coverage, working almost as an entrance to another room inside of a bathroom stall. Perks of crying in a nice restaurant.

He walked over to the sinks and motioned underneath the faucets with his fingertips. He just sat there, letting himself feel the water.

He dabbed it on his eyebags. Like a coal, he could feel himself cooling under the water. Luca massaged it into his skin and dipped his fingers back under for more. This was a familiar ritual to him.

He barely noticed the door opening, though the familiar voice of a teacher brought him to.

“Luca?” He startled.

Mr. Polis, a Biology teacher, stood at the door. Luca never had his class, a fact he was often grateful for – many said he was tough and an even harsher grader. Even as he looked at him, there was a certain edge to his gaze. It was laced with worry.

He made an obnoxious sniff to recall mucus and winced at how it echoed. “Hi, Mr. Polis…” Luca turned his head and walked to dry his hands, suddenly even embarrassed of his ablution.

He stayed turned to the towels as another faucet began. In the mirrors he could see the teacher washing his hands. Curiosity spiked, but he wasn’t going to ask.

“One of your classmates decided to spill their drink on me,” he said, as if reading Luca’s mind. He sighed and waved his hand under another dispenser. When it didn’t work, his exasperation grew to an annoyed hum as he began to walk towards Luca. “Excuse me.”

Luca stepped aside, away from the mirrors as the teacher got his towel. He stared at the crumpled brown paper in his hand. Luca tried to fold it another way so he could blow his nose again, but already so small, it was useless. He’d get another when Mr. Polis left.

Luca still tried to avoid his sights as he walked over to the trash, rubbing his eyes to hide better.

“Have you been enjoying the city so far?”

Luca still didn’t turn to him. “Yeah… it’s been fun.” His voice was rough.

“Good, good.”

The man came beside him and threw his own towel away.

“Would you like a hug?”

It was an awkward question, but it startled Luca enough to make him look at the man. His expression was creased in worry, but a comforting smile played on his lips as his hands opened slightly.

And just like that, he threatened to burst into tears again.

The teacher wrapped his arms around Luca, reminiscent of his father’s comfort, and held him for a short moment. This mean, harsh teacher was the only one who offered him any comfort, a member of the small few who noticed, and then cared, about his emotions.

Luca was inevitably the first to pull away, arms loosing around him at the force. He didn’t want to tear-stain the man’s shirt. It already took a blow this evening.

“Do you want to talk about it?” He asked.

Luca shook his head, another obnoxious snort echoing in the room.

“That’s alright, just… don’t hide away. The teachers are here if you need us.” The man nodded his head with a thin-lipped expression. “When you’re feeling better, feel free to join us back at the table. I know we said no dessert but… you’re sitting with us. I’ll get you a hot chocolate or something.”

Mr. Polis walked out of the bathroom, leaving Luca alone with his thoughts once more. He swallowed the rising lump in his throat and went back to the sink, dampening another paper to cleanse his eyes.

A teacher. A teacher cared for him, a boy he didn’t even teach.

Something indescribable washed over him, and Luca pulled the towel away. He folded it over, the paper rough under his touch as he pressed it, once more, to his face. He wadded it up. As he walked away, he lightly threw it into the –

– trash can. He winced as the paper slit his fingertip.

He turned his finger to see the damage, but the cut was so thin it wasn’t even visible. With his thumb, he pulled the skin taut, feeling the burn of a paper cut but still, nothing.

Andrew groaned and grabbed his pen, going back to scribbling down notes as the video he neglected to pause shifted focus to the importance of Chilean copper mines in the 1970’s and how they partly incited the American-sponsored coup d'état.

Riveting.

The video was meant to help him study. It had good coverage of American-sponsored insurrections in the Cold War era, the current topic in his history class and the basis for a presentation he was set to give Monday. But even for a man who enjoyed these things, Andrew’s mind couldn’t help but loll. Every sentence sounded muffled. Even his eyes weren’t focused on the graphics. They watched the time instead, on the far right corner of his laptop.

The numbers lay stagnant, Andrew’s mind beginning to wander back to class. Back to the boy.

He rewound the video with a tense hand.

Again he heard the explanations of Chile’s nationalization of the copper mines and jotted down a couple points he thought were important. But when he rested his hand on the notebook page, he moved his finger slightly, and with it came a burgundy smear.

