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hjh-ceilo-monster · 3 years

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Dear letter... To you... (KTH)

Summary : There was no connection between these two strangers accept a letter in one’s hand.

Story inspo : a story from a wedding

Author POV.

*click*

The camera captured the scene of an empty alley. It was just another ordinary day for everyone to wake up and start their routines. In this little town, almost everyone knew each other-despite a few unfamiliar faces who might appear around the street.

Kim Taehyung was one of them, a wanderlust soul. He found this little town not long ago on a travel site. Visiting this beautiful and classic area for a week, he could tell that he fell in love, even if; there was nothing much to attract a large group of tourists.

*click*

Taehyung snapped another shot. This place was nothing but calming for him. He took a turn at a random corner and met with a local restaurant. Taehyung opened the wooden door. The bell shimmed as a signal of a new customer.

“Good day sir, what would you like to order?” Taehyung looked above the waiter for a menu.

“Any tradition dishes?” Taehyung asked. Every dish seemed to look the same since there were no note up on the board.

After having description from the waiter, he decided his dish. A waitress, who finished preparing a table, gestured Taehyung to take a seat.

“What would you like for today?”

The door opened and closed from time to time. Taehyung was still in the restaurant and enjoyed his meal. He looked through a photo album. He was so busy with his camera without noticing that someone approached him.

“Sir, can this lady have a seat here? The restaurant has no seats available at the moment.” The waitress interrupted him. Taehyung didn’t look up, but nodded as an answer.

— ˗ˋ ୨୧ ˊ˗ —

Taehyung POV.

I felt like I was acting rude. However, I didn’t know how to start a conversation with the stranger either. I sat in silence and continued to play with my camera-taking the picture of the lake outside the window.

A glance at the person, but I only met a journal book. The person behind the book was so focused on the paper. Drawing or writing? I looked at the actions and kept those questions in my head.

I then put my attention back into my camera. I snapped a few shots and checked them. I did it again and again like a loop, not caring for the stranger who sat opposite me.

And both of us continued sitting there in silence.

“Have a good day miss.”

I looked up and met with an empty seat. The loud bell sound then appeared out of nowhere. I assumed that might come from a clock tower nearby. I checked my watch and gasped.

“I’ve been here for hour and a half already?” I started packing my camera and some postcards that I didn’t finish writing.

The moment I stood up and stepped toward the door, one of the waiters stopped me. He handed me a piece of brown ripped paper and a postcard.

“These aren’t mine.”

“It was on your table, sir.” I didn’t care about it that much and put both into my pocket.

‘What a tiring day.’ I thought to myself. I strolled down the eat part of the town today. The beach was nice. I could feel the breeze wash over me and left a fresh sea salt scent.

“What could it be?” I picked up the thing I got in the morning. Inspecting the handwriting, it must belong to that stranger. She surely had a neat yet unique handwriting. I assumed these were a part of her journal.

There were a few translucent color dots on a paper. She spilled something? She painted? I flipped the paper and searched for any clue to find her. Fortunately, there was something.

“Interesting.”

— ˗ˋ ୨୧ ˊ˗ —

Author POV.

2 years later

“Any meeting?” Taehyung asked his secretary to check his schedule. He had been busy for awhile after his father stepped down from the position.

“Sir, you have a meeting around…” His secretary reviewed his schedule.

“For the project, we have an appointment with the artist in the evening.”

The secretary closed her iPad and left him in the elevator. Taehyung went up to another floor before he left. He then stepped into his office.

“Sir, the artist arrived.”

After he ended the call, he stepped into a metal box. The door closed and the digital screen ran a set of numbers as he went down.

“Here is the copy of their plan.” Taehyung received the file and scrolled through the plan. Checking the details, he decided to wait for their presentation.

Everyone stood up and bowed to him as a greeting when the glass door slid open. He took a seat and the others followed.

“Shall we start?” When he asked, a woman stood up from her seat. She walked toward the screen that had already prepared the presentation.

— ˗ˋ ୨୧ ˊ˗ —

Y/N POV.

‘Here we go.’ I thought to myself and the glass door slid open.

The CEO stepped inside the room. His every step echoed in the room-making my heartbeat went faster. When we all took our seats, I then noticed his feature. He looked young, probably around my age. His posture was calm yet intimidate.

“Shall we start?” Ok, y/n, you got this. I stood up with confident. I tried my best to look calm. If anyone could read my thought, they would know how nervous I was.

I started by explaining my inspiration a little bit before moving on to the concept and its details. It was nerve-wracking since the guy stared at me throughout my presentation. I felt him monitoring my moves, and that made me anxious.

“Is there any question?” Now, time to face the real anxiety.

I was right. He then started asking millions of questions about my idea.

The scribbling sound was loud and clear. I was now sitting in the CEO’s cabinet. He noted down the details while I explained. He dismissed everyone from the meeting half an hour ago since their working hour was end.

“Have we ever met before?” He asked a random question out of the blue.

“I..I don’t think so.” Why did I stutter?

I saw him smiled a little. Did I say something wrong? He knew me before? I was sure that I didn’t meet him before. My forgetful self started recalling his face.

“My secretary will contact you for our next appointment.” I nodded and stood up-ready to leave.

“Oh, can you leave your personal contact? In case, we have to call you for the urgent work.” I then left him my personal contact and left the place.

— ˗ˋ ୨୧ ˊ˗ —

Author POV.

With the contact you left a week ago, Taehyung always messaged you. Even if it was about work, you were a little puzzled. Is it common for that huge interior company to let the boss directly contact any worker (even though you weren’t his employee directly)?

The clock was ticking. The sky gradually changed its shade. Everyone continued working on the job as usual. Taehyung was so busy surfing through the site and gallery of the artist. Lucky that he had his own office because if someone found him smiling like an idiot in front of the screen right now, they would think he was weird.

“I’ll see you soon.” He spoke to himself while looking through your work.

After Taehyung met you, to say Taehyung was head over heal into you wasn’t an exaggerated liar. He was even more obsessed with you when he saw your handwriting. He got his answer that you were ‘that’ stranger.

“Why are we here today? I thought we are going to work on the project.” You and Taehyung got closer after a week of him messaging to you unstop about work (A/N: *Ahem* work you say?)

“Well, this is also work, is it not?” His boxy smiled plaster his face.

“At the art exhibition?”

“Yeah, because I want learn about them. It can help me better understanding what you are doing and fuse them into my collection as well.”

— ˗ˋ ୨୧ ˊ˗ —

Taehyung POV.

‘Is that excuse work?’ I looked at her face. She seemed to not catch my real intention. I still put on my signature innocent smile-using it to persuade her.

“We better to be hurry then. Today we also needed to buy my equipment.” I succeeded. She entered the place without asking any further.

I snapped many shots when we were inside. She was so passionate about the exhibition. I usually preferred a peaceful atmosphere while walking in the exhibition hall. However, the way she kept talking about each piece of art, I didn’t find it annoying or boring.

“You seemed to be into this piece. Do you want it to be the main pantone of your collection?” I got out of my head and nodded. She then chuckled lightly.

‘Ah, I embarrassed myself, didn’t I?’

“Ok, we should leave then.”

We were here for a few hours now. She was lost in her world. When she picked the colors, she wouldn’t forget to ask for my comment. If I approved, she would be happy. Her eyes glowed thousands of lights. I couldn’t help but stare. She was indeed passionate about our work.

‘Our?’ When I realized that I used that word, I somehow felt a tingle feeling inside.

“We can get out of here soon. Do you think this is enough?” I snapped back to reality. I then met a cart full of art tools.

“I think these will do.” I emphasized the word these to remind her that it was enough.

“Sorry, I picked them for personal purpose as well. Hope you won’t mind.” I gave her a disbelief look while she grinned.

“If you mind, you can cut it from my salary.” She pouted and wheeled the cart.

‘Cute’

— ˗ˋ ୨୧ ˊ˗ —

Author POV.

Little by little, you fell for Taehyung. It was a feeling that gradually develop without your notice. By the time you realized it, you had already established your status with him.

“And again, you bring me to somewhere out of our schedule.”

“And you like it as always.” You rolled your eyes and entered the restaurant.

Entering a familiar elegant restaurant, a waitress led you both toward the VIP table. Guess who booked that?

The waiter then approached your table and left the menu on the table. He stood there and waited patiently for your order. You finished ordering your meal in the blink of an eye since you only had one fav dish. However, for Taehyung, it took ages to order.

“Why is it so quiet today?” You asked. You glanced around the floor and saw no one other than your table.

“Oh, I booked the whole floor today.” Taehyung answered it as if it was a normal thing to do.

“You did what?” You looked at the guy with a shocked face. He noticed your expression and chuckled.

— ˗ˋ ୨୧ ˊ˗ —

Y/N POV.

This was unbelievable. Why on earth did he need to book the whole floor? I had no idea of what was on his mind. Being close with Taehyung, I learned one thing. That one thing was sometimes you needed no rational thought to do something.

The quiet atmosphere then got replaced when a musician started playing some tunes. The soft melody filled the air.

‘He is up to something?’

I monitored his expressions and actions, but I didn’t get the answer. I couldn’t keep the curiosity any longer. I opened my mouth to fire out the question.

“Please, enjoy the meal.”

‘Lucky you, Tae.’ A waitress interrupted me before I could ask. Both of us started eating our meal.

I felt the meal was more delicious. Is it because of the atmosphere?

— ˗ˋ ୨୧ ˊ˗ —

Taehyung POV.

‘Phew she didn’t ask anything yet.’ I thought to myself while eating the meal. Thanks to that waitress, she didn’t get her chance. I didn’t want her to know my surprise just yet.

Curious right?

Today, I booked our favorite restaurant to discuss on the work like always. It looked ordinary until here. Now, the surprise plan will start.

I signaled a waiter who stood beside. He knew that it was the time for the special menu. Waiting for a bit, a box finally landed on the middle of the table.

“Open it.” I ordered her. She gave me a suspiscious look before carefully opened it.

*gasp*

“And that is your answer.” I spoke. I knew what she was about to ask before our meal arrived.

— ˗ˋ ୨୧ ˊ˗ —

Author POV.

“That was such a lovely story. I could see ladies in the venue look jelous at you both.”

Wedding day

The MC spoke. Taehyung give his signature smile. He isn’t shy about it. You can tell that he is bragging your story to the audience.

“And I told her about the letter. I still remembered how she was surprise and then her face flush. It was really cute.” The audience awe at him.

“Ok, we will now moving on to the surprise of tonight.” Taehyung glance at the MC. He remembers that the next thing is throwing the bouquet.

“You didn’t expect it, did you? Since you gave me such a surprise that day, I am going to give you one today.”

You look at your husband who look so lost. You chuckle at his expression before 2 staff step on stage with a gift. They then hand it to him and you wait for his reaction.

“Oh my god.” He looks shock when he tears off a wrapper. It was a sketch of him from the day you met him.

“So is this why you didn’t have any conversation with me or even look at me?” He smirks and teases you.

“There are more.”

The MC now hand him a box which is much smaller than the first gift. He shakes a few time after recieves them. When he know that isn’t going to help him to guess, he open the bow.

He gasp so do the aucience. His eyes filled up with tears. His hands are shaking. The MC take the little gift out of his hand and show it to the audience. The audience go wild. The cheering and whistling sound echo in the venue. You then grab the mic and speak.

“Congratulation my dear, you are going to be papa.”

Author note : This story was inspired by the story from a wedding of my friend’s cousin. Her cousin met his bride because he found her note. Their story then began. My friend told me the groom’s comment about the bride. “I thought the handwriting was beautiful. When I finally found the owner, she was more beautiful.” It sounded cheesy, but that was their story. I hope you enjoy this one. See you in the next os.

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bennyboyjones · 4 years

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THE GETAWAY (Ben Hardy FanFic) Prologue

A/N: Hi! So, here is the prologue to my Ben Hardy AU Fanfic! There are currently several chapters written, which you can find on Wattpad if you click on the link below, but I’ve decided to also upload it here as well. It might be a bit behind, but you’ll still get all the chaps eventually.

What it is: basically, a girl from a small town who is bored of her life decides to take a trip to Nice where she runs into ben, who is also running away from some shit and some romance ensues.

Word count: 1.6k

In this chapter: just some background to get us started. You probably don’t have to read this to understand what comes after, but it will help you understand the main character better.

WATTPAD LINK IF YOU WANT TO READ AHEAD

Here we go:

prologue

I brushed my thumb over the twenty year old bonds clutched between my fingers. My eyes swept over the bank tellers, my weight switching back and forth from my right to my left foot. These people were taking forever; I figured it would be slow since it was a Monday morning, but apparently this was when all of the housewives did their banking. I had been next in line for the past fifteen minutes and as time went on, my nerve was steadily draining out of me.

Last night, after a bottle of wine, I sat on the floor of my bedroom and reached under my bed for the manilla folder that held the contents of what I would consider the best six months of my life. The folder was worn, soft, had both coffee and wine stains, and looked way too aged for something that had only come into existence a year ago. I placed my glass next to me, on the equally stained gray carpet, and pulled out endless postcards, bookmarks, pamphlets, plane tickets, museum and park and exhibit passes, and polaroids. I sifted through them, running fingers over my best friends’ smiling faces, rereading postcards to my family I had already memorized, focusing on guides to museums in Copenhagen, Paris, and London as if studying them could magically teleport me back. Instead, I was stuck here, in Rye, a small town that I was so, so bored of.

I had lived here my entire life, and so had my parents. We went to the same elementary school and high school, we lived a thirty-second drive and a five minute walk from where my dad grew up. Everyone I had gone to school with had parents who graduated with or around the same time as mine. I felt so suffocated by sameness, by the ordinariness, and was terrified of repeating the pattern of monotony.

When it was time to go to college, I was sure I would end up in New York City—somewhere not too far, but far enough, different enough from everything I wanted to get away from. When I was in high school, I decided that I was made to live there. For nine months out of the year, I’m a New Yorker—but during the summer I’m always back in Rye because apparently it’s financially irresponsible to take out loans to dorm over the summer and I can’t afford an apartment on a waitress’s salary, nor do I have the time to take up a second job and go to school full time, so Rye it is.

I only ever missed New York seasonally, but I missed London all the time.

I missed living in London. I missed walking the three blocks from Queen Mary to the Co-Op to grab mushrooms, flapjacks, and a bottle of wine. I missed sitting on the Central Line at 11:30pm drunk, with Sarah and Annie on our way to our favorite club near Tottenham Court Road. I missed walking to Rinkoff’s hungover and grabbing a cronut. I missed Brick Lane on Sunday mornings. I missed a past life.

For the past year, I’ve been saving up to get it back. When I came home last June, I worked a waitressing job at a small restaurant on our main street, as many doubles as I could—six days a week—and I refused to spend a single dime of it. I worked part time the past two semesters and saved as much as I could, but metro cards were expensive and a girl needed to eat, and also have a social life, and instead of “throwing away” my left over aid money on spring break vacations like my friends did, I hoarded that $1,231 and pretended I wasn’t bothered by the Miami Beach pictures even though I knew I was missing out.

London was expensive, that much was clear; the only way I survived six months on $6,000 was because my financial aid paid for my housing and tuition, traveling around Europe while living in Europe is cheap, and my mom was sending me $100 a week for groceries because she was worried that all the jokes I made about not eating so I could afford to party (or financial drinking, as it’s been called) were serious (they were, and often the money that was supposed to be meant for groceries went to more fucking around—you only go abroad like that once in your entire life and I was so not going to waste it). And still, despite the weekly allowance from my mom, I still came home with $82 left in my bank account. Towards the end of the six months I was barely hanging on financially. Basically, what I’m saying is that I knew going back was going to cost me a lot of money, especially since I knew I wouldn’t have the same kind of help that I had the last time around.

So, I saved and refused to do the math to figure out how much I would need to go back to London for at least two weeks. Well, last night, I did the math—and, oh boy, I am not going back to London until I have at least a few thousand more dollars to my name. That crushing disappointment is what led me to that manilla folder.

The past few months, going back to Europe was all I could think about; I was graduating in December and this was my last summer to really do whatever I wanted before I had to be a real adult. Granted, I was planning on going straight into grad school, but the statement still stands.

I took another sip of the cheap-ass red I regretted buying before grabbing my photos from Nice. I slowly went through them, and my eyes misted at the landscapes, the crooked self portraits taken on both disposables and my barely functioning digital, the photos of food, and coffees perfectly placed next to pages of my open journal.

