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brattywriters-anonymous · 6 years ago

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A Rose In Harlem

OC x Erik Story

Based on Teyana Taylor’s VII & KTSE

@chaneajoyyy

Warnings: Implied smut! Language, Angst.

X: Show & Prove

The morning of the show

Syd woke up from what she felt was a dream. It had been the most sleep she’s gotten all week, a solid six hours. She checked her phone, 7:10 AM. She remembered tapping out and closing her eyes around 1:30 AM. What seemed to slip her mind was Sin being next to her. She jolted up at his beautiful naked frame. He was still sleeping, his hair fell every which way. She smiled to herself remembering his kisses sporadically falling across her collarbone and chest as their bodies moved in unison. She glazed her fingertips where his lips once were and smiled even harder. Her phone going off snapped her out of the daydream.

“Hello?” “Syeda! What time are you gonna head out for the show? The venue is gonna be available for us at seven.” “I’ll be there then, Ayana.” Yasin must’ve been a light sleeper because her loud whisper woke him up. He rose with a deep loud groan while he yawned, in which Yani heard loud and clear. “Gi--Girl! You got sum?! You and plumber bae got it in last night!?” “Shut up Yani! Shhhh!” “Nuh uh! Syeda Mariposa! I heard his fine ass! I know we been stressed out and shit too! And I know you bitch! You gave it up!” Yani gave Syd a round of applause, “I was beginning to wonder wtf was wrong with you. It’s almost been a year since you got them walls beat!” Syd brushed past Yasin with a smile and closed the bathroom door behind her, “It’s only been nine months. If you must know, nosey. Yes, I did. and He’s not just plumber bae anymore. He’s my bae.”

“Yaaaassss Syd! I’m proud of you! Making strides in fashion and in love! I’m inspired, I may stop playing and give your mystery neighbor a call.” “Girl, he’s in Berlin. He said he’ll be back next week though, if you forreal.” Yani sighed, “Yeah, I’m forreal, mami. It’s about time I finally settle down too, and he’s nice.. I guess. I can try him out, see what he’s about. Plus, him not always being around is a plus because you know how I likes my space!” Syd giggled at her friend, “Yeah, don’t I!” “Yeah, yeah! Bitch, you don’t gotta be so inclined to agree.” “Bitch you not gon act like we didn’t try living together before I moved in here and you didn’t throw me out!” Yani’s tone changed to a matter of fact-like as she replies, “I didn’t throw you out! I simply gave you options for new places to live.” Syd sucked her teeth, “Bitch, you threw me out.” “Whatever! Let’s agree to disagree on the matter! Besides, you may wanna get some good morning dick because we got a long day ahead of us! Get some for me too while you at it! A bitch is in the office and I haven’t had none since before the holidays.” Syd cringed, “Ew. Girl Bye!”

Erik woke up to a warm feeling below him, as his eyes blinked open a few times he realized what was going on. “Oh shit! Good morning.” Gina decided to wake up her interest with some morning head. Her head was slowly bobbing up and against this pelvis until his member got hard and long enough that it activated her gag reflex. “Relax that throat baby.” She moans at his request and eased her way back down to his pelvis again, collecting more spit down his shaft. She placed one hand on him, maneuvering it up and down as she slurped him up like a melting cone on a July sunset as his head flew back on the arm of Zig’s couch. He gripped her by her hair and pulled her face up to his, their lips played against one another as she sank onto him.

“Good morning.” She finally replied to his previous greeting before kissing him again.

The evening soon approached as Syd hopped in the Uber XL with all of her clothing, accessories, and materials in tow. Yani was already at 583 Park Avenue, waiting for her to arrive. She’d been recieving texts and calls from all of the models, some invited guests, Myles, and Yasin even though he’d just left her sights hours before she departed from her house.

“Hey baby. I know your nerves are on ten! Just breathe! You got this. I’ll see you once it’s done.

-Sin”

Syd clutched at her heart in joy at her new boyfriend’s support. The uber driver stopped as close to the service entrance as he could, “Alright, we are here Miss Syd. You need any help?” “Uhhh...yes please? Thank you!” Allen, the driver, unloaded Syd’s belongings and escorted them into the venue. Yani came outside to help him as Syd’s attention fell immediately on set design. The contractors put down the black glitter floors already and Iyo was setting up his laptop to the projector. She slipped backstage to find her MUAs hooking everyone up as she saw the last model finally arriving to set.