Andrew recoiled, briefly forgetting the paper cut. But the thin line had started to bubble with blood, painting more than the paper red. There was a spot on his pen as well.

He groaned, slamming the space bar to pause the video before getting off his bed. Though, he was also grateful to be without reminder of class for a moment. They had band aids somewhere in the house, he knew, but specifically where was a mystery.

His feet pattered on the upstairs carpet, turning to a hollower sound as the stairwell became wood. Descending into the small foyer he opened the cabinets directly to his right. He was cautious to keep his bloody finger off the furniture. After a few moments of looking, he found no band aids.

He blinked tiredly at the spot where he thought they’d be, throwing his head back in mild exhaust, catching the gaze of the crucifix above the drawers.

Andrew stared at it for a few moments, then hurriedly left the room to continue his search.

He found more miscellaneous cabinets, but as he looked through them, he couldn’t help but feel the divine gaze on him. Somebody – God – was watching him.

He turned around, scanning the empty room as if to find a ghost with him. Nothing was there. He turned back to his search, pulling open another drawer and scanning with new vigor. Andrew wanted to be back up in his room quick.

The feeling had, admittedly, been the thing to distract him earlier. It had been following him all week, though never as strong as it was in this moment. The cross and its waxen martyr could hear the sin in his mind, he was sure of it, as it was filled with… disquieting thoughts.

Andrew tried to shake it from him – the thoughts of class, watching the teacher, eyes drifting down to the boy beside him – but it was no use. He could lie and say he didn’t purposefully look in his direction, but what use would it be when he couldn’t even convince himself?

Everything began to remind him of his failure. Even the damn copper mines.

Andrew let out a huff of bitter laughter. How...

...romantic, he finished, quieter than the minds echo, a thought inside a thought. Something welled inside him. It wasn’t romantic. Nothing about this was ‘romantic’. Romance wasn’t… it wasn’t made up of… how would a relationship like that even work?

Andrew’s mind slowly turned to more intimate ideas. He made a face as he sharply pushed them out. Though the idea that he had thought them (and did so willingly, though he wouldn’t admit it) shocked him. Scared him.

Suddenly jolted from his mind palace of worry, Andrew looked directly at a box of band aids that had been in front of him for God-knows how long.

He blinked once at it. Twice. Then he delicately pulled back the loose flap on top and got a small bandage.

He stared at it, cut long dry and crusted over with blood. It shook. The band aid was shaking.

No, he was shaking, but he wasn’t going to look at himself and admit that.

Andrew placed it back in the box and slowly shut the cabinet. He stared at the dark wood, trying to reground himself in reality.

He turned back to the stairwell. Jesus watched him climb the stairs. His gaze followed him into his room.

He wasn’t. He could be. He could even think of the word. Not because he could remember it, but to let it ring in his head, in his voice?

Andrew swallowed rising bile as he convinced himself to think it, at least. Because was it better to refuse it, or to proudly state it negatively? Was he weaker for letting the guilt (no, not guilt, because he was guilty of naught) consume him, or for thinking of these things to begin with?

He was not ‘into’ men.

He was not gay.

He was not –

– queer name, Dedalus, and I have a queer name too, Athy. My name is the name of a town. Your name is like Latin.

Isaac skimmed over the passage. This section was a nice break from the confusing nature of Joyce’s earlier prose. He could appreciate the dedication to writing as if through a toddler’s perspective, but enjoyment was a different metric. At least these lines were brief and conversational.

Well, Isaac mused, nothing could be as dense as Ulysses, even if by the same author. And even if Isaac had never read that labyrinth of a book, he knew how torturous it was.

So he continued reading about children and their discussion of riddles, even if the one was quite poor at them.

—Can you answer me this one? Why is the county of Kildare like the leg of a fellow’s breeches?

Stephen thought what could be the answer and then said:

—I give it up.

“I wouldn’t say it’s early, but I don’t often get a call from you at this hour.”

Isaac froze, eyes looking at the words on the page but not quite reading them. That was the voice of his grandfather.

Isaac’s brow furrowed. He straightened himself and kept on reading.

—Because there is a thigh in it, he said. Do you see the joke? Athy is the town in the county Kildare and a thigh is the other thigh. “What could be so important, Asriel?”

Isaac didn’t get the joke, yet he kept reading. The book trickled back into dense prose and it failed to capture his attention. Instead, the words of his grandfather seemed to get louder as Isaac unintentionally focused on them.