It was the one place that I had gone alone, in the middle of January, for only three days. It was a trip I took out of convenience (student visa issues) and I had only chosen Nice because it was both relatively cheap and small, but it ended up being my favorite place. The place I named first when people asked where I went, the place I talked about the most, and the place that meant the most to me.

I put the photos down and opened my laptop. I opened a tab for SkyScanner, one for AirBnb, and one for TripAdvisor and started doing the math.

Flight: $1,214 (round trip)

AirBnb: $2,056

Other Expenses: $3,000

Approx. Total: $6,270

I knew how much I had in my savings and knew I had bonds somewhere from my baptism or some other religious sacrament I was forced to endure that I could cash for some extra money. I had enough for three weeks, but didn’t have much of a financial cushion should I need it.

I downed what was left in my glass and booked my trip. I felt my hands shaking as I took them off my keyboard to rest them on my cheeks. My face was flush from both the wine and the excitement. I wiped my feet against the carpet, the nervous sweat on their bottoms making me uncomfortable. I was never one for impulsivity; I was a planner, a control freak, a perfectionist—a full blown virgo for fuck’s sake and the longer I sat there, staring at the confirmation page before me, the more nauseous I felt. I refused to let the regret set in, the doubt, and the fear. Instead, I stood up, hopped down the stairs with my empty glass in hand, and upon refilling, announced to my mom that in three weeks time, I would be on a plane to France.

Earlier this morning, she rifled through the safe in the back of her closet in search of the bonds. When I told her about what I had done, she didn’t have much of a reply—she simply raised her glass to me and muttered a soft, “Jesus Christ”. I knew she was slightly concerned, but also excited for me and I really couldn’t have asked for a better reaction. She was a supportive mom, always, no matter how questionable her children’s choices were (and mine and my brothers’ choices were always questionable).

Once she found them shoved into an envelope from the ‘90s, I got in the car with my younger brother and went to the bank.

“You need to chill out. You’re going to make everyone in there nervous if you go in there all shaky and sweaty. You’re making yourself look like a criminal,” Noah said as he put his crappy car in park.

“I’m just nervous. I know this is a stupid idea, isn’t it? I should just keep saving and go back in, like, another year when I really have the money, don’t you think?”

He rolled his eyes, “No. I think you need to do this now. It’s all you ever fucking talk about, and honestly, visiting you last year was the best thing I’ve ever done and it was the happiest I saw you. Just stop being a dumb bitch and go in there and get your money.”

Ignoring the “bitch” comment, I pushed the car door open with a loud creaking and clutched the bonds so tight they folded in my hands.

When it was finally (finally!) my turn to be helped, I stepped up and handed the bonds over, crumpled and slightly damp with sweat, “I’d like to cash these, please.”

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emmarobertsblog · 6 years

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Supporting Statement

How I have interpreted the theme of light.

My interpretation of light, is that it can be referred to everything and anything that you feel is necessary and it also depends on how you perceive it. The most used way of light, is through a light source such as light that illuminates a room and too bring light into a situation of concern or confusion.

Research:

One of the artists that I have looked at is Antony Gormley. Antony Gormley is is a British

sculptor. His best-known works include the Angel of the North, a public sculpture in Gateshead in the North of England, commissioned in 1994 and erected in February 1998. The reason I was influenced by Gormly’s work is due to his sketches and the way he creates physical models of his work. He draws more sketchy and rough – he adds in detail to help you understand how he works and what it is he’s created. I was also inspired by the fact that since the 1980’s Antony Gormley has used the dominate theme of the human figure, which I felt helped me considerably since I was looking at mental health and feel as though looking at the human figure would work extremely well and also helped me look at different techniques. With his work being physical figures it helps to build and create the environment and atmosphere and really helps you to connect with his work as you get a sense of emotions that he has portrayed throughout his work.

During the mid 1980s Gormley was using a range of materials such as concrete, iron and clay.

The second artist that I looked at is Kim Noble. Kim Noble is a woman who, from the age of 14 years, spent 20 years in and out of hospital. In 1995, she began therapy and was diagnosed with Dissociative Identity Disorder (originally named multiple personality disorder).D.I.D is a creative way to cope with unbearable pain.

Kim has 20 main personalities. 14 of the main personalities are artists. I was influenced by her work, because she suffers from mental health, which I felt as though it would be intriguing to explore as she creates work throughout different personalities. After looking at her work I felt as though it very simple and she uses a lot of bold colours throughout her work which also look like silhouettes. Even though I found her

work interesting, I did also find her work quite disturbing, as it shows violence and messages written backwards on the walls and people being chained up, which create a quite dark atmosphere. I think her work is unique, I’ve never seen work like her which is why she stood out to me.

Since she has no formal art training, 14 of the main alters became interested in painting in 2004 after spending a short time with an art therapist. These 14 artists each have their own distinctive style, colours and themes, ranging from solitary deserts, sea scenes and abstracts to collages and paintings with traumatic content.

The third artist that I have looked at is Daniele Buetti. Daniele Buetti is a contemporary Swiss artist whose multi-media practice incorporates light installations, performance, photography, and sculpture in exposing the fragility of popular culture. In his series Looking for Love (1997-2000), he modified pictures of supermodels from journals and magazine, drawing tattoos, and scratching adhesions on their printed skin. “Light, no doubt, is the most seductive and the most magical of all the media,” he has reflected. “Flashing, colorfully sparkling spots enthrall us like moths drawn to the light.

I was influenced by his work as I liked the way he modified pictures of supermodels and I felt that he brought light to the idea of the perfect Image by choosing supermodel and underlined the idea of the perfect image and perfect mental state isn’t necessarily 100%

perfect all the time and that nobody should stand to surreal expectations. I was intrigued by Daniele Buetti’s work as I had never seen anything like this before and I felt that it was really inspiring and informative. I experimented with his technique and found it really challenging to create something that worked as well as a supermodel or magazine cover and also, I wanted to create something that incorporated his style of work.

The fourth artist that I looked at was Francis Bacon. Francis Bacon is one of the most important and celebrated painters of the last century, best known for his idiosyncratic approach to the human figure. Artist Francis Bacon is best known for his post-World War II paintings, in which he represented the human face and figure in an expressive, often grotesque style. Francis Bacon later dated the true beginning of his artistic career as 1944. It was around this time that he devoted himself to painting and began creating the works for which he is still remembered, with “Three Studies for Figures at the Base of a Crucifixion” seen as a major turning point. His large canvases depicted human figures— most often a single figure isolated in an empty room, in a cage or against a black background

I was influenced by Francis bacon as I liked the surrealistic art he created using the human body, I felt as though it was creative and unique. It captures a variety of different emotions and helps to create the surreal atmosphere.

For one series of paintings, Bacon was inspired by Diego Velázquez’s portrait of Pope Innocent X (circa 1650), but he painted the subject in his own style, using dark colors and rough brushwork and distorting the sitter’s face. These works came to be known as Bacon’s “screaming pope” paintings.

I also looked at a series of mental health such as: Schizophrenia, depression, anxiety and more. I did this as I wanted a better understanding of what I was working on and how I could incorporate the emotions and atmosphere into my work. I also took the chance to look at body art and also body image artist as I felt that it would be appropriate to see how I could incorporate into my experiments.

Outline of my brief

The objective of my brief was to create a graphical illustration that would be made into a

poster or a booklet. The illustration had to be tied into mental health and had to portray the atmosphere and emotions of how living with these disorders can affect your everyday life. It had to tie in with the project light. The outcomes that I produced feel as though I hit

the criteria of portraying emotions of living with the daily struggle of mental health. I decided to leave it open to how the outcomes would be presented further. I feel as though they would be disputed among social media and poster as I felt that is where they would work best, the social media would help to show the full I potential of the digitalized illustration as you’d be able to see the brightness of the pinholes better, but also a poster as it works really well on its own, and portrays the atmosphere and environment that I wanted to incorporate with in.

I was inspired by a variety of different artists throughout experimentation, but mostly Antony Gormley and Daniele Buetti.

Daniele Buetti inspired.

I liked how Daniele Buetti used existing photos and added over the top of them, I was also

really inspired by the pin hole effect and letting the light shine through the back as it attracts attention to the image itself and the surrounding.

Inpired by Antony Gormley

Inspired by Antony Gormley’s sketches, I wanted to make the spirals around her to seem as though they consume her and she's stuck with in herself, through thoughts, body image and mental state. I really like how he used a range of materials to create his work such as concrete, iron and clay, however I felt as though I would incorporate his work though digital context and make it so it shows the same impact but visual instead of physical.

Inspired by Mona Turnbull - The Prosthetics Event I was influenced by Mona Turnbull’s the prosthetic event as I really liked how she used the

human figure as a canvas through body painting. I coloured in one of the figures I created throughout Photoshop and then added illuminous colours. I focused the bright vibrant colours onto parts of the body that people don’t particularly like or would flaunt.

These are a few developments that I have created. I wanted to use the mirror as a place people could reflect and look at themselves and not feel as though they need to use the mirror to judge themselves and you should use it to flaunt your beauty and imperfections that make you unique, may they be visible or internal. I felt as though it worked well throughout the development, however I started to realise that it wasn’t sending the message that I wanted it too and started to look more like a Tumblr meme, rather than a positive poster towards mental health.

I feel like I started to make the poster too easy to guess what the subject it was about, it also started to take away the idea of having to challenge the poster towards your own mental state, imperfections and challenges throughout. It also doesn’t relate to other nationalities.

Final Project!

For the final design, I decided to go back to one of my previous developments, that beforehand I felt didn’t really work, after realising that it was more appropriate to the subject I was doing – mental health. I felt as though this one worked really well, the way the two-figure merge together makes them feel lost. Which then helps to bring out that idea of them being trapped in a body they don’t love or can’t accept, the spirals around the figure, acts as though it’s like a kind of force field its keeping them in, isolated from the rest of the world. Trapped within their own thoughts, unable to break through. Also without colour it helps to create the idea that its multicultural and it’s not just targeted towards one specific nationality. It also relates to more than one mental health as it about you, which makes you think about how you feel and whether this relates to you. Helps to bring light to the situation. The dots start to represent you becoming lost within yourself, being consumed by your own thoughts, body and state of mind, but also because they have the light shining behind them it brings the sense of relief and that there is light at the end of the tunnel.

One of the reasons I also chose this one as it felt like It channels the idea of having a permanent aura surrounding you, but instead of it channeling good energy, it surrounds you with negativity and isolation. The idea behind it, is if you could see your aura, would it be bright and colour full or would it be negative and dark.

I felt as though this design worked best as the figures are becoming consumed within each other and the spirals.

The idea was to make you think about yours and others metal state. It also helps to give you a better understanding around mental health and how becoming lost and not being able to find yourself any longer and/ or the idea of being subjected to the perfect body image, or even everyone else’s judgment can affect you, also around body defects that you were born with can then make you feel isolated and trapped as society struggles to accept you for you + mental health such as Schizophrenia, DID and many more also tied in with the same effects.

Light? I didn’t want to make it too obvious and that was the reason behind the spirals and dots as it brings your attention towards the figures inside and starts to make you think about others, with disabilities and defects that they can’t change or feel as though they have to fit into society. The project is based on light, so I thought it would be appropriate to bring light to the situation and that would be the connection to light.

I thought this idea was unique and less Tumblr idea than the other one and its more of a challenge.

I want to develop it further, if i have enough time, place it into a box, giving the idea of being trapped and isolated. Inspired by Antony Gormely’s Boxes and Francis bacons cube. it could also look really unique as a light/ lamp shade and the illustration could then be casted onto the walls as it then projects the feelings though silhouettes and light. This would help to create a more focused atmosphere. I removed the typography as I felt that it didn’t need it and it feels more challenging to think about what it means and how it could affect you and others. Also, the idea of pin hole in the illustration help bring beams of light through the illustration- inspired by Daniele Buetti. Not targeted at specific person/ nationalities or even mental health disorders as it completely neutral and which leaves the door open to your own thoughts and ideas.

#light #light project

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one-deranged-son · 4 years

Photo

Wormholes to Another World

Originally posted in February 2nd, 2020

Retrieved on December 31st, 2020

Written by Gossamere as John and Froggy as Ian Nashton.

Warning:

This plot is rated explicit for language, description of violence, religious symbolism, gun, blood, and mentions of rape and age gap relationships. Dead dove: do not eat. Reader discretion is heavily advised.

Ian Nashton

"Dad! Come on, let's go inside!"

It was a Saturday morning, but that didn't stop a hyperactive, sugar-fueled Jansen from running about excitedly as soon as the car was parked.

Two days ago was his tenth birthday, and their parents had promised to take him to the museum on the weekends.

Now, Ian wasn't a big fan of history as a subject in high school (because they never teach the interesting stuff, some things tend to be omitted).

He did, however, love going to museums for the artifacts and not to mention, museums are so full of interesting information, ready for him to absorb.

Even if he wouldn't get the chance to use them at school.

Their parents chose the Royal Ontario Museum, because it had a wide variety of exhibits, basically, something for everyone.

Jansen was 'armed' with an instant camera which he hung around his neck with a strap. He was most excited about the dinosaur exhibits. He also had with him a notebook and a pen—in case he wanted to write something down.

Jansen was dressed like a mini Einstein, complete with the patterned sweater. Ian, on the other hand, was dressed in black and grey.

The Nashtons often drove past the futuristic-looking building, but they have only visited the museum once ever since they moved to Toronto.

Both parents were often too busy with work, while the brothers had school and other extracurricular activities.

"Musée royal de l'Ontario." Ian muttered to himself as he read the sign just outside the museum—he wanted to practice his French pronunciation.

Whilst their father purchased tickets, Jansen's eyes caught sight of a dinosaur fossil display in the main lobby. His mouth gaped in awe as he looked up at the display. He impatiently tugged at Ian's jacket sleeve because he knew he shouldn't go alone to see it up close—luckily, Ian obliged and went along with his younger brother.

Whilst Jansen took a photo of the display (he had to sit on the floor and aim his camera up), Ian read the information board.

"Futalognkosaurus dukei…?" Ian read out with uncertainty, "I think I pronounced that wrong. Hm… discovered in Argentina… that's neat."

Once the developed photo has come out, Jansen wrote the name of the dinosaur on the bottom corner and some brief information on the back.

"You know, I can take a photo of the information board for you. Dad gave me his camera." Ian offered.

Jansen shook his head with a slight smile, "I'm good! I think I like writing it down."

"Alright, suit yourself, man."

The brothers returned to their parents when they heard their mother call for them. Jansen and Ian were given a map each.

"You two can go anywhere you want, but make sure to stick with each other so we can call you if We need to." Their father explained. "Here, take my phone."

"Don't let him out of your sight, be careful of strangers." Their mother added.

Ian took his father's phone and placed it safely in his other pocket. He then gave an understanding nod and a salute. "Will do! You two can count on me."

Needless to say, Jansen was overjoyed to have been given such permissions, and he energetically walked to where the stairs were.

"Oi! Wait up!" Ian exclaimed as he tried to catch up with the younger boy. "Mom said I can't get you out of my sight. Anyways, where are we going first?"

Jansen points to the second floor of the museum, where the animals—including the dinosaurs—were.

"Oh, right, yeah. Let's go!" Ian puts his arms around his younger brother's shoulder as they went up the stairs. Ian actually wanted to go to the third floor to see the ancient Egypt exhibit first, but he lets his brother lead the way for now.

ㅤㅤ

John

Five years ago, the young man visited the same place.

However, the genuine euphoria he experienced when he first stepped into the museum no longer fulfills his heart. Instead, with every step he took, it feels like a knife is being stabbed to his heart.

Jesus Christ, he feels his heartbeat spiking as shallow breaths begin to come out from his throat. A week ago when he revisited the museum, he was so sure that he's going to execute the plan. But now he can't help but lock himself in the stall, throwing his breakfast into the toilet when the realization finally hit him.

He's going to kill a man.

"Oh my God—"

He throws up again. Fingers clenching as he continuously pants out of breath. He doesn't know what he's thinking and he feels like shit for trying to think that he can do it alone! Countless ideas had passed through his mind before he ended up like a sick boy in this goddamn empty toilet, and now he thinks that maybe he should've stayed in a church and become some priest instead of doing... this!

‘You've gotta be kidding me, kid. I know I train you into some super-soldier, but I ain't letting you handle MY job. When this shit is done, Paul is gonna drop your ass into college, and then you can find yourself some pussies to hump—or probably dicks to ride. Dunno. You kind of giving me that aura to be a potential twink.’

He used to scoff at the idea, especially with the twink part, but now when he finally decides to do this Revelator shit alone, he feels like his old man was right. Even after repeatedly reading the plan and studying his target from the worn journal he managed to retrieve, he really still didn't know what it took.