Gina waltzed in the show as if she was the hottest thing since Takis, strutting like she’s on the runway backstage, and she was twenty minutes late. Not only that, but she showed up needing a visit to a hair stylist and makeup. “Syd, hey girl. Listen, I’m sorry I had a long day. Me and E..” “I’m sorry but, this has to do with the show..how, exactly?” Gina giggled, saying in a boastful tone, “Me and E lost track of time, that’s why I’m late.” Syd gave her a glance over and stopped as she looked back up at her, “Hm, so that’s why you let him tag you up on the night of my fashion show too?” The right side of Gina’s neck was riddled with dark hickeys. Syd was really disgusted at the display that stood in front of her.

Gina just smiled, “I’m sorry, I’m sure GiGi can cover it up.” Syd muttered, tight lipped, “She wouldn’t have to cover shit if you could’ve remembered you had a job to do tonight and it’s all about image.” Gina rolled her eyes, “So do you want me to see if she can do it or not? Ya know, you’ve been giving me shit since you met me.. You got a thing with Erik I don’t know about? That your man that showed up last night don’t know about?” Syd had it, she stepped up on Gina really slow, looked her square in her eye as she stated, “What you do with your personal time with Erik or anyone else is of no concern to me. However, when you come into the most important night of my life, and possibly yours if you pull this off, looking freshly fucked less than two hours before showtime..that is my concern. So what I need you to do is firstly, get up with Nina and Xierra, see if they can work a miracle with what’s on your head. I’LL have a talk with GiGi and see if she can cover your shit up. And trust me, after this show, you’ll be out of my hair.”

Gina scowled, “Okay. If you say so..boss.” and with that, she disappeared. Syd hasn’t been so mad in so long. Professionally speaking, she was mad at Gina. Personally speaking, she was conflicted. Her and Erik hadn’t spoken in weeks, so she knew she really technically couldn’t be mad at him for getting with Gina. Hell, she got with Yasin. Yes, it was unexpected, but damn. She just wasn’t expecting for Erik to get back like that. Syd shook off those personal feelings and thoughts, she immediately began to dress her models that were finished with makeup. Syd dressed her models one by one as they came out.

Von, Sam, Johan, Levi, Jade, Deanna, Phoe(nix), Sevin, Nina, Essence, Xierra, Leon, Warren, Cass, Omir, Cayson, Nadia, Zaniya, Jorge, King, Tammi, Quanna, Lyric, and Gina.

Well, as Gina finally got up from Gigi performing makeup surgery to cover up her night before, Syd actually needed to cool herself down so Myles ended up dressing her. Gina was sizing him up as he was cascading the clothes on her, “Girl, I’d be barking up the wrong damn tree. This is strictly professional! Get the damn clothes on!”

Syd stepped out front where she caught a glance of Erik on the phone. She just leaned against the wall of the building, knowing it was facing East, she bowed her head and started her second prayer of the day. Her and Yasin did the first of the day together when they finally got out of bed. She hoped for a perfect, smooth show; for sound and production to go off without a hitch, and for her show to receive rave reviews. Her head rose and met Erik’s. “Wassup princess, you good?” The second thing Syd instantly took notice of was Erik’s matching hickeys on the left side of his neck. She hung her head back down, “Yeah. I’m good. Nervous that’s all.”

“You got this Syeda. Just breathe, relax. I think someone wants to congratulate you though..” She lifted her head and saw Ziggy with a huge bouquet of Sunflowers, Syeda’s favorite flower, and the hugest grin, “I heard my fly ass neighbor was gon kill her fashion show tonight!” Syd’s face lit up as she held on to Zig for dear life, “Greg! Ahhhhhhh! Thank you for coming! But how? I thought you were working?” He sighed, “Well, Tony wrapped early so I hopped on the first flight out. I couldn’t miss your big day if I didn’t have to!” Syd accepted her flowers, “My favorite!” “Only for you Miss Syd!” “Thank you so much Zig, I feel so much better! You can go ahead and grab a seat.