“The Skoligs? I thought only the Vex had connections to your circle.”

Isaac stared at the paper.

His father… must be a magistrate too… He thought of his own father… while his mother played… when he asked for sixpence…

He read and reread the paragraph, never quite catching what it was saying. It began to frustrate him, the lengths to which is own mind refused to ignore the man in the other room.

“Checks and balances, I understand.” His grandfather’s voice got louder as he turned into the hallway and noticed Isaac in the drawing room. Isaac’s periphery betrayed the old man’s lingering gaze before he kept walking and entered the kitchen, which was still close enough for him to hear. “You’re saying Stockton is a playground for higher forces. What stake do you have in this?”

Silence, again.

He thought of his own father, of how he sang songs while his mother played and of how he always gave him a shilling when he asked for sixpence and he felt sorry for him that he was not a magistrate like the other boys’ fathers.

There. Isaac read the sentence and understood it. Finally. His took a moment to clear his head once more, unwittingly glancing over towards the direction of the voice.

“I didn’t take you to be the sentimental type.”

Isaac waited as the other line was deaf to him, before his sight refocused on the page. No. He didn’t care. His grandfather’s work was nothing to him.

Isaac began to read again, his mind wading through the twisted writing and trying to make sense of it. But the buzz of his grandfather’s gruff voice never failed to waft back to him.

He focused even harder on reading.

Isaac made it halfway down the page before: “Don’t make this my families business. Again.”

Isaac’s sight stopped dead.

Who did he say he was on call with? Asriel? The question betrayed his apathy. A vitriolic expression bled onto his face. Who was he to blame that on someone else? He made it his families business, whatever it was – his work was their downfall. He was their downfall. Who but he could have made it his parent’s problem? Who was Asriel?

The silence was deafening as he waited for any answer, wiggling his ears childishly as if it would help him hear a response.

“Anything involving that woman was my families business,” his grandfather barked. Even Isaac was slightly taken aback. His eyes were glued to the wall, as if to bare through them and face his grandfather entirely.

That woman… Isaac raked his brain for whoever that could be. He came up blank. There was no woman significant enough to his family, that he knew of, to solicit that reaction from his grandfather.

His grandfather rounded the corner and Isaac threw himself back in the direction of the book. He did not try to read the words, but met the paragraph he had long bore at and the shape of two words in particular. Father and mother sat inked before him. Silence enveloped a long moment.

When his grandfather began to speak, Isaac could no longer handle being even near the man.

As he stood, the book folded back together harshly, closing him away from the specters of a family. Isaac began to walk in the opposite direction of his grandfather, towards his room. As he turned into the hallway, the words “wraith” and “leader” hit him.

Isaac quickened his pace, one final name gracing his ear; “Terra,–“

– Warden’s voice ricocheted outside the car, his large figure shoving on a coat as he emerged out of the house. He waited for a second, listening to an inaudible response, before climbing into the drivers seat.

Elias scooted even farther down into his seat, knees propped up higher than his head as his spine curled to an uncomfortable degree. But he was too engrossed in his 3DS to notice – Elias had a Riolu to catch and a gym badge to obtain, he had no time for the meager discomfort in his neck.

Warden turned the car on and, as the engine whirred to life, glanced back at Elias and chuckled. “Enjoying the game?”

Elias barely heard him, staring daggers at the Poké Ball which shook once. Twice. Then a shadowy sprite of Riolu emerged from its wake. Elias groaned and managed to slink even farther down.

“Don’t ignore your dad, Elias.”

He looked up to see his mother’s hair swishing as she put on her seat belt, then turned to face him with furrowed eyebrows and a teasing smile at her lips.

“And sit up,” her voice gaining a sudden starkness as she took in his form.

Elias scrambled to do just that, the commanding tone of his mother’s voice, full of love yet still slightly terrifying imploring him to have perfect posture and a clicked in seat belt within moments. She nodded and turned back around.

When his dad repeated the question, Elias shifted the 3DS back into his lap. “Yeah, I am.”

“Good,” was all his father responded with. As he looked over his seat to pull out of the driveway, he smiled at Elias.

The boy waited for a bit before returning to the game. He didn’t want to risk not hearing someone again and them actually getting annoyed. But as their conversation lulled into something work related, Elias eagerly snatched the system back up and honed his attention to the screen.