"Come on, get a hold of yourself." He slapped his cheeks when he finally calmed down for his high. With trembling legs, he straightens his posture. Isaiah—shit—John walked out of the stall and reached out to the door. He's going to do this shit even though it means blowing up some precious dinosaur fossils. He's going to do this for the sake of the late John fucking Monsoon.

ㅤㅤ

Ian Nashton

When they reached the second floor, leapt away from Ian's grasp and began to marvel at all the displays. One of the first ones they saw was a large Barosaurus.

Ian figured that it must have been around 27 meters, at least. Though Jansen skipped that display in favour of the T. rex fossil.

Just like a loose cannon.

Poor Ian was a little overwhelmed with trying to keep up with his younger brother, how can someone have that much energy? He wasn't sure.

"Can you slow down, you dork?" Ian said, a little exasperated.

"If you walk like that during his time, you'd have been eaten by now." Jansen retorted whilst he gestured at the T. rex fossil with his thumb.

Alright, fair game. Though Ian still rolled his eyes and smacked his brother upside the head lightly. "Nerd."

Jansen responded by sticking his tongue out at Ian; the latter ignored it.

Ian looked at the map again and the 'Bat Cave' exhibit intrigued him. Firstly, he was a fan of comic books, and secondly, he thought bats on their own were cool.

"Hey, when you're done with this area, let's go to the Bat Cave."

Jansen nodded in silent agreement as he was busy writing something down at the back of his newly acquired photo of the T. rex. Ian squints to try and get a better look at what his brother was trying to do, and he saw a squiggly attempt of a T. rex chasing… somebody.

Perhaps it was a recreation of a scene from Jurassic Park. Who the hell knows?

Ian began to walk around the exhibit, snapping photos every now and then with his father's digital camera.

"Holy crap…" his eyes were fixated on the Quetzalcoatlus fossil hanging from the ceiling. Now it was his turn to have his mouth agape.

"Quetzalcoatlus northropi, wingspan of about 11 meters—possibly a bit more. Wow… I would so not want to live in the same era as these guys. Yikes, talk about terrifying." Ian muttered to himself, it was a habit.

The thing he was looking at was almost as tall as a giraffe! And it could fly! If it existed alongside humans, could it have hunted them? Ian grimaced at the thought.

He felt a distinctive tug on his jacket sleeve, it was Jansen.

"I need to go to the toilet."

Technically, Jansen could go by himself, but Ian thought he should come along—because he promised to their mom that he won't let Jansen get out of his sight.

"Alright. Come on, I'll take you."

Ian led the way to the toilet with Jansen following right behind him. Ian pushed the door open with such force that he… seemed to have hit someone right on the face.

"Oh—oh my god, I am… so sorry!"

Jansen grimaced at the scene and slid past his brother and the stranger—straight into the stall.

Even at a young age, Ian Nashton had an eye for detail, and he noticed that the stranger he just hit with the door had been vomiting beforehand (didn't do a very good job at wiping his face off, perhaps he was in a hurry).

"A-are you okay? God, I'm so sorry."

ㅤㅤ

John

As he was busy trying to reach for the handle, John (he's still not used to that name) was so caught up with his thoughts that he didn't realize when the door suddenly open and slammed straight into his fucking face. Instantly, he fell ass first 'cause his legs still feel like jelly and his head hurts like hell.

"Ouch-" he whined, rubbing his nose before wiping the edge of his lips when he realized that there was actually a stain of his vomit there. John hoped that the stranger didn't notice it. That would be super awkward.

When he looked up, his eyes caught the sight of two people. A lanky boy with glasses and a plain T-shirt, and a shorter one with scruffy hair, whose clothes look like was straight off imposing as Einstein or someone. Who knows.

Anyway, the shorter one slipped past through him without much care, so John could easily conclude that the one responsible for the situation he's in was the apologetic male. His face was masked in genuine worry and now John's heart ached because this dude is a good man. He didn't actually know him, but John got a hunch about it and now he can help but to cringe at himself because his plan would probably kill this man.

"Shit," John muttered.

He abruptly stood up and walked past the man. He didn't even say anything in response.

He just wanna get this over with.

ㅤㅤ

Ian

The stranger looked like he was just a few years older than himself. He had short hair, and a hoodie that looked to be two sizes way too big.

Not going to lie, Ian's first thoughts were that the stranger looked like a stereotypical loner or emo boy from those high school movies.

In those short few seconds of observing his face, Ian noticed the worried—no, anxious—expression on the other boy's face.

Perhaps he was vomiting due to anxiousness? Ian guessed so, but before he could ask again—if the stranger was okay—he went away.

"Jansen? I'll be outside—I'm uh… gonna apologize to that guy I just hit."

Ian Nashton made a split-second decision, and that was to go after the poor boy. The bathroom door shuts before Ian could hear his brother's response.

Ian caught up with the other boy—thanks to his (ridiculously) lanky legs and matched his pace with the other.

"Hey man—I'm sorry for hitting you with the goddamn door. Uh… were you… okay? Back there? I couldn't help but notice you had some…thing on your face."

He wanted him to notice the vomit stains, but he wasn't sure if it would be too weird or not.

ㅤㅤ

John

John was so sure that he would get away this time, but what are the odds? Guess having long legs has its perks, because John was so confident of his speed walking skill, but the peculiar boy stopped his step.

John almost tumbles backwards and falls on his ass—again. Thank God for his dad's ruthless training, though, now his reflexes are doing a spectacular job.

John takes a step backward. At this point he really, REALLY wanted to run away through the other side, but when he noticed the Einstein rip-off coming out from the toilet, John didn't.

So instead, his eyes flickered to the boy. A frown across his face.

What the fuck?

ㅤㅤ

Ian

The way the boy moved about in the museum made Ian think that he was hiding from someone—that could explain the hoodie and the panicky tone the latter was speaking in.

"I—? Wanted to make sure you were okay? Because it looked like it hurt. And I didn't mean blood, okay? I meant—I noticed some vomit stains on your face."

Ian shoved his hands into his pockets and shrugged, looking like this was his opportunity to flex. He heard the bathroom door open again, and out came his brother.

The moment Ian turned to glance at his brother, he heard fast footsteps walking away from him.

Another split second decision, he gestured for Jansen to follow him—slowly—as he followed the strange boy.

Truth be told, in the other boy's eyes, Ian must be equally as strange.

"Wait! Just—wait." He now stopped in front of the boy. And so, begins his speech at the speed of light voice.

He wanted to make his point known—and to show off, for some odd reason.

"Like I said, I noticed that you had vomit stains around your mouth, though you didn't bother to wash it off before leaving which makes me think you were in a rush."

'You didn't even wash your hands, they're dry as bones' was what he wanted to add, but Ian refrained from doing so.

"Now, I doubt it was food poisoning because your body language and stammering suggests otherwise. I also noticed the staggered walks and you being unsteady on your feet, it's as if you've been running a marathon.

Was it nerves? Perhaps. Fear? Most likely. You see, the sclera—the whites of the eyes—often show more when someone is in fear.

Speaking of eyes, your eyes also seem to dart from one security camera to another—as if you're paranoid about something.

Conclusion? I think you're running away from someone. Or, you have been."

Ian let out a deep sigh after he was done with that monologue, he only took breaths whenever a sentence ended.

Jansen, who was within earshot of the conversation only shook his head and muttered to himself, "Oh boy."

"You telling me about the museum being crowded also seem to support my theory—I mean… it's a Saturday! Of course it'll be crowded, I'm not worried about it."

Ian let out a sheepish chuckle, as if he hadn't just gone all Sherlock Holmes with the other boy. However, it seems that Ian was self-aware

That, and he noticed that a few grown-ups were giving them strange looks as they passed by.

It be like that when you only hear fragments of conversations.

"Sorry—I uh… I'm a guy that notices everything."

Everything except social cues, apparently.

Jansen huffed and puffed his cheeks in annoyance, he felt that Ian was being weird AND keeping him away from the Bat Cave—which was something he really wanted to see.

The younger Nashton approached John with a friendly and apologetic smile, "I'm sorry about my brother and his idiosyncrasies, he likes to show off."

Ian sputtered and scoffed defensively, "I do not!" That was an obvious lie. "Do you even know what that word means?"

The young boy nodded confidently, "Idiosyncrasy, noun. A mode of behavior peculiar to an individual. Example: one of Ian's little idiosyncrasies is that he likes to observe people to the point where it's borderline creepy."

Despite his somewhat squeaky voice, Jansen spoke as if he was already a university student. It was obvious that he was an avid reader who loved to read things that are way above his reading level.

The younger boy then took off—possibly headed for the Bat Cave. Either way, he provided the definition of 'borderline', too. In case Ian questioned him again about what it meant.

The split second decision that Ian made now was to chase after his brother, but not before he looked back at the stranger. Whom he gave an awkward wave to.

"Uh—bye! I'm sorry for the door!" Then he proceeds to run after his younger brother.

"JANSEN SLOW DOWN, DAMN IT! YOU'RE GOING TO BUMP INTO SOMEONE OR SOMETHING."

ㅤㅤ

John

"Like I said, I noticed that you had vomit stains around your mouth," the boy begins to blabber. John doesn't really know what to expect; his mind is filled with a lot of question marks. "though you didn't bother to wash it off before leaving which makes me think you were in a rush."

He was right. The peculiar boy was right and it was not only because John was bad at details, but it was simply because this fucking boy is good. With every explanation, John's eyes kept on widening. And when the rip-off Einstein decided to join them in the ‘wholesome’ conversation then blabber a motherfucking word that surely shouldn't be able to be said from a kid his age with the same attitude as a spelling bee judge, John's jaw dropped.

What the fuck.

John was so busy thinking about what was going on to the point he almost forgot that his main purpose in coming here. He was so stunned that he almost missed the quick 'bye' and another apology coming from the lanky boy. And John didn't even know what's happening to him since his first reflex is to grab the man by the wrist, twist him so they're staring face-to-face with John's hand steadying him so he doesn't have to suffer the same embarrassment like what John did.

As if that panic attack never happened, John's gaze was intense. Some might think that he was trying to bore holes into the man's skull with his shocking grey eyes, but no. It was the other way around.

His voice was quiet and barely inaudible as he said, "Run."

Then John let go of the grip and stormed away. His plan is already ruined and he could feel his foster parents judging him from Heaven (or Hell) because of it.

Shit. He's distracted.

ㅤㅤ

Ian

How often does one meet children around one's age who happen to be geniuses? Not very often, apparently.

Ian hadn't gotten far when the strange boy gripped his wrist and yanked him back—as if it was a scene from a cliche TV drama or something.

This boy is definitely stronger than he looks—had he not been wearing an oversized hoodie, maybe Ian would have been able to make more deductions.

"What are you—" Ian stopped abruptly when he gazed into those eyes. He had never seen such an intense gaze come from a kid before, not even in high school bullies. For a short few seconds, Ian thought the boy would shove him away or even hit him.

Ian won't blame him, to be honest.

After what seemed to be an eternal staring competition, the strange boy said something.

A word. Barely audible and soft, nearly drowned by the museum's ambient noise.

"Run."

Then that boy lets go of his wrist and stormed off to god knows where.

Ian grimaced as he rubbed his wrist—for god's sake, the kid had an iron grip!

"Run from what?!" He tried to ask, but the boy kept walking away.

This time, Ian doesn't chase after him. The boy slowly turned around and continued to walk in the other direction.

"What's with him?" Ian whispered to himself as he continued to rub his wrist. What if they bruised? How would Ian explain that to his parents?!

ㅤㅤ

John

What the hell was that?

John cringes. He's definitely blaming the telenovelas. As John continued to storm away from the boy, he hoped to dear God that his warnings were heard. He didn’t even know why he did that, he just felt like it was the right thing to do.

He's distracted for sure.

Well, fuck that. John shook his head and pulled his mask up. He had already caused some ruckus and looking suspicious won't get him anywhere. So now John walks slower and watches as people walk past him, too caught up with the exhibit to the point they don't even notice him.

Great, at least one of his back-up plans worked smoothly.

Now John walked back to track his steps, deciding to take the stairs to the ground level and into the security room where he had gracefully hid his stuff in the ventilation. When he reached the ground floor, it was fairly empty, so John didn't hesitate to slam the door open. There were only two bros chilling in the room, five feet apart 'cause they're not gay. One of them shot an incredulous look, but before they could say anything, John aimed his gun at them.

Their faces dropped, John smirked.

"What's your password, dear?" John asked the man when he finished blindfolding and securing the cuffs on their wrist. He doesn't really like calling them with pet names, but his old man always does that and he's following it. With a trembling voice, one of the guys answered with his pass code . And of course John didn't waste any time and straight up opened the reminders.

‘DIRECTOR VISIT.’

John's smirk grew wider.

Recently he heard that his target, Scott Martin, the director of the museum, is coming over to check the place. And really, John prefers a stealth attack than a motherfucking firework show, but he's the Revelator now. He gotta be... flashy.

(‘Kid, what's the point of doing this shit if people ain't either trembling or praising yer name?’)

He sighed.

John places his legs on top of the table, tying the laces of his shoes, extra tight, so it won't trip him later on when he gotta run for his dear life. This is his debut and John ain't gonna mess it up. With his sufficient amount of knowledge, he wiped the security footage of the previous week, destroying the evidence of his presence from the database.

When he's done with it, his focus reverts back to the current footage. It was still relatively empty even though it's the weekend, but what he cares the most is the very fact that in about twenty minutes, the director should have arrived and John needs to prepare himself for the worse.

He has dual Glock 26 strapped at the sides of his thigh, an AK-103 for his main support, an M203PI launcher secured on his back, and with that much of a weapon (not to mention how he carries some hand grenades and other spare knives), John realizes how much of a hassle this Revelator job is.

But he knows he can't back off now.

Not today, not ever.

John's eyes were fixed to the screen. For a short moment his mind wanders to the lanky kid and to the absurdity of their encounter. Soon he found himself biting the inside of his cheeks. There's a lot of things to think about and that kid ain’t it.

In about nineteen minutes the director should arrive. In about thirty minutes the bomb strapped in the airways and hidden behind some exhibits should blow off.

He gotta be ready for that shit.

John clasped his hand.

"In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti. Amen."

ㅤㅤ

Ian Nashton

Just as Ian thought, his younger brother was indeed at the Bat Cave. It was a gallery of a literal bat cave, complete with realistic wax sculptures of twenty different bat species as well as some invertebrates.

The boy had his back turned to Ian, so he snuck up and placed his hands on his younger brother's shoulder in an attempt of surprising him.

"Boo!" Ian exclaimed.

Jansen was visibly startled, but he didn't scream or even make a sound. All he did to respond was to elbow the older one in the stomach.

"You're despicable." Jansen grumbled.

"Dethpicable." Ian repeated, but mimicking a certain cartoon character.

Jansen puffed his cheeks and rolled his eyes—he ignored what Ian just said. "So, where'd your new friend go?"

"Honestly? I don't know. Something weird happened, okay? He just... grabbed my wrist and yanked me backwards. Like a cliché drama scenes." It left many questions in Ian's mind. "I don't know why he did that, and I don't like not knowing."

"Forget that! Gee, what are you trying to be? Sherlock Holmes?!" Jansen's mouth formed a slight pout as he aimed his camera at the ceiling of the cave. The sculptures looked so realistic, he was sure if he didn't know any better he'd guess that they were real bats.

A beep broke the relative silence of the exhibit. It was a text message from dad which read.

'We're at the café right now, come on down if you feel hungry.'

"Hey, mom and dad's at the café, should we go down or not?" Ian showed the phone screen to his younger brother.

Immediately, Jansen shook his head. "Not hungry yet."

Ian responded with a quiet 'ok' and types a quick reply.

Out of the two brothers, Jansen was a much faster reader than Ian, so it didn't take him too long to read everything that was present about the bats—less than ten minutes, actually.

The next gallery was the birds gallery. And upon seeing a crow on display, Ian asked Jansen to take a photo of him and the crow using the digital camera. Ian posed so that he and the crow were facing each other—as if having some kind of thoughtful conversation.

This gallery had drawers that you could pull out with various species of birds on display inside.

Jansen busied himself with those, while Ian was more interested in the ones behind glass cases. Such as the 'flightless birds' display.

The cassowary always reminded Ian of the raptors from Jurassic Park. From the sharp talons, to the shape of the head and the 'expression' the specimen seemed to have.

People often say that lizards like the Komodo dragon were the closest thing humans would have to a dinosaur, but Ian would argue that birds were closer—at least when it comes to theropods.