“Well, well! Looks like Someone beat me to the punch!” Syeda’s ears perked up at her man’s voice, she turned her attention to Yasin. He had on a black velvet two piece suit with a white button down, his hair in a high bun. Looking like he belonged on her runway tonight. Syd’s smile became impossibly wider, “Hey, you.” Yasin wrapped his arms around her and gave her multiple pecks on her lips. She momentarily forgot about the two men behind her. Erik loudly cleared his throat, stoically stalking them with a look of dislike, “Oh, my bad. I don’t think you two ever met, Yasin, this is Zigg, my neighbor. Zigg, this is my man Yasin.” “Ya man?” Erik questioned Syd in joking tone, Yasin replied, “Yeah, Erik, was it?” Erik stood opposite of Yasin, sizing him up, “Yup. That’s me.”

Yani was right on time, “Syd, I--” She quickly pieced together the scene she walked out to, “I need you inside. You need to get dressed and into makeup.” Syd grabbed Yasin’s hand as she instructed everyone to just grab a seat and the show would be starting in thirty minutes.

Syeda decided on her look for the night, her blazer dress was accompanied with her black turtle neck underneath and her boots. GiGi gave her a fire gold glitter eye shadow, snatched her face with a mean contour and golden highlighter, and set the look with the bold ombre burgundy to red lip. Syd decided to wear her hear in a slick curly ponytail with her signature two sideburn pieces, and of course, keeping true to where she came from, she bought a new set of heart shaped gold bamboo earrings with her entire name spelled out, matched with her necklace her father gave her. She stepped out of the green room to all of her models, Yani, and Myles. Everybody wooped for Syeda’s look for the night.

“Daaaaammmn Mami! You looking hot tonight! Muy Muy caliente!” “Gracias, Jorge!” She bowed to her homie and continued, “Ok everyone, this is it! It’s crunch time. Just to give you a little run down for the confirmed guest list; reps from Chanel, Yves Saint Laurent, Pink Pyramid, Hermes, plenty of my partners from undergrad have their own fashion lines, photographers looking for models, Ford Models, L.A. Models, and even more. Ya’ll dreams are right past that curtain. I need ya’ll personalities and confidence. Shine like the stars you are, Alright?” Everyone yelled, “Alright!” she continued, “Alright! To UPTXWN!”

The show was every single thing Syd prayed for. The models ATE. The crowd looked satisfied with the show. Byron snapped pictures of everyone walking up and down the runway, Syeda was a nervous wreck the entire show. Biting down on her nails holding on to her best friend’s hands for dear life when she wasn’t changing out her models with her. They finished all of the models final looks she stood behind Gina, as she was the last model to walk out before her. Gina sized her up and rolled her eyes, Syeda gave her a smug look as Yani caught it, she stated, “That bitch is dead to you after this, and if anyone in here asks about her to me, her ass is grass.” Syd just nodded. Every model walked onto the platform and a mic was handed to Yani as she announced her best friend, “And now, the creative behind the UPTXWN styling brand, Syeda Diaz!”

The entire crowd rose in applause as each side of the platform was filled with all twenty-four models, twenty-three of which were following suit in applause. Gina just painted on a fake smile for the spectators. Syeda did her walkthrough and waved each way down the runway. She caught glimpses of all of the faces she’s seen while making a name for herself in the high fashion world as well as the faces of old classmates and her boyfriend. Her face went blank when she saw a face she’d never thought she’d see ever again, her ex boyfriend. Marcellus.

🌹

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cloudynames · 6 years ago

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Point and Flex

hi everyone!! happy holidays!! i hope you’re all spending time with your family or friends~ i wanted to get this up before christmas but i was caught up with too much aha please accept this as a late christmas present <3

Word Count: 3,654

Rating: PG-13

Warning: one (1) swear word [shocking i know]

lets winwin!

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A white letter with gorgeous red lettering and a prestigious gold stamp changes your life.

Coming home that Thursday afternoon from school and holding your acceptance letter made you anticipate your graduation. Things were coming along so quickly you hadn’t even noticed how summer flew by and you were on your way to Seoul, dancing for The Korean National Ballet.

Sitting in your small dorm, you unpacked quickly and ran to the window, peering out at the city around you. Excitement filled up in your stomach, only to disintegrate when your calendar clearly marks that your evaluation day was tomorrow. Huffing and flopping on your bed, you started to realize how intense of a situation you’re in.