And when he finally managed to catch the Pokemon, his grin stretched ear-to-ear.

He navigated to the menu, pressing save and shutting the console with a snapping sound. He often got a headache from playing video games in the car. One already was teasing at the front of his head.

Thankfully, the window glass was cold where he placed his cheek. Roaming Stockton streets passed by in a blur, concrete on concrete on concrete. Elias played a game with the metal fences: He’d find their endpoint, wait for them to pass him, then ‘jump’ to the next with his sight. It kept him entertained in the monochrome, if slightly dizzying.

There was a small park, however, on a street they passed. When his mom told stories of her youth, which was rare, the park had come up – one of her friends began a garden within it to help the community.

He glanced at her. Her eyes were closed, though mouth still moving as she explained something to his dad.

Unintentionally, Elias mimicked her movement. He reclined in the seat and rested his head somewhat lopsidedly, twiddling the game console in his hands, watching as the outside greenery quickly bled back into gray. His friends own came to mind.

Elias closed his eyes to the thought of him showing off his catch. Oh, it was going to be awesome. He couldn’t wait.

[aestheticpearl]

calling them a good boy

✧·˚feat: kayson mayer, jonah, xanthus claiborne, andrew marston, issac rhoades, elias

✧·˚genre: crack, suggestive

✧·˚requested: yes!

✧·˚a/n: next multi character texts will have more people 🤭

.love always <3 pearl

.texts masterlist

[claiestve]

ꨄ sakuverse tweets ! pt. 4 :

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

well… well okay LUCA HAS BEEN ADDED

[zsakuva]

who are the top three to show the most PDA, and who would not like to show as much ( as in be shy to show any in public)

Probably...

Top three:

Elias

Kayson

Xanthus

Bottom three:

Niall

Isaac

Andrew

[belladonnadawn]

Saku verse men reacting to those tiktok interviewers who run up to people and ask how much Thier outfit cost from head to toe!

Sakuverse men and fit checks interview

Them reacting to a street interview about their outfits! Ft. Isaac Rhoades, Dontis, Xanthus Claiborne, Andrew Marston, Kayson Mayer, and Luca (Thanks for the request!)

Isaac Rhoades

Chances of Isaac agreeing to a public interview that would be published on the internet is non existent.

There's no way that this man would let a stranger interview him. He's NOT taking a risk.

"Hey, Sir can we–"

Would walk past them as if they don't exist.

Dontis

He doesn’t mind interviews, some part of it loves it since he's able to share something about him with others.

Very stylish and knows how to blend his outfits.

"Wow, those clothes look vintage."

"Yeah? Well my grandfather gave it to me."

He is the grandfather.

"How much does your whole outfit cost?"

"Probably $455 without inflation."

"Huh?"

Xanthus Claiborne

Him going along depends on his mood to be honest.

Either he'd walk past them or answer properly.

"Hey, Sir. Can we have a fit check?"

"I am fit and healthy. Thanks."

"Oh, no I mean the outfit, how much is it?"

"Well, it's probably thousands. I don't know. I don't look at the price."

"Oh…"

Andrew Marston

He'd be confused at first but figured that it was one of the trends in social media.

"You have a specific aesthetic, how much did you spend on that?"

"Some of it was thrifted and some were given by my darling. So I guess just a hundred."

"You dress like an English teacher."

"… I was."

Kayson Mayer

"Hey, Sir, can we do a little fit check?"

Would definitely agree with a huge grin on his face.

Someone asking him that question probably translated to: 'Oh, so you like his style?'

"Sure: jeans from levi's, shirt from h&m, shoes from converse, and necklace from my baby. Shoutout to them."

Won't shut up about it once he's home.

Luca

He'd be taken aback if a stranger approached him with a microphone.

Quite shy, but would agree.

"You look nice today, how much is the outfit?"

"Oh, honestly I just bought these from fast fashion stores. I'm sure you can buy it down the street if you took a left turn and once you saw a–"

"We're not here for that…"

"Oh.."

Very sweet. Very mindful. Very demure.

Divider: Cafekitsune

[c-t-r-l14]

Kayson??

Are You Ok?

“Been staring at your face

From across the room now

You seem out of place.”

—————💙—————

Synopsis: Sometimes, Kayson is all you need.

——————💙—————

“You haven’t gotten a job yet? Just what the hell are you doing over there?”