It was a rather nice way to spend the day, roaming around the museum with minds as absorbent as a sponge. Jansen was obviously enjoying himself, and so was Ian.

Like ripping candy from a child, the situation quickly changed when there was a sudden, deafening roar of an explosion, and before he could even process the sound, out of the corner of his eyes, the boy noticed a similar sound coming from the air vents. Followed by a fierce column of flames—like a dragon breathing fire from its mouth.

Ian instinctively leapt towards his younger brother and enveloped him in a protective embrace as more of those terrible sounds erupted. Screams from visitors soon joined.

The side they were on should be reasonably stable enough compared to the opposite wing, but the building was an old one.

As more explosions were heard, the ground shook and some artifacts began to topple over.

Jansen covered his ears and began to cry out of fear. Ian had the right idea to stay away from ventilation shafts in case more explosions would erupt.

He was terrified, too, but he tried to be as brave as he could for his younger brother's sake.

Immediate dangers were fires, more explosions and the building crumbling. The bulk of the explosion seemed to have come from the ground floor.

It hasn't even been a year since the World Trade Center collapsed—was that kind of thing going to happen today, too? Were they going to die?

The brothers hugged each other tight as they sat beside a sturdy display with their backs against the wall. Both had tears running down their faces, but Ian was silent and tried his best to analyze the best solution to this situation.

As much as he wanted to keep his eyes shut, he kept them open—and saw that the ceiling threatened to give way and collapse.

The logical thing to do was to get to the ground floor as quickly as possible—he's heard that stairwells can be one of the safest places (as they tend to be strong, structurally). But neither he nor his brother dared to even move away from their shelter.

Other visitors on the floor either tried to find cover or run to the stairs in a panicked frenzy.

Ian tried ringing his father, but both times, the call wasn't picked up—either his parents were already dead, or they were busy with their own survival for now. Ian hoped it was the latter.

A light had fallen just a few meters in front of them. The noise of the impact caused more screams from other visitors, including his brother, whose sobs got louder and more frantic.

It's easy for others to say 'stay calm' in a survival guide or even a drill, but when the real thing happens, it would be hard to stay calm because the fight, flight or freeze response would kick in.

There wasn't much Ian could do right now, because even if he tried to run to the nearest stairwell, there might be a chance that the ceiling would collapse and crush him—he and Jansen were relatively safer where they are right now.

ㅤㅤ

John

Tick, tock.

John fiddles the sleeves of his shirt in agitation. His heart is thumping furiously against his

ribcage; the cold sweat begins to roll down his forehead as his eyes peers over the monitor. Two more minutes and then the director should enter the building already. Less than 15 minutes later, the bomb should go off.

He can't mess this up.

What John didn't expect is that his target isn't taking the usual route. He didn't stroll around the exhibits, flashing that disgusting smile of his then locking himself in his office. This time, though, this time is different. He's talking to two of the visitors, but it doesn't seem like they're doing some random, casual chat. Their eyes are glimmering with excitement and delight, and soon, John finds out that the three of them—let's not forget about Martin's guard dog—are going to have lunch in level B1.

That's where the least of his explosives are located. Probably only three of one kilogram plastic explosives strapped on the vent or the corners of the building. This doesn't go as smoothly as he planned.

"Motherfu—"

His words got cut off when a sudden explosion shook the ground. John's eyes widened. Siren blaring all across the hall and in his head. He glances at the clock, the bomb set off three minutes early.

He was lucky that it wasn't exactly the main attraction, because if his old man was here, John sure he's going to get himself grounded for this carelessness.

His eyes darted back to the monitor. Everyone was screaming and running like little ants. The T-Rex bone on level two had fallen down like cookies crumbs. John skimmed through the screen looking for Martin, and when he realizes he's running away to the main floor, John curses again.

"What's going on?" One of the guards barked. The metal cuffs on his wrist rattled by his frantic movement. "What are you doing?!"

Tsk. He almost forgot about them.

"Ain't nothing happenin' around here, sweetheart," John cooed, although his face was showing obvious distress. He's glad that he blindfolded them.

"Be good for me, will ya? Stay still."

John wore his thermal goggles and stormed out of the room. He could see a lot of people curling away from the explosion spot, trembling and crying their eyes out while struggling to protect their precious organ from whatever will happen next. Some of them are too stunned to move while the others trip and fall while trying to go to a safer place.

John shot his bullet to the ceiling, everyone stopped moving even though their screams just got louder.

Columns of fire had spread to the second floor as the explosion kept riling up without mercy. Glass shatters and some railings had blasted off from its place. There were four guards surrounding Scott Martin when John arrived at their floor. All of them trying to get their boss to flee from the chaotic scene. Martin, however, seemed to get himself stuck, being pulled back and forth by a hysterical woman.

"My sons! Scott, my sons are not here!"

"Madeleine—it's too dangerous here!"

"I'm not leaving without them!"

(John's muscle tensed.)

He throws a smoke grenade at them. Receiving a loud shriek and multiple curse words from their directions. Without a second to waste, he started to aim for their legs. Empty bullets clanking to the ground as it hits his first target in the place he wants.

"GEORGE!"

John cringes inwardly. He seems to slip his aim.

With the rest of the guards, John just disturbs their personal space and landed hard kicks and punches before eventually shooting their feet to immobilize them. Martin was practically blinded by the smoke, but when he saw the shadow of his own demise, he screamed.

"Y—You! The news said you were dead!" His voice was trembling. He tried to back off only to trip his legs 'cause the body of his stunned guards.

"Sorry for leaving ya hanging, babe," the Revelator smirked under his mask. Looming over the man who had graciously fallen down, ass first. He can't see his target's face clearly due to the lenses, but he could sense the fear masking each of his words.

"Got myself into trouble with them FBI dogs, hope you didn't miss me that much." The Revelator squatted in front of the cowering man. He pulled the expensive tie and leaned his face closer. "Have you confessed?"

The man was trembling, still. When the Revelator takes his goggles off to reveal his steel gray eyes, the color of his target face drained immediately.

"W—what do you..."

"SCOTT!"

The Revelator stopped in his tracks. Ever so slowly, he tears his gaze off from his target into the source of the voice. The previous woman who had hysterically refused to evacuate herself is hugging what seems to be her husband. A trail of blood coming from his leg, courtesy of the bullet.

"Oh? Are they your friends, Martin?" The Revelator's eyes were cold and intense as he continued to shoot daggers into the woman's eyes. The grip on the other's tie getting stronger and stronger.

"Tell me, Scott, do your precious friends know about what you did in the dark?" He smirked. "Do they know about the scam you did at the auction five years ago? Do they know about how you graft the fund for this museum? Do they know your excessive lifestyle and your personal preferences on young boys?"

The Revelator eyes flickered back to the man. He can sense his heartbeat pacing up. John rummaged his pocket. He let go of his grip and walked towards the woman.

"Here's all of the evidence from the past five years," he said, there's a slight change of tone as he hands a piece of flash disk. The note of his voice was quiet, almost gentle.

But before the woman could muster any protest, John's attention shifted back to his target. As the Revelator caught the sight of him trying to run away, he shot his legs in an unmistakable accuracy.

"Alright, I guess you already know about this, and yes, ma'am, I ain't the type to make false threats. I suppose you already know what to do 'cause if you don't, damn shit, I'll fucking call heaven and earth to record this day against you, that I have set before you life and death, blessing and cursing. Do the right thing and you'll live, do the wrong thing, then you'll live as well, but ain't so sure 'bout your sons tho. Ain't giving ya any clue 'bout it."

The Revelator stood back and pulled his target by the collar away.

ㅤㅤ

Ian Nashton

The Nashton family was full of scientists. Ian and Jansen's parents were no exception, with their father being a physicist and their mother being a marine biologist.

Their mother has published a book about lesser known sea creatures and it has brought her some taste of fame in the scientific community. As it stands, she actually intended to write more books, perhaps in conjunction with her husband.

A brilliant man, he was, but he doesn't have the patience to sit down and write a book, let alone edit it.

It was a surprise for them to have run into Scott Martin, who was an old friend of Madeleine from her time in university. Scott was beyond delighted to see the pair visiting the museum, but particularly Madeleine as he mentioned that he needed some scientific input from her for a new exhibit.

He was even so kind to invite them to lunch at the B1 café!

However, she thought the bodyguards were a little on the excessive side. Surely a museum director wouldn't need that much, right? Then again, she knew just how much Scott liked to be flashy, perhaps this was one of those times.

Her husband, George, tried to get their boys to come join them, but it seems that not even the prospects of lunch can stop their young minds from being curious.

Everything seemed fine, with Madeleine and Scott chatting away while George listened. Every now and then, he'd chime in with his bone dry humor.

Not a single one of them would realise the tragedy that's about to befall them.

When it happened, George hadn't heard a sound that loud in ages, he also hadn't heard his wife curse so freely and colourfully in her native French tongue ever since Ian was born. He was the first to jump into action, putting a protective arm around his wife as they immediately tried to find a safer place.

They needed to get upstairs to the main floor, otherwise the basement might as well be a cold, stony grave for them both if it gave way.

It seems that the presence of Scott's bodyguards was a convenience as they fearlessly helped the couple evacuate the basement onto the ground floor.

The serene and magnificent atmosphere they saw that morning turned into that of chaos and panic in just a few seconds after they heard the first explosions.

Not long after they arrived at the main floor, there was a single gunshot, indicating that this was not an accidental explosion but rather, a deliberate attack.

The gunshot only made everyone's panic increase by tenfold, especially Scott's, as he tried to drag the couple outside to safety. Madeleine stubbornly wanted to stay and look for her sons, and they had an argument.

George was silent for most of it. While he agreed with Scott that it was too dangerous for them to stay there, he also didn't want to leave his boys behind.

Just at that moment, he felt some vibrations in his left pant pocket—he had gotten a couple of text messages, but before he could check them, his vision was obstructed by a thick cloud of smoke. He heard his wife shriek and curse again, then he heard his own scream as a sharp, searing hot pain struck his left leg.

"GEORGE!"

Madeleine screamed as her husband slowly fell to the ground. She frantically felt around for where the wound was and when she felt the warmth of the trickling crimson liquid, she took off her scarf and wrapped it tightly around George's fresh wound to help reduce the bleeding.

"Ow, ow, ow—easy, Lena. Easy." George hissed through gritted teeth.

"I'm trying to stop you from bleeding out, dear. I should have said it will hurt a bit, I'm sorry."

The couple mainly ignored the conversation that Scott was having with the attacker, mostly because they were focusing on each other.

Only when the attacker mentioned a confession did Madeleine turn around to face the two with a confused and horrified expression on her face.

She had heard of The Revelator on the news. She heard about the things that he's done, but more importantly about his (apparent) death not too long ago.

Yet... it seems that death couldn't keep him down, because... there he was: a mere couple of steps away from her and her husband.

Why on earth would the Revelator target a museum's director of all people? Is that why Scott had so many bodyguards with him?

"God... Scott?" Madeleine's voice was soft, almost like a whisper.

What has Scott gotten himself into?

Madeleine couldn't see the attacker's face very clearly, but from the looks of it, she figured that he couldn't have been much older than her eldest son.

How odd, she had always imagined this figure to be an older man. Perhaps there were multiple 'Revelators' in existence, who the hell knows?

Now it was her turn to have a protective arm around her husband. She tried to return the daggers that was shot into her eyes, but only fear and confusion were present in her dark brown eyes.

The things the Revelator talked about were unknown to the Nashtons, except for Scott's expensive taste, which they thought nothing about as it was not really their business as long as the money came from an honest source.

Madeleine at first didn't believe what she heard, but a quick glance at Scott's face (the smoke had dissipated enough for her to see better), she saw what seemed to be a look of guilt.

Personal preferences on young boys. Did he mean...?

Her thoughts quickly shifted to her two sons, and how Scott had met them both at a fair. She remembered how he would often stand close to her sons rather than to herself or her husband. Of course, at the time that seemed like nothing to be alarmed about, but with this new information, the thought of what Scott might have intended made her shudder.

When the Revelator started to walk closer, she curled away in fear while George tried to pull her closer.

"Stay back!" George barked, despite knowing that he probably couldn't do a single damn thing with a shot leg.

Puzzlingly, the Revelator didn't brandish a gun or even a knife. No, he gave Madeleine a flash disk instead.

The sudden change of tone was terrifying, naturally. It was a juxtaposition. How can someone so violent have such a gentle voice?

Madeleine observed the flash disk in her hands, not entirely sure what to do with it at that moment. Regardless, she puts it in her pocket. It looked to be a real, functioning flash disk rather than a bomb.

Both of them flinched when Scott was shot with such high accuracy. At this point, though... they were just glad it wasn't them that had gotten shot.

"I-I don't know anything about this! What do you want me to do?!" The woman screamed. She wanted to chase after them for answers, but George held her back.

"George, let go! What if he's done something to our kids?!" She began to get hysterical again, but George pulled her into a comforting hug and kissed the top of her head soothingly.

"Lena, honey. They're alive! They're on the second floor, in the bird exhibit. We could try going after them."

"Not anymore! You're hurt! I can't leave you, nor would I want to risk more injuries!" She sobbed softly into her husband's shoulder, at that moment, she didn't know what to do.

"I told them we were on the main floor. Let's hope they can make it down as fast as possible. You see that flight of stairs over there? That is very close to the bird exhibit upstairs. Their side of the building is rather sturdy. I think they'd make it." George explained as he rubbed the back of Madeleine's head soothingly.

"Shit, shit, shit." Ian hissed when he saw columns of fire that had rose to the second floor. He knew they couldn't stay here forever.

He thought he had heard another explosion from downstairs, but it sounded more like a single gunshot, followed by more screaming.

"W-we're dying h-here, aren't we?" Jansen choked out in between sobs.

Ian's stomach turned. They have had lockdown drills at school before, but nothing ever really happened at their school. Now, this? This was the real deal.

"No, we aren't." Ian's voice sounded so sure, despite his actual uncertainty.

There were more gunshots. Ian counted seven, though he could be wrong, considering that the screams of visitors were competing with the shots.

The boy glanced at the closest stairwell again, should they risk it and run? He wasn't sure.

Five minutes after he heard the first few shots, the phone in Ian's pocket buzzed. It was from his father!

"J! Mom and dad are downstairs! We should probably go down now!" Ian slowly stood up, he tried to pull Jansen up with him as well.

"B-but—" The younger boy started.

"No buts! We have to go, NOW."

Jansen reluctantly stood up and stayed close to his brother as they made a run for the stairwell. Thankfully, the only thing they had to dodge were a few pieces from the ceiling, and they hurried down the stairs.

Upon reaching the main floor, Ian saw his parents on the ground. There was a small pool of blood near his father's left leg, and upon closer look, he saw that his mother's favourite scarf was wrapped tightly around the wound.

"MOM! DAD!" The two boys screamed in near perfect unison as they ran to their parents.

"Ian! Jansen! Thank goodness you two are okay!" Madeleine's voice had cracked as she wrapped both of her sons in her arms. "Your father's been shot, we need to leave."

"I don't think I can really stand. God—it hurts to even move it." George groaned lowly.

"Mom and I will help you up, dad. Come on!"

Ian and his mother had some difficulty getting George back on his feet, but eventually, they managed to do it.

The four of them slowly walked towards the main entrance. They avoided the Queen's Park entrance because George had noticed that that side of the building was threatening to crumble.

ㅤㅤ

John

"I'll do anything you say! P—please... just let me go!"

Amidst the roaring, raging fire, the voice sounded like a mere whisper. The Revelator's steel-gray eyes were fixed to his target while his beloved Glock stayed locked to the man's motherfucking head.

"P—please..."

"Shut the hell up," John commanded, forcing himself to sound a little bit gruffer to match his old man's voice. He might not have the exact confidence with the previous Revelator, but he now had the same impression that would turn even the fiercest man tremble.

John isn't going to waste that shit.

Time feels like it runs so damn slow when your head is under immense pressure, and it doesn't just apply to a person who's about to be sentenced to death. Right now, John can't help but to feel his heart beating so fast 'cause this is the fucking first time he did this. Most of the time, John stays in the back line. Helping the OG Revelator wiping out some ‘obstacles’ with his sniping skill instead of coming to the front line.

"Have mercy! I have a chi—"

"I say shut the fucking hell up!" John cuts his words before his target could say anything that might make him feel weaker than he already is. A crease started to form in his forehead as he continued his words.