You’re overseas in a country you’ve never been to before! Barely being able to speak the language, the only thing you have is your dancing abilities. You would have to work as hard—no, even harder than the other students to qualify and dance for the theatre. The gravity of your situation slowly sets in while your anxieties rise and you groan.

“This sucks!” You yell into your room, directing it to no one.

The next morning you, suffering from jet lag, hurriedly burst into the studio, still arranging your hair and not even having properly stuffing your bag with everything you need for dance.

Multiple dancers turn their head to you, some scoffing and some smirking. Either they saw you as pathetic already or someone to mock. .

Placing down your backpack, you grab your pointe shoes and toe cap. Fear for your feet creeps into your body as you dig through your bag, checking every pocket.

“No, no, no… Where’s my toe spacer?!”

“Do you need one?” A voice quips and you whip your head to them. A boy with brown short hair and a slight accent stands above you, holding out a new toe spacer.

“Thank you so much! I really do appreciate it.” You grin and he sits down besides you.

As you prepare your feet, Ten questions you, “We don’t get many foreigners. Are you new?”

Nodding and standing up, testing your pointe shoes, you respond, “Yes. I’m a first year.”

“I’m Ten! I’m a second year. Last year, I was The Beast from Beauty and the Beast!”

You awe in amazement and respond back with your name. The two of you chat for a while until everyone is called into the huge, modern dance room. You nervously shift around until the wooden door opens with a man holding the door. Your shoulders tighten at the sudden sound and you keep your best posture, wanting to make a good impression on your new instructor.

A creaking sound gradually grows louder and louder. People seem to be startled and they whisper in a tongue you don’t understand. Turning to Ten for assistance, he keeps his eyes front to the mirror.

First, you see legs and then wheels. A man with dark muddy brown hair and sharp eyes arrives in the room, and he slowly moves himself over to the center of the room. Adjusting himself accordingly, he booms with a loud voice.

“Welcome.”

A wave of relief washes over the students but you wonder who this instructor is.

And not to be noisy, but what happened to his legs?

He looks incredibly intimidating and with a huge figure, it drives anxiety up to your throat. Aren’t wheelchairs supposed to make you look small?

“Let’s take thirty minutes to stretch. You may talk quietly among yourselves.”

With that, you immediately rush to Ten’s side and while in a lunging position, you ask, “Who is he?”

“Dong Sicheng. We call him Winwin.”

“Is he nice?” You whisper, falling into the splits and remembering to point your toes.

“Nah. He’s kind of a prick but he has the right to be. He’s a good instructor and he pushes you to your limit. He truly makes you a better ballet dancer.” Ten admits, going into a backbend.

“So what happened to him? I mean his legs of course.”

Ten sputters and collapses into the ground, clearly shocked by the audacity of your question. “How am I supposed to know?”

Soon your time to stretch was over and the terrifying instructor thought it would be best to go across the floor to evaluate where some people are at.

“Let’s do a pirouette, no—make it five pirouettes. I want a grand jet�� and finally a glissade.”

A slow melody of piano music fills your ears and the taps of pointe shoes hitting the floor have your head spin in anxiety.

Soon enough it was your turn and you listen carefully for the counts to start.

“5, 6, 7, 8–“

Your body tenses and relaxes all at the same moment as you become one with the music. Coming all the way from your home is scary, especially since there’s a chance that you might not end up achieving your goals. Yet, you’re here for a reason. They accepted you and you were going to shock everyone.

At the end of your glissade, you turn to go to the end of the line. Suddenly, a loud voice barks up, “Point your toes on that jeté or I’ll make you do fifty more.”

Turning your head around from hearing the sudden English, you meet eyes with Winwin and you swear you could see the flash of a smirk. Feeling your face flush red, you hide your face by staring at the wall. Ten gives you a small pat on the back while you hear snickers fill the room.

You were the first one to be called out that day.

After class, you had to go to your mandatory core classes and you were completely swamped with work.

“I can’t believe I have to write an essay already!” You exclaim, falling back into your bed and pushing your laptop aside.

“Yeah, yeah. That’s college for you.” Ten mutters, slurping loudly as he finishes his ramen. “Can you buy me another one of these?”

“Hell no.” You respond, not even glancing at him until he shrieks.