You couldn’t help but flinch at the sharp, harsh tone that laced your mother’s voice. As the little beads of perspiration made their way down your face, you took a deep breath, and let a shaky sigh pass through your pursed lips. You tried your best to focus on the warmth of the gentle rays of sunshine, the shadow casted by the leaves hovering above you, or staring at the patches of sunlight that poked its way through the gaps.You tried to focus on the softness of the grass under your feet, or the intoxicating, overwhelming aroma of magnolia. But it didn’t matter how hard you tried to focus on the beautiful scene in front of you—you could feel the pit in your stomach getting deeper by the second, and the tremors that took over your hands didn’t cease. All you could do was tighten the grip on your phone and let the cold, icy feeling of regret seep into your veins—because you knew, somehow, someway, this was going to happen.

You should’ve let this call go straight to voicemail.

“Mama— I’m trying my best, but finding a job fresh out of college is so difficult right now!” You answered sheepishly.

“Well maybe you would’ve had one if you’d just simply applied yourself better!” She snapped.

You fought the urge to scoff and groan as pure annoyance took hold of your entire body. Usually, when she says things like this—you find it best to keep your face as neutral as possible, and answer her calmly. Usually, you’d murmur a weak, “Okay Mama, I’m sorry,” or a meek “I’ll do better,” and nothing more than that. Usually you’d let her speak her piece, and let her believe that you weren’t trying as hard as actually were.

But on this particular day, you were at your wits end.

It was bad enough that she thought that all you were doing was kicking back, twiddling your thumbs, and wasting time. It was worse that she invalidated all of your efforts and everything you’ve ever worked for. But the fact that your application was rejected from yet another job was just the icing on the cake. Pent up frustration and anger melted away the frigid ice that consumed your veins moments ago, and you decided to speak—not even trying to hide the pure irritation that took over your tone.

“Mama, you’re acting like all I did was slack off! I worked hard! I tried my best! I still am!”

“Well, you’re not trying hard enough, and you never have.”

“Are you seriou—”

“You have no idea how lucky you are to be in this position—to be in this country—to live this life. You have it so good, and despite all the sacrifices your father and I made to provide you with an easier path, you still can’t find it in your heart to do your best! Do you know what I’d give to be in your shoes right now? To live your life?? To be able to go to college? Your father and I didn’t have that luxury back home!”

“What about me? What about all the things I’ve sacrificed?? All the things that I’ve worked for?? I’ve spent hours of my life—hunched over at my desk—staring at nothing but books and computer screens in order to get grades to make you happy! Hours of my life I could’ve spent hanging with friends, or finding new hobbies—but instead, I sat there and worked my ass off for you! I did it to make you proud!”

“Well, do I sound proud to you?”

Anything else you had to say died on your tongue when you heard that. And the fire that once burned through your body fizzled out in an instant.

“You talk about the ‘sacrifices you’ve made’ but what would you know about any of that—lounging around on a couch that isn’t yours, eating food you didn’t even buy, mooching off of people who don’t even have your best interest at heart! Relying on that Kayson boy—who does nothing but enable this destructive behavior! You talk about all the sacrifices you’ve made but sacrifices only matter when you get the result you gave up everything for. But what do you have to show for all the ‘sacrifices’ you’ve made, huh?? Nothing.”

You felt your heart clench in your chest.

“The point of spending all of those hours studying was to ensure that you’d get a good job. I talked to Danny’s mother the other day and she told me that his younger sibling didn’t sleep for four days straight because they studied for the bar. And now, they’re a lawyer at a local firm. That boy they were dating got an offer to work at a big photography company in New York City. Your history teacher was 23 years old when he started teaching at the University. And you know what all of them have in common?”

You swallowed.

“They’re all around the same age as you are. They all sat by their desks—spending ‘hours of their lives’ slaving away at reports, essays, and homework—hours of their lives they could’ve spent doing something else, just like you did. But you know what the difference is between you and them?”

“I—”

“They have the luxury of seeing the fruits of their hard labor, and you don’t.”

“Wh—”

“You know good and damn well that if everyone back home heard about the way you turned out, they’d all look at you funny. Because here you are in a place where you have a chance—a chance better than them to live a successful life—to have a good job with a nice salary—and instead of seizing those opportunities while they’re still there, you’ve spent that time lazing around on a couch that doesn’t even belong to you. A chance they themselves could’ve—hell, would’ve used better than you.”