"When they heard these things, they held their peace, and glorified God, saying, then hath God also to the Gentiles granted repentance unto life, but then they fucking come back to square one. As if the words and prayers and those fucking promises they said are nothing but a load of crap, wherefore you fucking better abhor thy fucking self, and repent in motherfucking dust and ashes."

The Revelator dragged the man again, letting his blood trail stain the floor. Every step he takes felt like it was set on fire, burning and leaving charred marks on his feet. But even when he feels the fire licking his skin and burning the fabric of his clothes, John couldn't care less.

The fiery mistress danced, leaped and twirled in his eyes. There's an uncanny feeling when he saw how everything turned into dust, when the piles of planks fell and set ablaze at her contact. His heart was beating so fast, John feels he's going to combust.

"You're a fucking freak! A monster! You hear me? You're going to hell for this!"

Scott Martin wailed and squirmed in his grip, but John still couldn't give a fuck about him. His eyes were mesmerized at the sight in front of him.

The world illuminated on his sight as the fire nestled in her wooden bed, hot ribbons of light sparkling and twinkling anywhere she liked. There are times when she leaped, willing to land wherever her heart's desire. The smoke rose into the ceiling as if struggling to pave its way towards heaven, the ash falling down to the ground like the first flakes of snow.

The Revelator's eyes glanced back at the man, beads of sweat had started to form on his forehead. The warm amber highlighting the anger and desperation coloring his brown irises.

There was something about doing this that he didn't know would feel this... good. As he strapped his target, ropes and tapes around his trembling body, the Revelator could feel the corner of his lips rose into a wide grin.

"Please! For God's sake, please!"

The anger had finally subdued, now replaced by tears and fear.

"You know the deal, sweetheart; the wicked shall be turned into hell, and all the nations that forget God."

John took off his mask for the briefest second, revealing the smirk underneath it. "It's God's mercy if you managed to get outta here alive, but I doubt that," he whispered before planting a gentle kiss on the man's chapped lips. Grinning even wider as he saw the color across his target face drained even further.

"And let's just say that's the Devil's work if you can still manage to find prettier boys than me."

The Revelator walked away. Leaving the screaming and begging man alone on the second floor of the burning building. The museum had turned into a mortuary, or more likely, a cremation room.

And despite the sight of splattering blood and charred bodies, John didn't feel anything. Anything but satisfaction and excitement.

Until he reached the first floor again.

"Oh, God.”

He did it. He just left a man, probably sent him to the jaw of death by doing so. He did it. He killed dozens of innocent people and even threatened a mother for this plan.

John's guts twisted and suddenly, his breakfast had managed to escape from his throat. The breath coming out of his mouth feels heavy in his lungs. As he glanced to every corner of the building, his vision slowly turned blurry. The tight sensation in his chest is threatening to kill him on spot.

He just did that, holy fuck, he just fucking did that.

He's a murderer.

John pulled his mask back to cover his face. Struggling to protect himself from the ruins falling from the ceiling as he sprinted towards the front door despite the uneasiness in his stomach and the way his legs feel like it's about to give up on him.

When the blinding light finally hit his vision, John squinted his eyes. It didn't take a long time until he regained his sight and understood the situation around him.

"Lower your weapon!" A man shouted, So John swept his vision across the land.

There are at least 12 guns pointed at him. The frantic lady he gave the flash disk is helping two kids getting into the ambulance; her husband laying on top of the cot with a scarf in his legs, but that wasn't the main reason why his heart skipped a beat

There's the lanky boy again, and John could've sworn that their eyes locked for a second at that exact moment.

ㅤㅤ

Ian Nashton

The Nashtons have fortunately made it out of the main entrance to safety. They raised their hands when they saw the authorities with their guns, just to signify that they were no threat at all.

"Please—my husband's been shot." Madeleine began, though her pleads were cut short when she caught sight of the ambulance nearby. And the paramedics quickly rushed to their side.

They carefully put George on the stretcher and loaded him on the ambulance.

Madeleine and her kids didn't get in just yet, she was being asked questions whilst Ian and Jansen stayed behind her, listening in. Though they didn't hear much because their mother decided to converse with the officer in French.

"N-no. I didn't see his face. He—er... my friend, Scott Martin. I saw him get dragged away. If what they say is true... Oh God. Poor Scott, I don't really know what he's done to be targeted."

Of course, Madeleine still had the flash disk, but she wanted to see it for herself before handing it to the authorities. Just like everyone in the family, she has an insatiable curiosity.

(But more common sense than her sons do).

After a few more questions, the officer lets her go. She had just helped Jansen get in the ambulance and was about to help Ian as well.

But they all heard it.

"Lower your weapon!" Somebody shouted. Followed by the cocking of guns.

Ian and Madeleine whipped their heads to look back at the museum, and just as they thought, the attacker from before was there. Even with the mask, Ian could almost instantly recognize that that was the boy from before, the strange boy that he knocked down in the toilet.

Madeleine gasped and tried to hurry Ian into the ambulance, but the boy leapt out of his mother's reach and pointed an accusing finger at the masked figure. He made sure to stand

"YOU!" He screamed at the top of his lungs. "YOU SHOT MY DAD!"

Hearing Ian scream those words, Jansen peeked his head out from the ambulance. Sure enough, he remembered the strange boy too—it was the hoodie that he remembered.

George tried his best to sit up in his stretcher, though he couldn't see much. Just some uniformed men and his wife trying to drag their stubborn son back into the ambulance, away from the chaos.

"IAN! Get back inside right now!" His mother was now screaming, she was worried that Ian might get shot as well. So she grabbed him by the wrist and began to pull him away.

"WAIT! J-JUST WAIT!" Ian tried to free himself from his mother's grip. Alas, she had quite the iron grip and Ian's lanky arms were no match for it.

"But—but I saw his face, mom!"

"And what?! You're going to run over there and get yourself killed?!" Madeleine really didn't want to do it, but she had to get some sense back into her son. "You're a child, an unarmed 13 year old child! Now do as I say and get in the ambulance!"

At that he saw that his mother had an excellent point. So, Ian settled down and (reluctantly) climbed inside the ambulance where he saw his brother looking visibly frightened and upset. His father was mostly confused.

Ian took one last look out of the ambulance and to the masked figure. Trying to look him dead in the eye. The boy has never felt this much emotion for someone before, and he wasn't even sure what it was exactly. Rage? Hatred? Either way, it was negative.

Madeleine let out a deep sigh and gently pushed her husband back down on the stretcher, "I think you should lie down, dear."

One of the medics quickly got inside as well, and once the door shut, the ambulance sped off to the hospital.

For most of the trip, Ian had his eyes planted to the tip of his shoes.

"I'm sorry for yelling at you, mom." He muttered softly.

Madeleine's lips formed a soft smile as she put an arm around her eldest son and pulled him closer. She was no longer angry at Ian.

"Shh... it's okay, sweetie. I know you didn't mean it."

"Are we going to talk to a detective, mom? I-I still remember his face, okay. I—I ran into him in the toilet. H-he—told Jansen and I to run but I didn't know why."

His voice was threatening to break, now that the adrenaline has worn off, but Ian still tried to keep himself steady.

Madeleine nodded with certainty and said, "I'm sure after what happened just then, they would want to talk to you."

"I-I should've—I should've done something! M-maybe dad wouldn't have gotten shot. What if I could've gotten a photo of him?"

Madeleine pulled him closer and ran a hand gently through the boy's hair, hushing him quietly. "Shh, there was nothing you could have done, sweetheart... All that matters now is that we're all safe. I'm sure dad will be okay."

Although he was also upset and shaken, Jansen decided to help the situation by giving a few gentle—albeit—awkward pats on his brother's back.

Ian made a promise to himself that he would do his best to get stronger, and smarter, so that in the future, he would be able to protect his family better.

ㅤㅤ

John

How does someone keep a straight face while being faced with shits like this? John couldn't even help but glance to the source of the commotion, the boy from before was frantically cursing and muttering inaudible accusations towards him that made some of the police turn their head.

Even as the woman from before practically tried to drag him in the same manner as dog owners trying to tame their barking dogs, the anger in his eyes was stark clear.

But perhaps it wasn't just anger. Perhaps it was also confusion, hatred... determination?

The Revelator flicked his eyes back to the incoming threats. There's no way he could take every one of them in a single hit. He's no super soldier nor a trained agent, he's just a teenager who thinks that following his father's steps is a good thing to do.

He should've just studied for the college entrance exam.

A scowl formed on John's forehead, but if someone dared take a peek beneath his mask, they will notice that it was purely caused by fear and frustration rather than anger and blood-thirsty resolution.

The only thing he could do to wipe out an entire troop is probably by throwing grenades all over them, which obviously going to result in a lot of casualties, but what's the point of doing everything if in the end he'll have to get tossed to jail?

John gritted his teeth. With a swift motion, he pulls the hem of his hoodie to reveal the strapped explosives across his chest. The cops scramble away, and as anticlimactic as it sounds, all he did was reach out to the M203PI launcher he had clutched to so dearly before. It sounded like a power play, it felt like he was playing god—but that was what his old man used to do.

Humans tend to make mistakes, they crash so easily and they slip and tumble by their own feet, and so did his old man.

That day when he watches as John Monsoon bleeds to death, Isaiah thought that it would be the last of him. Yet he runs, as cowardly as it sounds, he runs after the previous Revelator had aimed a gun to his head and told him to go.

Never did he think that he would end up doing the same path as him. The semi-stable kid who doesn't even know his own birth date, the one who used to look like he wouldn't dare to hurt a single fly, now he's launching grenades with his trembling hands. Cold gray eyes piercing without mercy as he burns everything in sight.

This isn't right, he knows that. He wanted to live this legacy with the same notable notion that would make people believe in him. He wanted to become the karma for those who weren't able to stand up.

But now that he thinks again, Isaiah realizes that all he tries to do was to fill the empty spot within his heart with hatred and revenge.

He made a promise that day. Whatever happens in the future, he would protect those he loves. Even if it means he had to fist fight with God himself.

And if he fails, he's going to burn the world down.

#prosit in vitam aeternam

0 notes

parkerparlour · 7 years

Text

damaged - part 4: alone - p.p.

part 1 - part 2 - part 3 - part 4

Summary: Peter is alone. You are really gone.

Word Count: 2k

Warnings: this entire series is angst - funeral and grief

A/N: I’m crying too, y’all, don’t worry. Here’s the final part.

Gif cred: @marvelheroes

Peter always hates this part.

The fancy clothes, the congregating to remember those that pass, and, most importantly, crying in front of others. Peter doesn't usually like being that vulnerable, he tries to avoid it, but at your funeral, he can't help it. Sometimes all one wants to do after the death of a loved one is curl up in several blankets and cry, cry, cry until nothing comes out anymore. But he's here, wearing a suit, watching your lovely, still face as you lay in the casket. Beautiful, even in death, but he knows you'd be even more beautiful alive.

The funeral was sudden (to all but him) and everyone is crying. May holds Peter close, knowing exactly how it feels to lose someone this way, mourning and sympathizing with him. Your parents can't stop tearing up as they hold each other, their baby gone. The ceremony is short, but sweet, and Peter makes a lovely speech that he spent four hours straight the day before writing.

"Y/N will be missed by all of us. She was-is a shining marker of time in our lives. But she wouldn't want us to mourn her forever. She would want us to be happy again, to laugh again. She will always have a piece of my heart, a little chunk that she took hold of and has taken alongside her into the afterlife. I can only hope that one day I see her again, even more radiant and beautiful than when she was alive."

At the reception, Peter isolates himself. He sits in one of the comfy chairs and stares at nothing in particular. Sometimes it's the lights on the floor, or a speck on the wall, but his thoughts only swirl around you. Eventually he realizes he kind of looks like a weirdo, so he digs his phone out of his pocket, a new crack down the screen from when it fell out of his pocket in his rush to help you.

He runs a thumb over the crack before turning the phone on, opening his photos and selecting the album labelled "My Love" which is filled with every picture he has of you. There's a lot of them, most of them either candids or silly selfies together. He stares at each image for far too long, but he's gazing at your face, remembering all the moments when these photos were taken.

Eventually it is time to leave and May drives them home. Peter peels off his nice suit and throws on whatever pajamas are in reach, collapsing on his bed and tucking himself in. It's far too early to sleep but he doesn't care. He can't help but feel empty and alone, isolated from everyone else who will never truly understand what it feels like to watch the one you love die in your arms.

Peter takes the next two days of school off.

He can’t follow his own advice he gave in his speech. He can't socialize right now, and pretending to smile hurts deep inside himself, because it's a lie. He wishes everyone would stop lying, that he'll find someone else, that he'll be fine, because honestly? He won't be. He's never going to find you again, because you were unique and special. Plus, Peter absolutely has PTSD. Watching you die has destroyed him a little. He's still Peter, just a little more broken, and he was already cracked before.

Tony is the only one who understands, who doesn't push him to take the suit up again. He gets it, he really does, instead telling Peter to take however long he needs. Tony had hoped this would never happen to Peter, but the world works in twisted, twisted ways as he watches this boy suffer through a lot that he did, but at a much younger age.

It takes time. Your memory becomes less painful and more joyous. He can look at the pictures and the memorabilia and not get thrust back into watching the light fade from your eyes. Instead he sees how your eyes used to twinkle, and your smile, or a remembrance of how your hands fit together with his so perfectly. The only thing that still sends him back to that dark memory is the alley, but he's changed his patrol plan to avoid it.

Eventually, as he returns to school, he relishes in the little things that remind him of you. That one weird locker that didn't fit right that you always pointed out sends your laughter ringing through his mind. The little corner of the library you used to share sends the whispered "I love you"s to him. He even wears one of your bracelets, the one you used to wear all the time, given to him by your parents, and it's the perfect little reminder of you.

But he's still not back to normal - he's smiling again, yes, but his heart is still hurting when he stays up too late and can't help but think of how if you were alive he could turn to you and have deep conversations that would last hours but he can't because you're gone. Those nights always end in tears, silent and warm, running down his face.

It took Peter two weeks to look at his suit again. The legs barely looked blue anymore, everything stained a deep red from your blood, and he can't look at it. Eventually, the city needs their hero again, so he shoves it deep in with another pile of laundry. He tries to keep his mind off the fact that that's your blood washing down the drain.

Before he can even get three blocks down his patrol, Karen is telling him where to go.

"Mr. Stark is requesting a meeting with you at the nearby pond," she informs him, showing a map to the location.

Peter furrows his brows, wondering why Tony wants to meet him. But he listens and follows the map, ending up at that same playground that Tony saved him from once before. He decides to sit on a swing this time, looking down at his feet as he rocks himself forwards and backwards slightly to fill time.

The wooshing of Tony's suit alerts Peter before he sees him, and the older man descends in front of him. Tony raises his mask, showing Peter that he's actually there. Peter pulls his mask off as well, so they can actually see eye-to-eye for whatever is about to happen. Tony takes a deep breath before beginning to speak, like he's preparing himself.

"Hey, Pete. I just wanted to make sure you're truly ready to get back into this, y'know? You've been through a lot."

Peter stiffens, stopping his motion on the swing, and his voice comes out unnaturally monotone, "I'm fine, thanks."

Tony sighs, stepping out of the suit and sitting on the swing next to him. "You don't have to lie to me, Underoos. You don't have to be so strong all the time - heroes can need help, too."

Peter stares harshly at him, waiting, hesitant of where this is going. His grip is tight on the handles of the swing, the cold metal pressing against his warm skin through his suit.

"I'm not saying you should still be on break from being a hero - what I'm saying is you might want professional help when you're not being a hero. With what you saw, what you experienced, it can mess you up. I know that first-hand, Pete. I have a lovely psychologist, who knows all about what we do, who can help you. Alright?"

Peter looks away, unsure about this. He's so used to holding himself up, keeping himself fine. He doesn't want to burden others with his emotions and feelings, let alone burden May or Ned. He doesn't want pity, he just wants to talk about what he's been through, and have someone listen. Maybe this could work?

As Peter is still thinking, Tony keeps talking. "I've already scheduled an initial appointment. You don't even need to start right away, just meet her, talk with her a little, see if you think it'd help. I'll pay for everything, all you need to do is show up."

Peter looks back at him, no longer holding himself as stiff as before. What has he got to lose?

"Sure, Mr. Stark, I'll go. I'll try it out."

Tony visibly relaxes. He was so worried that Peter would outright just say no, not listen to him, and the boy would suffer like he did. Tony refused professional help far longer than he should have, and he's paid the price for it. The longer you wait, the harder it is to reverse the damage you do to yourself.