“Oh my god! The ballet this semester was announced! We’re doing Cinderella!”

Pushing yourself off your bed and rushing over to Ten’s side, you steal his phone and scroll a bit until you see the English text.

‘We are proud to announce this semester’s ballet, Cinderella! With the success of Beauty and the Beast, we knew we had to perform another Disney ballet. More information will be coming soon. Thank you.’

Ten grabs his phone back and rolls his eyes about how rude you are.

“Ten, I have to audition! I mean, it’s Cinderella! My dream was to be her while I was growing up.” You sigh happily, flopping back into your bed.

Ten shoots you a grin, “Go for it. I’m cheering you on!”

If you weren’t determined before, you were definitely more determined now. You arrived an hour early to class and after your core classes, you would go back for another two hours to practice. It was tiring, especially trying to keep your grades up, but you loved every second of it. It was lonely at times but with the support of Ten and Taeyong (a third year and a new friend!), you felt like anything was possible.

“I’ve spent at least fifty dollars on ice this month. Most of my money goes to my ballet supplies!”

Ten nods, understanding your situation completely and Taeyong laughs.

“Are you auditioning for Cinderella? Auditions are in a month.” Taeyong asks as he points and flexes his toes.

Sighing loudly and fiddling with your ribbons, you reply, “I would love to. I don’t think I’m in condition to though.”

Taeyong pats your back as an attempt to comfort you but immediately removes his hand as Winwin announces class will begin. Taking a gulp, you mentally prepare yourself for hell.

A rough four hours later, class finally was coming to an end. You were huffing and panting loudly as Winwin finishes his notes for the class. Not paying attention and playing with your hair, the sound of your name scares you and perks your head to turn to your instructor.

“{Y/N}, I want to speak to you after class.”

You could practically feel the mockery drifting in the air from your peers. Nodding a quick ‘yes,’ you grab your bag and slip off your shoes in the locker room. Outside, Ten and Taeyong were waiting for you and offered small smiles of condolence.

“Sorry, but you’re dead.”

Taeyong punches Ten in the arm and pushes him aside.

“Don’t listen to him. I’m sure it’s nothing. Maybe it’s about you playing with your hair!”

Weakly smiling back and waving at them, you watch their figures slowly disappear and you mentally hype yourself up to face the one and only, Winwin.

The door creaks open just like how it did on your first day and you find Winwin on his phone.

“Pardon me…” You excuse yourself in Korean but cringe afterwords at your poor pronunciation.

“Don’t try speaking Korean. I can speak English just fine.”

You gulp and feel your body heat up instantly. A few minutes ago you were just dancing in this room and it has never felt this hot until right now. Quietly praying to whoever is out there, you ask that this session of reprimands will end soon.

Winwin finally looks up from his phone and stares at you. “I overheard you talking to your friends about the Cinderella audition. It’s true you want to audition, right?”

“Yes, it’s always been my dream.” You chose your words carefully. Obviously you were treading in deep water, you didn’t want to say something that might offend him.

“Listen, don’t take this personally, but I can help you with auditioning. However, that means more practices and I suppose you can call ‘brutal’ with my methods. Yet this is all up to you. I don’t make final decisions for anyone.”

A blank stare set upon your face and all your brain could think about is shock. Is he really offering this proposal to you? Just as equally important, why you?

You endure what seems like an eternity to you when you finally make a decision. All you hope now is that you won’t regret it.

“I would be grateful if you helped me.”

After that, weeks of grueling practice came. It felt like all you did was go to practice, school, private lessons, study, and maybe sleep while on the bus. The routine was brutal but you knew exactly what you were getting into when you agreed. Yet being burnt out was bound to come.

Eventually that breakdown did come and it happened on a Friday night. Ten and Taeyong wanted to go out and get a few drinks since they haven’t seen you outside of practice. However, you politely declined as you knew you had your private lessons. Failing an exam the day before also put a damper on your moods. You couldn’t risk ruining their night out.

“You need to extend your body more. I need to see good posture.” Winwin barked out orders, watching you intensely from his wheelchair. After you had failed to do what he wanted, he angrily scribbled down notes which would later translate into a workout punishment.

Everything came crashing down quite literally as your attitude spin caught you off guard and made you almost trip while coming out of it.

“What the—Hey, are you alright?”