Your chest tightened as those words fell out of her mouth, and your mind went completely blank. You didn’t even know what to say in response. What could you say?

“Listen to me. Your father and I are sick and tired of waiting for you to get your shit together, (Y/N). We did not spend thousands of pounds to get you a proper education just for you to end up as a jobless blob living, sleeping, and eating under a roof you don’t even pay for! You either do something with your life, or you might as well give us our money back. The clock is ticking, (Y/N)! Do better!”

The line went dead, and all you could feel was the warmth radiating from your phone as it pressed against your cheek. You tried to focus on the smell of magnolia wafting through the wind, but that once beautiful aroma suddenly turned sour. And, despite the rays of golden that showered everyone that walked into its warmth, the world seemed a little darker, and a lot more colder. You looked out at the people sauntering down the grassy pathways, and the others lingering under the trees nearby, at the children running after each other, their mouths upturned and wide, the ends of their eyes crinkled with joy as the air was filled with laughter. You attempted to focus on the soft murmur of conversations of the people basking in the sun, and the chirping of the birds roosting in the foliage overhead. You tried your best to distract yourself from the sinking feeling in your stomach, from the absolute guilt that loomed over your head like a thick, gray storm cloud—blocking even the light peeking its way through the gaps in the leaves, or the burning pain that ravaged your chest.

You tried your best to breathe.

But those attempts were all in vain. Because no matter how much you tried to focus on sounds of the leaves rustling in the wind, they’d eventually be drowned out by your mother’s harsh words—the conversation playing in your mind incessantly like a broken record. It echoed in your mind, her angry tone cutting deep every time—opening up old wounds and insecurities you did your best to heal from. The guilt came crashing down on you like a deluge, sweeping away any semblance of serenity and peace within you—because the worst part was, she was right. You tried your best, but it wasn’t enough, and it will never be enough. You were guilty of wasting time—guilty of wasting money, of wasting chances—chances you were given so easily—that seemed like such a distant dream to your relatives back home. Your eyes burned with tears, blurring the view that once brought you calmness.With a heavy heart, trembling hands, and shaking shoulders, you started the long trek home.

You wanted nothing more than to crawl under the covers and curl into a ball, and cry until there was nothing left of you but a damp puddle—which will, too, eventually disappear.

….

Kayson hummed happily as he poured the bell peppers into a pot of ground turkey, dancing to an imaginary song while he stirred it carefully. He took a deep breath and sighed satisfactorily, pouring the marinara sauce in next. In a surprising turn of events, he was granted the rest of the day off, and he couldn’t think of a better way to spend his time than making your favorite meal for dinner. He placed the cover on the pot, eagerly peeking his head around the corner as he heard you enter, his lips upturned in a wide smile—ready to give you a warm welcome. But his smile vanished in an instant when he saw your bloodshot eyes, your red face, which showed an expression of utter dejection and defeat—and your posture, which was usually so perfect, so precise—ruined by the way you hunched over.

Despite your unsightly appearance, you forced your lips into a small smile and croaked, “Hey Kay. That smells amazing, what is it?”

He steps closer to you. “Perfect? What’s the matter?”

You flinched at that nickname. You knew you weren’t worthy of it. A fresh wave of tears came over you, and sob broke past your lips. In an instant, Kayson gathered you in his strong arms—holding your shaking frame gently as you fell further into pieces.

“Shh….It’s okay. I’ve got you,” He assured softly, his hand rubbing your back—his ministrations slowly bringing back the comfort you thought you lost in that park.

With ease, he led you to the couch—and soon enough, your face was buried in his chest, your body curling into his own—his warmth enveloping you, like a flame in the harshest of winters. And for a few minutes, you allowed yourself to fall apart in the sanctity of his arms.

….

You were reduced to quiet sniffles and shaking shoulders, but your chest—which burned with so much pain, and was crushed by the heavy weight of guilt—felt so much lighter. And, even though you were suffering from a massive headache and sore, red eyes, you were able to breathe again. You sighed heavily, sinking further in Kayson’s embrace as he tightened his hold around you.

And, with a soft, gentle voice—filled with concern and love, he asked you, “Are you okay now?”

You shook your head.

“No,” you croaked, your throat still sore from crying, “But hopefully I will be.”

“What’s got you so upset, babe? What’s going on in that pretty head of yours?”