"Great, thanks, Peter. I'll have Happy text you the details, but it's for next Tuesday at 4PM, just so you can make sure your schedule is clear."

Peter nods and Tony stands up, but he hesitates before stepping into the suit. He turns back, ruffling Peter's hair. "Y/N would be proud of you for being so strong, but she'd also want you to not destroy yourself in the process. This'll be good for you, alright?"

At the mention of your name, Peter has quickly blink away tears. "Y-yeah. Thank you for the help, Mr. Stark."

Tony gives him a sad smile before stepping into the suit and boosting up a bit. "I expect to hear that Happy escorted you next Tuesday! Don't flake on me, Underoos!"

Peter nods again, watching as Tony flies away into the night sky.

He does go to the appointment. It goes fantastically, and the lady, Mrs. J, quickly realizes that Peter just needs someone who will listen, and she's happy to provide. Peter is her youngest ever patient and she is saddened by what he went through, but is hopeful that he will come out of all this an even better person than he was before. And he was pretty damn amazing before based on how much he cared about you and his family and everyone. But mostly you since that's who he's there to talk about.

Peter starts going twice a week, with Happy escorting him right after school on all those days. Mrs. J starts giving him some coping methods to try if he gets overwhelmed outside of their meetings; journaling ends up working best. Peter often will either take a picture of where he is or what he's doing at the moment or he'll use the image that spurred up the emotions. It's a digital journal, because he finds it much faster to type, and he just vents and throws all his emotions up on the page. He shares some of those with Mrs. J, who will read them the hour before their meeting. He's clearly making progress. Slow progress, but progress nonetheless.

Peter still feels alone in his heart, but he's slowly feeling less alone in the physical world. He's spending more time with Ned and MJ, and making more of an effort to spend evenings with May. He's cut back on patrols - he's getting slowly over the guilt he feels if he's not at every crime in the city. After all, he truly can't be everywhere at once, and he's starting to realize that. He can't save the entire city by himself. Something will always slip under the radar.

So Peter's just living for today. He's cherishing every little moment that brings him joy, because he didn't cherish them enough before. That's his big takeaway from all this. Life is so brief and temporary and one can never know when they'll be left alone.

((fin))

“damaged” tags: @onceuponateenpanwolfian @hista-girl @idksolonya @wannabenice @thehanneloner

Thank you for reading! I hope you liked this series! <3

#peter parker x reader angst #peter parker x reader #peter parker #peter x reader #peter parker imagine #spiderman #spider-man #spider man imagine #**#rach writes

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agreatperhaps12 · 7 years

Text

First 10k of the *WIP* MadUndergradScientist!Hamilton AU

“Here’s the thing,” Angelica said, as soon as John had taken the seat across her desk.

This, John thought, did not bode well. ‘Here’s the thing’ was an ease-your-way-into-the-conversation phrase if he’d ever heard one, and Angelica Schuyler didn’t get to be an editor in chief by mincing her words.

“I have your assignment for this semester’s feature,” Angelica said.

John cast his eyes down on the closed lid of his laptop, as though he could see through to the screen where, just moments before Angelica called him into her office, he’d been dotting the i’s and crossing the t’s of three feature pitches in preparation for the first editorial meeting of fall semester. “Okay,” he said slowly, ignoring the twinge of indignation in his gut, because it wasn’t like Angelica to assign her senior writers stories. She must be dead set on whatever she had in mind. “What is it?”

“A profile.”

John frowned. The student magazine occasionally ran short student profiles, but John didn’t know of anyone who’d ever merited a two-thousand-worder. “Who?”

Angelica plucked a pen from the cup next to her desktop keyboard and twirled it between her fingers—a tense tic John had only ever seen her exhibit on the eve of press days. “Alexander Hamilton.”

She fixed John with a querying look, as though this name might mean something to him. It did not. John did a head-shake-plus-shrug.

“Hamilton’s a senior in the neuroscience department,” Angelica said. “You can see him pictured in a few of the banner photos on the university site. He’s supposedly some sort of undergrad superstar.”

John flipped open his laptop and Googled the name. Sure enough, the first result was a page listing Alexander Hamilton among the members of the Washington Group in the neuro department. Hamilton’s icon showed a boy with doe-big brown eyes, dark hair pulled back in a painfully tight knot, and a deadpan expression. The brief profile didn’t tell John much more than Angelica already had: same year as John, neuroscience major, involved in research on “neural plasticity in the visual cortex.” Whatever that meant.

“Apparently, he’s coauthor on some soon-to-be-published paper, which he’ll present at a conference in a couple months,” Angelica said. “And apparently, it’s a pretty big deal.” Angelica lifted her hands, palms up, as though to say that the logistics of scientific academia were just one of the great mysteries of the universe she couldn’t be bothered to fully understand.

“How did you hear about him?” John said, copying Hamilton’s information from the school site into a Word document and returning to Google. A cursory scroll through the first page of results turned up LinkedIn and ResearchGate profiles, but no social media accounts. Odd.

“Eliza,” Angelica said. “Hamilton came into the Writing Center during one of her late-night shifts sometime last year, all worked up about getting a draft of this research paper in good enough shape to show his…lab manager, or whoever—”

“His PI,” John corrected unthinkingly, as he scanned the fifth page of Google, which still held no sign of a non-professional web presence for Alexander Hamilton.

“His what?”

John glanced up. “His PI, like, principal investigator? Washington. The one who leads the research group.”

Angelica blinked. “Why do you know that?”

John shrugged, not much in the mood to discuss his own principal investigator of a father, who could never understand why John would deign to do something like journalism, why he couldn’t be more like Henry, whose graduate research on molecular machinery actually made all that undergraduate tuition a worthwhile investment—

“Anyway,” Angelica said, “the first draft of that manuscript must have been truly awful, because he kept coming back for Eliza’s help for months, and you know Eliza. Never one to leave a stray out in the cold.” Angelica rolled her eyes, albeit fondly. “So now the paper is actually slotted for publication in…” Angelica checked her computer. “…Nature Neuroscience. He’s presenting the work at a Society for Neuroscience meeting in November, Eliza says.”

John quirked an eyebrow. “Did you say his paper is coming out in Nature?”

“Nature Neuroscience,” Angelica corrected. “Why?”

“Because it’s—” John stopped himself just in time from saying “high impact.” That would have made John sound like his father, and that would have made John hate himself a little bit. “It’s a pretty well known publication.”

John switched over to Google Scholar and found Alexander Hamilton’s name tacked on to some half-dozen publications since 2014. He whistled.

“Glad you find your subject suitably impressive,” Angelica said with a wry smile. “This piece should be an interesting new challenge, given the, ah, science-y angle.”

This was true. John had showcased club service trips, investigated frat expulsions from campus for brutal hazing rituals, spotlighted a group of students who attended the Women’s March on Washington—but nothing, as Angelica put it, remotely “science-y.” Which, John thought, a prickle of excitement in his stomach, actually injected a new kind of thrill into the work. Maybe he’d finally produce a piece that even his quantum physicist father would deem substantive (compared to “all that teenage fluff” John usually wasted his time on).

“The thing is,” Angelica said, and John could tell they’d reached the crux of her initial reticence to assign this story, “Eliza says Hamilton can be a piece of work.”

John raised his eyebrows. “Piece of work” was basically Eliza for “total dickhead.”

“Mmm-hmm,” Angelica confirmed gravely. “She’s come home a fair few nights ranting about his ego, his stubbornness, his neuroticism.” Angelica waved her hand in an et cetera gesture.

“I can handle it,” John said easily. Egoists typically made the best interviewees; it was the self-conscious ones with whom extracting quotes was like pulling teeth. And John could practically list “tolerating intolerably stubborn people” on his résumé, after living with his father and brother for eighteen years. As for neuroticism, there was plenty of that to go around right here in the newsroom.

Did Angelica really think so little of John that she didn’t think he could handle a difficult subject? He’d managed to wring several good quotes out of tight-lipped administrators when the Kappas had gotten booted off campus. That had taken a good amount of grit. Why was she babying him about this?

Something of John’s stung ego must have shown on his face, because Angelica shrugged. “A five-page spread on this guy is going to require a lot of interviews and observation days. I want you to attend this conference in November, too, since it’s only a two-hour train to D.C.”

She eyed John a moment longer, and her expression softened. “Look, you’re a thorough reporter and the best writer we’ve got on staff,” Angelica said matter-of-factly. “The nuts and bolts of his research are going to get tricky. I wouldn’t entrust the story to anyone else.” She paused. “But you’re also a Nice Guy, John, and I don’t want you getting steamrolled.”

That, John thought, may have been the sweetest thing Angelica had ever said to him.

“If I can’t wrangle a difficult source, then I’m probably not cut out for journalism,” John said.

“He gets a rise out of Eliza, John.”

Point taken. Still. John stood up before Angelica could keep piling on more reasons for him to be apprehensive. It was going to be fine. “First draft deadline?” he said promptly.

Angelica spun her chair to inspect the calendar tacked on her back wall. “First draft…Let’s say, first of October. No offense, but if this piece is going to have a bunch of science-y stuff in it, I expect revisions to get hairy. We’ll want to have something solid by the time you get the conference news hook in mid-November, so we can go to press the next week. Okay?”

“Okay,” John agreed, hovering by the door. “Oh, and Angelica?”

“Hmm?” Angelica hummed around the pen cap in her mouth as she scribbled John’s deadline on the calendar.

“So you know, for when you’re editing, the technical word for ‘science-y is ‘scientific.’”

Angelica twisted around to fix him with a flat look, but John saw the corner of her mouth twitch. “John?”

“Hmm?”

“Close the door on your way out.”

John grinned. “Yes, ma’am.”

Outside Angelica’s office, the student newsroom was uncharacteristically quiet for a Wednesday afternoon. Only a few of the people who seemed to reside there from September to May were scattered about: Lafayette in the digital editing corner, dual screens illuminating his face blue, Peggy lip-syncing whatever was playing in her earbuds as she stocked the printer, Aaron hunched over his copy chief desk, doing god only knew what, since there was no copy to edit yet.

Granted, it was only the first week of classes. The inaugural editorial meeting of the school year wouldn’t take place until Friday afternoon—complete with pizza to bribe everyone into attending. There was no real reason for any of them to be here, yet, except perhaps Angelica, who also needed to prepare for her first meeting with the student newspaper staff, for which she was the campus life section editor (and who John knew to have a rolled-up sleeping bag tucked under her desk).

Still, to see the newsroom—usually thrumming with deadline-driven energy—so empty traced a tickle up the back of John’s neck.

John rolled his shoulders and wove his way through the maze of cubicles to Lafayette, who was so transfixed with his work that he didn’t appear to notice John’s approach. It wasn’t until John stopped up short in front of Lafayette’s desk, reached an arm over one of his monitors, and waved his hand back and forth across the screen that Laf jolted back and looked up—glare melting into a grin when he saw it was John.

Lafayette pulled his enormous headphones down around his neck so that John could hear Hannah Montana’s “Nobody’s Perfect” blaring through. It was probably a sign that John and Lafayette spent too much time together—or too much time working on the magazine—that John knew the next song on Laf’s “Frantic Photoshopping” playlist was “Chop Suey,” followed by “Everybody Wants to Rule the World.”

“Salut,” Lafayette said cheerfully. “How was your meeting?”

John, still a bit put out by Angelica’s apparent lack of faith in him, said, “Fine.” He was aiming for airy, but must not have quite hit the mark, because Lafayette’s brow furrowed. “What are you working on?” John said quickly before Laf could ask any more questions. Lafayette couldn’t possibly have magazine work yet. John bent over his screen to get an upside-down glimpse of what he was editing. A flyer of some sort.

“Herc is helming bio club this year,” Lafayette said, “so he asked me to design some meeting advertisements for the student center.”

Ah, of course. Lafayette would do just about anything for Herc, his randomly assigned freshman roommate and effective other-half ever since. They were about as inseparable as two people could be, when one lived in the communications building on the eastern edge of campus and the other hardly left the bio building on the west side.

“I thought Herc had decided not to do that,” John said. He distinctly recalled Hercules announcing last spring—when the then-president of bio club was pestering him relentlessly to take her place once she’d graduated—that he’d sooner declare himself a Flat Earther than assume any more extracurricular responsibilities for the fall. He was already captain of intramural ultimate frisbee and team leader for a contingent of RAs (in the freshman neighborhood of campus, no less).

“Oh, you know Herc,” Lafayette said, eyes back on his computer screen, rolling his earlobe between his left forefinger and thumb—his version of the Angelica pen-twirl. “Quand le service appelle…”

It was times like these that John especially resented his father forcing him to drop French sophomore year of high school to pick up AP statistics. He simply nodded as though he understood and agreed; John had learned early on that if he asked Lafayette for translation every time Laf unthinkingly slipped into French, most of their conversations would progress like a car in bumper-to-bumper traffic. Herc must be nearly fluent by now, John thought.

Laf deftly traced his cursor along the edge of a cartoon cell to carve away the image’s background. “I’m actually meeting Herc for dinner in—” He lifted his eyes to the clock on the upper corner of his screen. “—Fifteen minutes, if you want to join.”

“Sure.” John hadn’t actually seen Hercules since he’d been back at school.

“Fantastic. Let me just finish this,” Lafayette said, eyes on his editing.

John set up shop with his own computer at the cubicle next to Laf’s and opened a new email. Dear Alexander, he wrote, paused, then backspaced the name.

It was tricky business, addressing student interviewees. John never knew how formal to make his first emails. Of course, Alexander Hamilton must be around John’s age, so it wouldn’t be a total faux pas for John to pull a “Dear First Name,” here. But if Angelica was right about Eliza being right about Hamilton’s overinflated ego, then lacing his first email with a bit of flattery probably couldn’t hurt.

Besides, the memory of Hamilton’s straight-laced lab profile picture gave John the impression that it was probably best to err on the side of professionalism.

Dear Mr. Hamilton,

I’m a reporter for the student semesterly magazine, and I’m writing an exposé about you and your work. The story will have a particular focus on the research you will present at the Society for Neuroscience conference later this fall.

My first-draft deadline is October 1. I would like to schedule a preliminary meeting with you to arrange interviews on days that I could shadow you in the lab. I’m available any afternoon this coming week, from Monday, September 4 to Thursday, September 7, after 4 p.m. If any of those windows matches your availability, please let me know the best time and place to meet you. If not, please suggest a couple alternatives that suit your schedule.

Thanks very much for your time. I look forward to hearing from you.

Sincerely, John Laurens

Sent. John snapped his laptop shut. Now all he had to do was wait.

And wait, and wait, and wait, apparently, because the rest of the week passed with no word from John’s interviewee-to-be. Each time he opened his inbox, John’s scanned the cache of new emails for the name “Hamilton,” and his stomach did an uncomfortable flip each time he found nothing.

John usually liked to give his sources several days’ leeway on getting back to him. Especially amidst the flurry of first-week-back activity, he could understand how his email may have gotten lost in Hamilton’s inbox. But at Friday’s editorial meeting, when Angelica asked how his reporting was going—with a look, like she knew John was spinning his tires—the words that tumbled out of John’s mouth were, “Great. Got an interview lined up for next week.”

The buoying sensation of satisfaction that momentarily swelled in his chest at Angelica’s impressed expression deflated just as quickly when the snide voice in the back of his mind (which sounded an awful lot like John’s father) said, Liar. As soon as the meeting adjourned, John sent a hurried email to Hamilton.

Dear Mr. Hamilton,

I’m writing to follow up on my previous message about scheduling a time to meet this coming week. Thanks!

Sincerely, John

He also sent an email to Professor Washington to request an interview. John wasn’t sure how well the head of a whole lab might know one of his lowly undergrad underlings, but if Hamilton was as prolific as Google Scholar made him out to be, John expected they must at least be familiar with each other.

Deciding that he couldn’t wait for Hamilton’s reply to start his reporting, John spent much of the following morning in the library, printing off copies of journal papers coauthored by Alexander Hamilton and trying to slog through the first few pages. Honestly, though, reading even the abstract of each was like trying to clear a forest trail with a table knife. John constantly had to pause in reading to look up words he didn’t recognize and scribble their definitions in the woefully thin margins. Or highlight words that, when he Googled them, he could only find used in similarly dense, indecipherable academic articles.

By lunchtime, John was resigned to the fact that his only hope of understanding Alexander Hamilton’s work lay in Alexander Hamilton himself. Deeply unfortunate, given Hamilton’s continued silence.

John did get one pleasant surprise on Saturday afternoon in the form of a reply from Professor Washington.

Dear John,

I’d be happy to speak with you about Alexander. He’s one of my best students, and I’m glad his work is receiving some recognition.