You sat on the ground, bringing your knees up to your head almost in a cradle position. A loud sob shakes your body and streams of tears soon coat your face.

It was all too much—Winwin, your family questioning about your grades, the stress of being in a new country, the lack of friends. All you wanted to do was go back home where you knew everything would be safe.

The groans of the wheelchair snapped you out of your self-pity party and you stood up once again, brushing away stray tears and breathing harshly to calm yourself down.

“Hey,” a soft voice calls out, “lean down.”

You glance towards Winwin and he has an unreadable expression on his face. His arms are extended towards you and you nearly jump in them. At this point, you don’t care who is hugging you. You craved affection and if Winwin was offering you some, you were taking the opportunity.

Sobs filled the now quiet dance room and Winwin could feel the sadness flowing through your body. He felt every bit of loneliness and anxiety. Before this, he had never understood why you seemed so tired and scared. He understood it all the second you poured out your feelings. Hating his poor conversation skills, he wish he could reach out and offer words of encouragement yet nothing seems to come out.

On that lonely Friday night, he canceled your lesson and rubbed your back as you expressed everything you had been holding back. More importantly, you finally got some well deserved rest after that night.

Soon enough, Saturday came and you were already at the studio bright and early. Tying your ribbons of your shoes and hearing two voices, you raise your head and wave to Winwin as he walks in. He held a white bag on his lap and just as you were about to start your audition routine, he abruptly stopped you.

“Wait, I haven’t eaten breakfast yet.”

Nodding, you continue to stretch in silence.

“Have you eaten?” Winwin asks, taking a bite out of a banana.

Shaking your head no, you reply, “No. I usually don’t have time to eat breakfast in the morning.”

Suddenly, a banana is thrown at your head, barely missing you.

“What the hell Winwin?” You fume at him, grabbing the banana and threatening to throw it back at him.

He laughs, smiling joyfully. “Eat up. You need it.”

Your body goes hot and you give him a small smile. You wouldn’t mind if you heard that laugh again.

A new routine was formed from your old boring one. You would come into private lessons and Winwin would feed you. Slowly, your relationship changed. It wasn’t an instructor and a student anymore, but a genuine friendship. Soon enough you discovered that he is two years older than you, adding fuel to your growing affection towards him. The desire of you wanting to know him better grew and you wanted to become greedy with him.

You would achieve your desires as the two of you became closer friends. After doing a continuous amount of fouettes, Winwin called you over for a break.

Slumping down beside him and drinking out of your water bottle, a container of food gets shoved in your face.

“Winwinie, I can feed myself you know!” You whine, still opening the container and eating the gimbap.

“Oh, I know you can. I just never see it.” He teases.

The two of you banter for a while, joking around with each other and soon forgetting ballet.

“Winwinie, you know so much about me, but I wanna learn more about you.” You turn over to see his reaction and his mouth is slightly agaped, shocked by the sudden confession. The tips of his ears turn pink, steadily spreading to his cheeks as well. Deep down inside, you want to just kiss his cheeks.

“W-Well, I’m actually from China. I came to Korea to study ballet and I fell in love with it. I’ve been here ever since I was in high school. My parents gave up a lot for me to be here.” He confesses, playing with his fingers.

“Ahhh, I’ve always wanted to visit China.” You remark, trying to comfort him in the smallest way possible.

He gives you a sad smile, “Yes, I miss my home all the time. Sometimes, I wish I could just quit and be with my loved ones.”

You place a hand on his, rubbing the back of his hand. “I know it’s tough. We need to achieve our dreams though.”

He nods and bites his tongue, looking spiteful. “I can’t though. Not anymore.”

You take a peep at his wheelchair and your mind begs you to ask what happened. Manners are important and you stay quiet, continuous rubbing circles into his hand.

“I can never dance again. All because of a car accident.”

How does one comprehend such a statement? Your heart tries to reject how sad he feels, but it only makes it hurt more. Winwin trembles and you look up into his glossy eyes. Reaching a thumb up, you brush away a tear that had fallen.

He is the one pulling you into a hug now, so similar to that Friday night. He tells you all his worries and fears while you comfort him.

The relationship between Winwin and you changes drastically. Ten and Taeyong even notice it the second they walk into practice on Monday morning.