Your lips formed a small smile, despite how much they trembled; and with a wavering voice, you told him everything. You told him about the rejection of your job application, the harsh and hurtful words your mother had for you, and how you felt like you were failing at everything you did.

“I don’t know what’s worse,” you sniffled—a fresh wave of tears filling your eyes, “The fact that she was right about everything, or that all of the time I’ve spent studying meant so little in the very end. Everyone else is so far ahead in their lives, and I’m just out here falling behind…”

“But that’s just not true! Every single day you get up out of bed and make the effort to find work! Every single day you keep applying, and interviewing, and doing everything you can to actually get a job! It’s not like you sit around doing nothing all day! You work hard, even now!”

“But—”

“Look, I know you think that all the work you did was for nothing, but that is the furthest thing from the truth. It was because you spent all that time studying that you graduated with honors! It was those sleepless nights that helped you graduate at the top of the class—it was all that effort you put into your assignments that got you those awards! You’ve graduated college, and were one of the most intelligent students in the class on top of that! Does any of that sound like “sacrifices made in vain” to you?”

For a moment, you paused—and let his words sink in. Doubt and guilt still swarmed you, its weight massive—its force excruciating, and painful; but despite the heavy load that burdened your entire body, you couldn’t deny what he just said. College isn’t an easy feat, and graduating with honors isn’t something to scoff at, either.

“No,” you murmured—your voice smaller, your tone discerning, “No, it isn’t.”

“Exactly. You’ve already accomplished so much in the short time you’ve been on this Earth, and I know you will go on to achieve so much more. And just because you aren’t where you want to be in life right now doesn’t mean that you will never get there, it just means you have to keep working until you do!”

The self-doubt that weighed you down like a heavy load—the guilt that once caused your eyes to fill up with tears—the pain that burned your chest, causing your entire body to ache, slowly but surely started to fade away as you processed his words. And as you saw his confidence in you—unwavering, relentless—like an untamed flame—the brick wall of self-doubt that had you sheltered in for so long—the wall kept you in the shadows, blocking you from the warmth of the sun's rays—slowly started to crack, and chip away.

“All this talk your mom has about how your relatives will ‘look at you funny,’ and how they would’ve ‘done better than you,’ doesn’t matter—because they aren’t the one who’s living your life. You shouldn’t let what other people would’ve done dictate the decisions you make. You wouldn’t be living your life otherwise—you’d be living someone else's. And even your mother wouldn’t know for sure what your relatives would do if they were living your life—because she’s not them. So, be kinder to yourself, babe! Everyone has their own path that they walk through at their own pace; that’s why it’s never okay to compare your progress to anyone else’s. Your time will come.”

He cupped your face, guiding you to look into his eyes, his loving stare meeting your gaze as a smile graced his beautiful features.

“And when it does, I’ll be right here.”

Your eyes welled up with tears once more—and when they fell, you were comforted by the gentle sensation of his thumb wiping them away. You melted further in his warm embrace, as you gingerly laid your head against his chest. His unwavering belief in you provided with strength you couldn’t have gotten anywhere else.

“Thanks, Kay. I don’t know what I’d do without you,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper.

He placed a kiss on the crown of your head, and tightened his hold once more.

“Anytime, Perfect.”

————————💙————————-

A/N: Good Ghandi, ya’ll. I’m SO sorry this took so long. I actually had this in the works since like—April, but I couldn’t for the LIFE of me finish it because as it turns out….writing for Kayson is kinda hard! But also, June and July were months that were just so damn busy for me, and I had such little time to write.

Anyway, I have a head cannon that Perfect is from immigrant family—mostly because in a lot of immigrant households, the parents put a lot of emphasis on getting a good education to ensure a good job. (My household is no different. However, I’m grateful to have parents who actually recognize my achievements, and would never talk to me the way Perfect’s parents do. Love you, mom and dad!)

There is a lot expectations and pressure put on Perfect to succeed, and it’s to the point where they just equate all of their self-worth to the things they’ve accomplished, and that really just reminds me of some of my friends who also live in immigrant households, too😭

Sometimes, you aren’t gonna be where you want to be in life, but that doesn’t mean you’ve failed or that all the hard work you’ve put in doesn’t mean anything, it just means it isn’t your time, yet. And everyone has their time.

And honestly, as long as you’re trying your best—that’s the only thing you can do. 💙

Masterlist