I’ve attached my office hours for the semester. Let me know if there’s a time that works for you, and I’ll block it off. Thanks.

Cheers, Dr. W

Pleased (and relieved) as John was to get this response, he couldn’t help his incredulity at the fact that Hamilton’s professor had bothered to get back to John before Hamilton himself.

John told himself to be patient, though. His own inbox was flooded with messages, from university bookstore advertisements to welcome-back messages from various school administrators, not to mention syllabi and first assignments from professors. Hamilton probably just needed the weekend to catch up on his cyber-correspondence.

...Or maybe not, John grumbled to himself on Sunday night as he sat in the library with Hercules and Lafayette, trying not to check his email for the third time since they’d sat down an hour ago.

“What’s up with you?”

“Hmm?” John glanced up at Hercules from the “How to file a FOIA” webpage his glazed eyes had been trying to focus on for the past twenty minutes. It was deadly boring.

Hercules pointed his highlighter at John’s hand, which John now realized had been drumming an agitated staccato against their tabletop. Oh.

“Sorry,” John said, folding his hands together in his lap.

“It’s okay,” Herc said, exchanging a glance with Lafayette, who had looked up from his own work. “You’ve just seemed...tense lately.” Hercules hitched a lightly teasing smile on his face. “And It’s too early in the semester for you to be this stressed about work.” Like he wasn’t one of the hardest working people John knew.

“I’m waiting for a source to get back to me,” John said, rubbing his eyes.

“Ah,” Hercules said sympathetically. Although he had no first-hand experience with this particular type of sitting-idle stress, he’d known John long enough to know that awaiting email replies made John feel as though someone was wringing out his stomach like a rag.

Awaiting email replies was, in John’s opinion, the absolute worst part of reporting. He’d never been the type to enjoy group projects, as he hated depending on anyone else to get his work done. But since he literally could not write stories without sources, journalism sometimes felt like one long, group project. The kind where he couldn’t be angry at anyone for not getting back to him promptly, because they didn’t even know they were in his group until he emailed them, and then they were doing him a favor by agreeing to help at all.

John gave a long-suffering sigh and checked his inbox again. Nothing.

“Who is it?” Hercules said.

“Oh, just some—Actually.” John sat up straighter in his chair. It was always a long-shot asking anyone if they knew anyone at a state university as big as this, even if they were both life science undergrads in the same year, but Hercules seemed to know everyone. “Alexander Hamilton. He’s a neuroscience student that I’m profiling for my feature this semester. Know him?”

Herc turned to his laptop, presumably to go social-media-spelunking for a photo of Hamilton. “Name rings a bell…” he murmured.

“You’ll have to look him up on the school site,” John said. “He doesn’t have a Facebook or a Twitter, as far as I can tell.”

“Weird,” Lafayette said, stroking the stubble on his chin thoughtfully. “Wait, I thought at Friday’s meeting you said you’d already scheduled an interview with this guy?”

“Ah, yes,” John said. “That. That was a lie.”

“Why?”

John couldn’t help glancing around, like Angelica might suddenly appear over his shoulder. “Because Angelica made it clear that she thought I’d have a hard time pinning this guy down,” John said.

“Why did she—” Lafayette began, but was interrupted by a drawn-out, “Oh,” from Herc.

John’s stomach twisted tighter. “What ‘oh’?”

“I definitely know this guy,” Hercules said. “Or, I don’t know him know him. We were in the same recitation group for a couple of our intro classes. He’s…” John waited for Herc to settle on the right word. “Kind of a dick. And when I say kind of, I mean he is. A dick.”

Lafayette barely suppressed a snort. John slumped in his chair.

“Like, he’d show up late all the time and interrupt the TAs and just generally had an air like he thought he was better than the rest of us,” Herc said. “Everyone kind of hated his guts.”

Well, that made two-for-two negative Hamilton reviews from a couple of the most sociable people John knew. Fantastic.

When he caught sight of John’s expression, though, Herc hurried to add,

“Disclaimer, this was all freshman year. Loads of people come into college as cocky little bastards, right?” Hercules shrugged. “He’s probably chilled out by now.”

John didn’t bother to correct him with a thirdhand account of Eliza’s experience, because Hercules was now looking slightly guilty for dialing up John’s apprehension.

“Yeah, probably,” John agreed, and started sending off another follow-up message to Hamilton.

By Monday afternoon, John’s anxiousness had morphed into outright irritation.

“Go stake out his lab,” Lafayette suggested over lunch, watching John stab grumpily at his salad.

John chewed his lower lip uncertainly. “You don’t think that’s too…aggressive?” The last thing he wanted to do was actively chase Hamilton away.

“You’re the one taking the investigative journalism course,” Laf said with a shrug. “Aren’t you supposed to be practicing aggressiveness?”

John shoved a forkful of lettuce in his mouth in lieu of responding. Lafayette grinned.

“Laf’s right,” Hercules said, which did not count, because Herc tended to agree with most everything Lafayette said. “You could probably do with some practice, in the assertiveness department.”

“I can be assertive,” John said indignantly, pulling his shoulders back a bit.

“Sure you can, John,” said Herc, a little patronizingly, at the same time Laf said, “I would not endorse you for assertiveness on LinkedIn.” Herc gave Laf a light thwack on the shoulder with the back of his hand.

They were right, of course. Pushing people around just wasn’t in John’s nature. Growing up, it had been John’s father and brother who were the unstoppable forces, and it was John’s only hope was to be as immovable an object as possible.

Still, John figured he didn’t really have anything to lose, at this point. He could do homework just as well in a hallway outside Hamilton’s lab as he could do in the library. So John rechecked the Washington Lab’s room number online and made his way to the neuroscience building at quarter-to-five.

The lab turned out to be in a subbasement, where the halls were mostly silent sans the hum of overhead fluorescent lighting. As John drew closer to his destination, he could hear the faint sound of voice spilling out of Room 0014’s open door. Bingo. John drew to a halt just outside.

He was looking into an office suite, the walls of which were lined with half a dozen shut doors. John’s eyes swept over the couches with pilled cushions shoved up against the white cinderblock walls, the kitchenette area with three coffeemakers on the counter, the large round, wooden table in the middle of the room stacked with textbooks and binders. And then, there was a smaller classroom desk jammed in one corner, piled high with open, dog-eared books and loose papers, and had more stray papers slipping out of its cubby.

There were also two men at the far end of the room, standing shoulder to shoulder with their backs to John, working something out on a whiteboard.

John rapped his knuckles against the open door and they spun around with identical expressions of surprise. John supposed people in subbasement labs didn’t get many unannounced visitors.

“Hi,” he said, glancing between the two men. They both looked at least a couple years older than John. Graduate students, he presumed. “Sorry to bother you.”

“There aren’t any classes down here,” the taller of the two said shortly, probably taking John for a lost freshman.

John bristled. “I know,” he said evenly, which of course was untrue. John had never set foot in this building before, but. Irrelevant. “Is this Professor Washington’s lab?”

“The offices for it,” the shorter guy said shrewdly. “Washington isn’t in right now, though.”

“I’m actually looking for Alexander Hamilton,” John said. “I’ve been trying to get in touch with him for several days, but he hasn’t returned my emails.”

To John’s surprise, Taller Guy let out a rather dramatic scoff. “Yeah, that sounds about right. Fucking Hamilton.”

“Fucking Hamilton,” the other agreed.

“So…he does work in this lab,” John said, stepping into the room.

“Unfortunately,” Taller Guy said flatly.

“Do you know when he might be in?”

Taller Guy shrugged. “Most days he’s here nine to three.”

“Oh,” John said, internally cursing himself for not showing up just a couple hours earlier. “Guess I’ll come back tomorrow morning, then. Thanks.”

“He means nine p.m. to three a.m.,” Shorter Guy corrected, and at John’s appalled expression, added, “Yeah, the kid’s basically nocturnal.”

“Fucking Hamilton,” Taller Guy muttered again.

“Can non-neuro students even access the building that late?” John said.

“Probably not,” Shorter Guy said unhelpfully.

John pinched the bridge of his nose. It was like Hamilton was actively trying to make this as difficult as possible for John. “Fucking Hamilton,” came out of John’s mouth before he could stop to censor himself—and, remarkably, elicited a smirk from both graduate students.

“That’s the spirit, ah—what’s your name?” Shorter Guy said.

“John Laurens,” he said.

“James Madison,” Shorter Guy said with a thumb pointed at his chest, then jerked his head at Taller Guy. “And Thomas Jefferson. Third-year doctoral candidates.”

“What do you want with Hamilton, anyway?” Thomas said, in a tone of veiled interest.

“I’m a writer for the undergrad student magazine,” John explained, “and I’m profiling him for our fall issue.”

Thomas snorted. “Just what Hamilton needs—media attention. Washington already lets him think he’s god’s gift to neuroscience.”

“Well, he’s not going to get any media attention if he’s impossible to reach,” John said, dropping into a chair at the round table and propping his chin on crossed arms.

“Yeah, he tends to ghost like that,” James said, voice much warmer now that it was clear John was no friend of Hamilton’s. “Very annoying, that.”

“You guys work with him?” John asked.

“Not on the same research project,” James said, “but we work with mouse models, too. There’s only a couple of surgical stations in the lab, so coordinating experiment time is key. And difficult, when some little undergrad shit won’t respond to any of our group messages. Even Washington has trouble getting in touch with him sometimes, and Hamilton practically kisses the ground Washington walks on.”

“When he’s not kissing Washington’s ass,” Thomas added.

At least, John thought wearily, it sounded like Alexander Hamilton was an equal-opportunity asshole, and that he probably wasn’t ignoring John’s messages alone…although John couldn’t decide whether that improved or worsened his prospects for completing this assignment in a relatively timely or painless manner.

Well, if John couldn’t get ahold of Hamilton himself just at the moment, he could at least start background reporting. “Did you say surgical stations?” he asked James, casually slipping his reporter’s notebook out of his back pocket and tugging the golf pencil out of its wire spiral.

“Yeah, for inserting electrodes into the mice’s brains,” James explained, giving himself bunny ears. “So we can measure their brain activity during experiments.”

John scribbled away. “What kind of brain activity?”

“We look at what’s going on in the hippocampus,” James said. “Learning and memory. That kind of thing.”

“What about Hamilton?” John asked.

“He looks at vision stuff,” James said, with a marked decrease in interest with the subject change, just as Thomas said, “You can see his stuff out in the hall. We should probably get back to…” and jerked his head at the red-stained dry-erase board.

“Right, right,” John said, disappointed that he hadn’t been able to get at least a sentence of plain-language description of Hamilton’s work from them, but recognizing this as his invitation to leave. “Thanks so much for your help. It seems like you’re doing some really cool work around here.”

This turned out to be just the right amount of cajolery to make James smile abashedly and allow, “Look, we’re probably going to bounce before Hamilton gets in, but if you want, you could leave him a note that you dropped by.”

James pointed at the overflowing corner desk. “That’s his stuff, if you want a post-it to slap on top.”

John raised his eyebrows at the incredible one-man mess.

“Yeah,” Thomas said dryly. “We had to quarantine his clutter to that desk. Not that that keeps him from re-infecting the big table with his junk every few days.”

“You know what, I think I’m good on the whole post-it thing,” John said. For one, John wasn’t at all sure Hamilton would notice a single sticky amidst his heap of papers, and for another, there was no way John was stepping foot outside the neuro building before he saw Hamilton in-person. “I’m gonna check out the posters. Thanks again.”

James flicked him a tired salute and Thomas raised a hand in farewell before they both turned back to the whiteboard and left John to his own devices.

Out in the hall, John walked back and forth, snapping photos of all the posters with A. Hamilton listed as coauthor. The jargon-laden posters were nearly as indecipherable as the papers, but the diagrams did help. A little.

When he was finished, John meandered down the hall in search of a comfortable place to wait out Hamilton. Finding none, he eventually sat down with his face against the wall and opened his computer on crossed legs. Looked like it was time to file some more FOIA requests.

The tedium stretched on, uninterrupted—sans James and Thomas loudly debating something down the hall—until eight o’clock, when John’s ears pricked up at the ding of an incoming email. Hamil—? No. Eliza. Possibly the first time in John’s life he was ever disappointed to see a message from Eliza.

Hi John!

I’m writing the first draft for my first American Lit essay and wanted to see if you’re still interested in being rough-draft-peer-review pals this semester, even though you’ve abandoned me to take Brit Lit instead :( I hear Prof Schmidt’s essay due date sched is p much the same for both classes. We could set up an email exchange? Please say yes! I missed your feedback over the summer. Let me know :)

Also, want to meet up sometime this week?? I missed your friendship during the summer!!! Hehe.

John grinned. Eliza was the only person he knew who could use triple exclamation points un-ironically without sounding either sarcastic or simpering. He’d missed her practically heroic levels of cheer over the summer, especially the days he was confined to his gray-walled cubicle for eight straight hours. He replied yes on both counts, suggesting the next day to meet up. Maybe she could give him some tips on Hamilton-wrangling. Speaking of…

John glanced up and down the hall—even though he knew he would’ve heard the footsteps of anyone approaching before they turned either corner—then pulled out his phone and texted Lafayette that he’d be home late tonight and not to wait up.

John was startled from light sleep later by—finally—the sound of soles smacking against linoleum at a brisk clip. John lifted his head off the wall and blinked rapidly, clearing his blurry vision just in time to see someone turning the corner and starting to walk down the hall toward him. The someone was about John’s height, with his hair tied back taut, his head bent low over a textbook. So low, in fact, that he didn’t seem to see John at all. As the boy approached, John glimpsed the earbuds jammed in both his ears, and heard the boy muttering lowly to himself. Whether he was murmuring along to his music or reading aloud, John couldn’t tell.

Was it—It had to be, right? The hair alone, but. John couldn’t see his face, so he couldn’t quite be sure.

When the boy drew level with the door of Room 0014, he stopped walking before he even looked up, as though his feet had carried him to this precise spot my sheer muscle memory. John watched him dig in the chest pocket of a baggy trench coat to withdraw a jangling key ring. The boy held his open book against his chest with one hand while maneuvering the key ring with his other. It was only now that John realized James and Thomas must have left and locked up shop sometime after he’d drifted off. John checked his watch. Nearly eleven, now. He looked back up at the boy, whose self-talk had taken on a distinctly disgruntled tone as he fiddled with his keys.

Definitely Hamilton.

John stood up and slung his bag over one shoulder, just as Hamilton gruffly shoved open the door and practically tumbled over the threshold.

John followed. He could still hear Hamilton mumbling when he peered through the doorway. Hamilton had already spilled a cascade of work materials from his backpack onto the round table. John watched him doff his trench coat, under which Hamilton was wearing a ratty gray hoodie. This struck John as slightly odd, given that it was only the first week of September and still quite warm out, even when the sun was down. Most academic buildings were air conditioned to the point of frigidity, but still.

John was tempted to pull out his phone and note every detail for potential placement in his story, but right now he had smoke to catch.

“Excuse me,” John said as politely as possible in his still sleep-thick voice. No response. John rubbed the sleep from his left eye. He just wanted to go home.

“Excuse me,” John said, a little bit louder now, but Hamilton just kept rummaging through the bunch of papers he’d dumped out, talking under his breath. Oh, for the love of—

John shook his head and schooled his exhausted, irate expression into something resembling “professionally determined.” Contrary to what Angelica and everyone else seemed to think, John was not so much of a pushover that he was incapable of doing his job. He marched up to tap Hamilton on the shoulder.

Hamilton flinched violently under John’s touch and spun on his heels, planting his palms on the table behind him to look at John with wide, almost fearful eyes.

John, for his part, was so shocked by this overwrought reaction that the stern expression fell from his face and he leaned back, hands up. He could see now that Hamilton, who was panting as though John had dunked his head underwater rather than touched his shoulder, still had earphones stuck in his ears. Ah.

For a hairline moment, the sight of Hamilton made John’s chest ache. The school site photo hadn’t done justice to the bruise-dark circles under Hamilton’s eyes or the slight concavity of his cheeks. The boy looked so supremely disturbed to find an unexpected face in his personal space that the next words queued up to leave John’s mouth were, somewhat ridiculously, ‘It’s okay.’

But before John could say anything, Hamilton’s panic-stricken expression pinched into an ugly scowl and he wrenched out his earbuds to snap, “What the hell is your problem?”

What…what the hell was John’s…Seriously?

“My problem?” John said, the pitch of his voice rising higher than was perhaps dignified. “Why didn’t you email me back?”

“What?” Hamilton spluttered. “Who are you?”