“Why does Winwin keep staring at you?” Ten whispers, almost shooting eye-dangers into him.

You push his shoulder, “Oh my god Ten, he’s just looking. It’s nothing.”

Taeyong chuckles and rolls his eyes. “Just nothing my ass.”

With a ‘hmph,’ you move to a new location to stretch until Taeyong and Ten came crawling back and apologizing five minutes later.

After class, Winwin had a lecture about how important this week was, especially for those auditioning for Cinderella. Every time he mentioned the ballet, you felt like puking. You’ve been training for so long, but you were terrified that there would be no pay off.

Winwin pushed you harder than ever that week and every ounce of his kindness had disappeared. Once was his soft eyes now became sharp, pointing out every flaw you had made. Your heart felt torn apart. Every time you tried to joke with him, he brushed you off stating that you needed to work. You even once tried hugging him after a lesson but he only responded by pushing you away seconds later. Had you really been imagining Winwin being so caring towards you?

With all the heartache you’ve experienced this week, you channeled that into your audition. You felt every single emotion you’ve felt while in Korea and let it influence your performance. Imagining all the love and sadness and anxiety, you gave it your all. Walking out of the audition room lifted so many worries off your back, but you still felt numb towards it all.

Nothing feels right because of Winwin.

Saturday came and you spent the entire day in bed, too confused and tired to do anything else. You were playing a game on your phone until you received a text from Ten. Growling and almost throwing your phone, you check what must’ve been so important.

[Ten]

The results are out for Cinderella! I’m the Jester hehe~ Tell me what you got too!

Your heart rate suddenly speeds up when you read the text and you rush to your computer. Logging into your school’s site, your eyes skip around to the cast list. Closing your eyes and taking a deep breath, you read off the first name.

{Y/L/N} {Y/N} - Cinderella

You nearly faint. Jumping up from your seat and texting all your friends and family, you start wilding dancing in your room. Excitement couldn’t explain how happy you felt at that moment. Without thinking, you text Winwin.

[you]

r u at the studio?

[Winwinie]

yes, why?

[you]

wait there, ill be there in a few!!!

You grabbed the nearest and cleanest thing around you and slipped in on. Dashing out to the bus stop, you couldn’t hold in your excitement. You were practically bouncing the entire ride.

As soon as it was your stop, you ran to the studio and bursted into the room.

“Winwin! I got it! I got Cinderella!” You yell, approaching him and giving him a wide smile.

His eyes light up the second you state that and he pulls you into a hug, dragging you down a bit as well.

“I’m so proud of you.” He breathes, hugging tighter.

You pull away and smile fondly. “Thank you for all your training.”

He blushes, “I-It’s not that big of a deal. Besides, you achieved your dream!”

You smile and hold his hand. “How about I help you achieve yours?”

You’ve been developing a plan for quite some time to help Winwin achieve his dream. Confusion spreads on his face and he replies, “How? I can’t use my legs.”

“Who said we have to use legs in dance?”

With that, you turn on your phone to a melodic piano piece. Grabbing his hands, the two of you gently sway. You only let go to turn him in a spin.

Even though it was a small gesture, the look on Winwin’s face made it so memorable. He was grinning the entire time, laughing as you spun him and tried to dip him.

As the music slowed down, you spoke up. “Why did you push me away his week?”

He sighs and squeezes your hand. “I wanted you to do well. You’re so similar to me, it’s terrifying. I don’t want you to destroy yourself over failing to achieve your goal. I would never want that to happen to you.”

You’re silent at this. No words could explain how much you appreciated Winwin. However, actions could.

You bent down and kissed his cheek. Contrary to what has previously happened, his face didn’t heat up.

He gently grabs your chin and pulls you closely to his face. Chuckling, he leans in and kisses you. There weren’t any fireworks or any bubbly feeling in your chest. You just felt warm. It felt like home and all your worries washed away for good. He nibbles on your bottom lip teasingly and you push him away, giggling right after.

“You missed my lips the first time.”

“Maybe I won’t miss the second time.”