John opened his mouth but stopped up short. Right. In their conversational kerfuffle, he’d skipped clean over introductions. Which only made him angrier at Hamilton, honestly. John was a stringent eleven-to-seven sleeper. So this conversation was happening way too late for him to have his head on straight. He crossed his arms. “I’m the journalist who’s been trying to get in touch with you for a better part of a week.”

“Journalist?” Hamilton said. He was tapping his foot against the tile agitatedly. Annoyingly.

John exhaled slowly through his nose. “Yes. For the student magazine.”

“Oh. That.” Hamilton’s tone was distinctly disdainful now, but John noticed his hands to a weird…jazz-hand-like tremor, where they were hanging at Hamilton’s sides, like Hamilton needed to physically shake the excess energy out of himself.

“Yes,” John said again, levelly.

“Yeah, thanks, but no thanks.”

John stared at him. Contrary to the rest of Hamilton, which appeared in constant erratic movement, he didn’t seem to need to blink as much as the average person, giving his gaze a somewhat unnatural intensity. John’s eyes felt dry just looking at him, although that might have been residual stickiness from falling asleep in his contacts earlier. God, he wanted to go to bed. “What do you mean ‘no thanks’?”

“No. Thank. You,” Hamilton repeated, enunciating each syllable with mocking precision. “Go find someone else to write about.” He made a little shooing gesture with one hand, which John saw was covered with black pen ink in truly horrendous handwriting.

John tamped down on the urge to grip Hamilton’s shoulders and give him a good, hard, shake. “I can’t,” he bit out. “My editor assigned me to write the story about you.”

“Well, I can’t help that, can I?” Hamilton gave a kind of half-smirk and sank into a chair. To John’s supreme irritation, he shifted in his chair to hunch over the table and start picking through his papers, as though the conversation were finished.

John was far from finished. He yanked out the chair beside Hamilton’s and planted a hand over the page Hamilton was reading. Hamilton jumped. John felt the corner of his mouth twitch and immediately felt disgusted with himself. He wasn’t the kind of person who delighted in others’ moments of weakness. He wasn’t his—

He could be a Nice Guy and still do his job.

So John peeled his palm off Hamilton’s paper—embarrassed by the perspiration that made it momently stick—and muttered a “sorry.” Which Hamilton did not acknowledge.

John inhaled, exhaled, and said gently, “Why don’t you want to do it?”

Hamilton was back to leafing through his papers. “I don’t need to explain myself you,” he said. “You’re the one who came to me.”

If John wasn’t very much mistaken, Hamilton’s tone had tilted toward satisfaction, there, which gave him an idea. Time for a little ego-stroking. “When I publish the profile, it will make the lab look good,” he said. “Could score you some points with the other students and your P.I. He seemed into the idea when I emailed him for an interview.”

“When I publish my research, it makes the lab look good,” Hamilton said shortly. “That scores me plenty of ‘points’ with Washington.” No comment on the graduate students, though, John noted.

Now that they were sitting down, John could feel Hamilton’s leg bouncing under the table. Did this guy ever sit still?

Meanwhile, Hamilton was wearing an expression like, Is that the best you’ve got?

“Still, it must be tough, being the only undergrad in your lab,” John said casually. “The profile could only boost your…scientific street cred around the department.”

Hamilton’s eye twitched, but he said quite evenly, “I was the youngest student ever to join this lab and the youngest student in the department ever listed coauthor on a paper. I’m currently the undergrad with the most publications to his name and the highest GPA. Not too worried about my ‘scientific street cred,’” he said, crooking his fingers in pejorative air quotes.

“Has James Madison or Thomas Jefferson ever been the subject of a five-page magazine spread?”

John knew he’d played an ace the moment Hamilton’s leg stopped bouncing.

“My reporting wouldn’t take up too much of your time,” John hurried on. “I know you’re extremely busy.”

Hamilton wasn’t look at him now, but John could see him chewing the inside of his cheek. “Did Washington—” he began, in a tone much softer than the one he’d been using with John, and then cleared his throat. The leg jitters started back up again. “He…seemed okay with it?”

“Absolutely,” John said promptly. Come on, he thought. Come on. “He agreed to an interview next week, and it’d be great if I’d already had one interview with you beforehand. Even better if I could shadow you in the lab first.”

Hamilton looked up sharply. “Shadow?”

“Uh, yeah,” John said. He could feel Hamilton pulling back and rushed to say, “Just observing you work in the lab. Seeing you in your element.” John should really also see Hamilton in his element outside the lab—attending a club meeting, playing a sport, something—but this didn’t seem the moment to raise that point. John would have to casually slip it into conversation at a later date, once he’d pried a little bit of trust from Hamilton’s nail-bitten, twitchy hands.

For the moment, Hamilton still looked extremely reluctant to let John hover over his shoulder, no matter how professional his purpose.

“All the time I would spend with you is to make sure I paint a detailed, accurate picture of you and your work,” John said. Come on, come on.

“I—”

John caught Hamilton’s eyes flick over to one of the office doors and followed his gaze. The nameplate read: “George Washington, PhD.”

Hamilton let out a long-suffering sigh and then said, “Okay.”

John had never felt such relief over such an unenthusiastic response.

Before leaving Hamilton alone, John walked him through the basic outline of when John would need him before the first-draft deadline: a couple hour-long interviews, plus answers to fact-checks and follow-up questions that John would send along by email, a few days to shadow in the lab, a couple other scattered meetings here and there.

“I thought you said this wasn’t going to take much time,” Hamilton grumbled as John flipped his monthly planner to the “October” page.

“It’s all going to be spread out over a month,” John said, trying for reassuring and sounding exasperated, even to his own ears. It would have been even more dispersed, John thought, if Hamilton had responded to any of his emails—but, again, probably not the time to raise that point.

“In the meantime, is there anyone else you’d recommend I contact for outside interviews, besides Washington?”

Hamilton squinted. “Why?” he said, because of course no part of this could be easy.

“I need outside perspectives to flesh out the profile,” John said. “People who know you well, like friends.”

“Nope,” Hamilton said, deadpan.

John’s turn to squint. He couldn’t tell whether Hamilton was saying he didn’t have any friends worth contacting, or whether he didn’t have any at all. The latter seemed unlikely, even for Hamilton. Maybe he meant he refused to allow John to contact his friends.

“Family?” John tried.

Hamilton just kept wearing that inscrutable expression.

“Look, if you don’t come up with a short list, at least a couple of people—professors, anyone—then I’m going to fall back on Jefferson and Madison,” John said.

Hamilton wrinkled his nose. “Ugh, fine, fine. I’ll think up a couple names for you.”

John smiled, triumphant. He was getting pretty deft at using the carrot-and-stick of Jefferson and Madison’s disparagement, along with Washington’s approval, to nudge Hamilton in the right direction. John licked his forefinger and flicked the page over to his November calendar.

“Oh, and I’ll be attending the Society for Neuroscience with you,” John said, marking the 11th through the 15th with a little star in the corner of each box.

“What? Why?”

“Because when we release the magazine at the beginning of December, it’ll be good to have a recent news hook for the story,” John explained.

“I thought the the story was due at the beginning of October,” Hamilton said.

“The first draft,” John said with affected patience, “is due October first. Then it goes through revisions with my first editor, then a top editor, then through copy-edit—” “Okay, okay,” Hamilton said, shaking his head irately. Just as thoroughly unconcerned with the annals of journalistic publication as Angelica was with scientific publication. “Got it. Anything else?”

“Er.” John scanned his mental checklist once more. “I don’t think so.” He tore a page out of his reporter’s notebook. “I could write out a lit of the details for you—”

“Email,” Hamilton said, waving his hand dismissively.

“Would you actually read this one?” John said dryly.

Hamilton paused. “I read your other emails,” he said, before continuing to flip through pages of what looked like intro-level homework assignments.

John stared at him for a few seconds, no idea what to make of that, then decided the only thing to say was, “Okay.” He stood up and pushed his chair in. “I’ll be in touch, then.”

Hamilton lifted a hand in farewell without lifting his eyes from the papers.

The following morning, John met Eliza at the community garden behind the freshman dorm where she was an RA. Eliza had volunteered in that garden practically from the moment she set foot on campus—which meant that John had volunteered at that garden for almost as long.

Eliza had become John’s first college friend in their shared English class, first semester freshman year. This was back when John was even more reserved than he was now, back before he’d met Laf and Herc, back when he was fresh out of an all-boys high school and it was something of a novelty to have a girl sit beside him in class—let alone ask him, apropos of nothing, how his summer had been.

So on the first Saturday morning that Eliza texted John, bright and early, with an invitation to plant seeds and pull weeds behind her building for a couple of hours, there was really nothing for John to do but say yes. Fast-forward three years, and now he had his own pair of mud-encrusted gardening gloves.

“John! Over here.” Eliza popped up from behind a row of tomato cages that were bursting with greenery and heavy, red fruit. She waved him over, and John meandered through the squash, zucchini, and pumpkin patches. Eliza brushed the dirt off her ankle-length skirt and wrapped him in a hug.

“How are you?” she said, pulling back but leaving her hands on John’s shoulders to look him up and down.

Not having grown up with a mother, John couldn’t say for certain, but he got impressions from books and movies, at least, that this was a very motherly move.

“I’m good, thanks,” John said, smiling semi-self-consciously under Eliza’s critical once-over. “How can I help?”

“Got your gloves?”

John pulled them out of his back pocket.

“Good man.” Eliza beamed at him and wiped the sheen of sweat off her forehead with a forearm. “We’re just weeding today. Come on down, the dirt’s fine.”

John sank to his knees in the soft soil beside her, savoring the feeling of cold damp through his jeans. He’d missed this. “How was your summer?” he asked, yanking out his first weed with vigor and adding it to Eliza’s already impressive pile.

“Too short, as always,” she said, wistful. “Working in the Writing Center is so easy over the summer. Hardly anyone comes in. So I played a lot of Bananagrams with the librarians and did some pleasure reading, some pleasure writing.”

Eliza exhaled sharply to blow a stray wisp of hair off her forehead. “Peggy stayed on campus, too,” she continued, “working as a counselor for some high school STEM camps that ran throughout June and July. It was so nice to have the company.”

Even though he’d been friends with all the Schuyler sisters for the better part of three years, it still bemused John greatly to think that anyone could enjoy the company of their siblings as much as they did.

As if on cue, Eliza asked, “How was your summer at home?”

John’s hand slipped on the plant he was trying to uproot. He tightened his grip. “Work was okay,” he said, knowing full well this was not the question Eliza had been asking. “I got assigned a few stories to fill in for out-of-town staffers, but mostly I did a lot of coffee-grabbing, file-cabinet-reorgnizing, and other assorted grunt work. At least I got paid, though.”

“And you made professional connections,” Eliza pointed out, waving a weed at him.

John decided not to say that he wasn’t sure how much any of those professional connections from his small Kentucky town would matter out here on the east coast, because this was just Eliza’s way: eyes forever fixed on the bright side. John could have told her he’d been working down in a coal mine all summer and she’d probably say, What a great adventure! What great exercise! What amazing camaraderie you must have forged with your fellow miners! What excellent creative nonfiction fodder!

“Sure,” is what John said instead. “Glad to be back at school, though.”

Eliza’s expression shifted toward sympathy, now, because she’d read enough of John’s angsty nonfiction pieces and poems in their creative writing classes over the years to know that John’s relationship with his father was, well, fraught. Effectively nonexistent at best, confrontational at worst, and usually hovering in some weird middle ground full of awkward dinner table silences and pointed car ride questions about John’s class schedule and post-grad plans.

“It is nice to have everyone back,” Eliza said smoothly, apparently guessing that John had nothing else to say on the subject of summer that she didn’t already know. “Although I’ve hardly seen Angelica at all since classes started.”

This was saying something, John thought, given that Angelica was rooming with Eliza in her two-bedroom RA suite, this year.

“Most evidence of her presence, some days, is the trail of empty coffee mugs she leaves around,” Eliza said.

“Lots of late nights in the newsroom already?” John said.

“Yup.” Eliza rolled her eyes in the same fond way Angelica had, when she’d lamented Eliza’s ceaseless patience with Alexander Hamilton. “That girl works too hard.”

John could hardly argue with that. Angelica, though a year older than John and Eliza, would graduate with them this spring, because she’d taken two gap semesters after sophomore year to work journalism internships in Manhattan. Every summer, she’d helped teach journalism workshops for high schoolers at a university back in her California hometown. And since their junior year, she’d served as editor in chief of the student magazine and campus life section editor of the student paper. For as long as he’d known her, Angelica Schuyler had exhibited the professional development momentum of a freight train.

Angelica and Alexander Hamilton would probably get on like a house on fire, John thought.

“That reminds me,” he said, giving a particularly resistant weed a ruthless tug, “I hear I have you to thank for my current Alexander Hamilton assignment.”

Eliza looked over at him with a concerned pinch in her brow. “Oh, yes,” she said. “Angelica told me she’d commissioned you to cover Alexander. Is he behaving himself? He can be a handful, can’t he?” Like a hand-wringing mother at a parent-teach conference.

“I’ve only met him once,” John said. “Had to corner him in the lab because he wouldn’t answer any of my emails. He was…prickly.”

“Oh, yes,” Eliza said again, nodding knowingly. “He tends to do that, too.”

Whether she meant Hamilton going off the grid or being a prick, John wasn’t sure. Maybe both.

“Don’t worry. He’ll warm up to you,” Eliza said, with all the confidence of someone saying the sun would rise the next morning. “Hamilton is prickly, but—but like a hedgehog is prickly. Soft underneath.”

John threw her a dubious side-eye.

“He is,” she insisted. “For instance, last spring I bought a bouquet of lilies for the Writing Center’s front desk to spruce the place up a bit, and when Alexander’s paper was accepted for publication, he sent me a bouquet of lilies as a thank-you for all my help.”

“Eliza,” John said, trying not to overstep, but being familiar enough with Eliza’s careless, easy sort of beauty to know that she often didn’t know how much other people tried to flirt with her, “are you sure it wasn’t just because he, you know. Liked you?”

Eliza actually threw her head back to laugh at that. “No,” she said decisively, tugging off her glove to wipe the corner of one eye with her knuckle. “No, definitely not. I mean, it was Alexander. The thank-you note was formatted like the business letters they teach you how to write in elementary school—complete with the library’s street address under my name, and the Washington lab’s address under his. Printed out and signed with his full name.

“Also, I haven’t seen him since. I hope he’s not working himself too hard,” Eliza added, almost as an afterthought.

From John’s fifteen-minute interaction with Hamilton, he could pretty much guarantee that was not the case, but he couldn’t bring himself to dash Eliza’s hopes. “Seems like he can be a bit of a workaholic,” he said.

“Maybe even more than Angelica,” Eliza said gravely. “Whenever I would ask what he was doing over a weekend, or something, he’d just say he was working in the lab.” Eliza stood up and maneuvered her way through the shrubbery to find a yet unweeded patch of earth. “I just felt so bad for him, sometimes, because I don’t think the people in his lab are very nice to him.”

“Maybe he’s not very nice to the other people in his lab,” John said, keeping his tone carefully neutral, as it was clear Eliza had entered full mother hen mode, now—though it still remained unclear to John why she’d taken Hamilton, of all people, under her wing.

“Maybe not,” Eliza agreed, somewhat testily, “but I don’t think there’s anything wrong with Alexander defending himself when he’s being bullied by grad students.”

That gave John pause. He hadn’t given much thought to the possibility that although Hamilton, Jefferson, and Madison were all clearly throwing punches, Hamilton may be punching up, and the others down.

“He tries so hard,” Eliza went on, shaking her head. “He’s probably the most prolific person I’ve ever met. He’d come into our writing center sessions with dozens of versions of whatever section of the paper we were working on that night. It’s amazing how much he gets done, even when he’s having such a tough time of it.”

John was on the brink of asking what exactly that meant, but the seriousness of Eliza’s tone implied it was not a problem professional enough to be pertinent to his profile. John could picture both Angelica and his investigative journalism professor with hands on their hips, telling John that as a journalist it was his job to pry. But there was a difference, John thought, between demanding official statements from school administrators and nosing unnecessarily into another student’s personal life.

So when Eliza said “enough about Alexander” and abruptly changed the scheduling their essay rough draft exchange, John decided it was probably for the best that he didn’t have the opportunity to ask any nosier questions.

#fic things #the lams fic #wips #after losing a fair few documents this week #feeling especially paranoid/protective of WIP documents #also posting to put a pin in this for later #as a self-promise to finish #hamilton things

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