#nct winwin #nct 2018 #nct imagine #nct scenarios #nct headcanon #winwin #nct 127 #nct u #nct china #writing #kpop #kpop imagines #kpop scenarios #kpop headcanons

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minhoinator · 6 years ago

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By My Side, A Hogwarts AU (23/75)

a little change - The bells in the clock tower chimed, and everyone in Classroom 4F slammed the books shut, hurrying for the door before Professor Binns even stopped talking. History of Magic was their last class for the day, since this was their first half-day of the term. Half-days at Hogwarts came few and far between, and they usually fell on major holidays and the days before vacation.

Today was Halloween, and on top of that, there was a Quidditch game scheduled right after lunch -- Hufflepuff vs. Gryffindor.

master list // AO3 // AFF // first year - muggle-born, sorted, first day, homesick, hallowe’en, deck the halls, possibilities, belonging, exceedingly acceptable, return to king’s cross - second year - diagonally, taking flight, ten points, all that glitters, holly jolly, push and pull, shooting stars, special treat, sleepover, promises made - third year - promises kept, troublesome tea

@lockandminkey @minhosbowties @sapphicshawol @shinyexo @posygal @bumkeyko @usuallydreamin @taespoon-of-sugar (if anyone else wants to be tagged in this, just let me know!)

A/N: I’m not saying it’s necessary reading, but these are all canon things that have happened between the last chapter and this one that I might be making reference to in this or later chapters... I'm a little behind, as I've been working on getting this chapter out by today (for Megan’s birthday -- HAPPY BIRTHDAY ILY) but I promise I'll get caught up within the next couple of days!

* - * - *

The bells in the clock tower chimed, and everyone in Classroom 4F slammed the books shut, hurrying for the door before Professor Binns even stopped talking. History of Magic was their last class for the day, since this was their first half-day of the term. Half-days at Hogwarts came few and far between, and they usually fell on major holidays and the days before vacation.

Today was Halloween, and on top of that, there was a Quidditch game scheduled right after lunch -- Hufflepuff vs. Gryffindor.

“Ready?” Kibum asked Minho as he rolled up their notes and stuffed it into Minho’s backpack.

“I mean,” Minho shrugged before he slipped his backpack on. “I guess.”

“Hey,” he bumped into Minho’s shoulder as they started walking down the corridor on their way to the Great Hall. “At least we’re going to Hogsmeade after.” Minho instantly perked up, his eyes bright as he glanced over at Kibum. “You did remember to get the permission slip signed by your parents, right?”

“Yeah! It was the first thing I did when I got home!” “Good!” They followed the crowd into the Great Hall, Kibum grabbing Minho’s arm before they headed for their tables. “Eat if you’re hungry, okay?” The light in his eyes dimmed slightly, but he nodded as he walked away. Kibum trudged over to his table and slid into his spot beside Analecia. “Excited about Hogsmeade?” she asked him when he started dishing up some soup for himself.

Of course, he was excited. Dad had told him all about the wizarding village years ago. It was where he and Mom had their first date at Madam Puddifoot’s shop. He’d seen the pictures of them around the Shrieking Shack -- which, he had told Kibum specifically to never go there, or else he’d get in trouble. He couldn’t wait to explore the shops with Minho, and Mom had even sent him a couple Galleons to spend during his first visit.

Prices have changed, so I don’t know how much it’ll get you, but do be sure to get yourself a treat of some kind, she said in her letter.

“I am!” Callum said in Kibum’s stead. “Hopefully the game won’t be too long so we can spend as much time there as we can before the feast tonight.” “Yeah, hopefully.”

Kibum stirred his soup, watching the steam curl off the surface. He was halfway done with his soup by the time the Hufflepuff team made their exit, lead by their new tiny female captain. Meg was her name, if Kibum remembered right. Minho said that Tanner had passed on his captain’s pin and the locker room stereo to her after their final game last year.

She seemed to be treating Minho well, which was all he cared about.

By the time Kibum fished the last potato out of the broth, the Gryffindor team was leaving too, the entire table cheering rowdily as they strolled out of the Great Hall. Kibum rolled his eyes, slurped up the rest of his soup, and stood. “I’m heading down there, anyone want to come with?”

Aaron and Callum shared a look, both shaking their heads. “No, I think we’ll wait until everyone else goes.”

Kibum nodded with a sigh. “Okay.”

He hurried downstairs and to his house, sprinting through the common room to get to his dorm. He changed out of his uniform and into casual clothes -- jeans, Dad’s old Weird Sisters band shirt, and the mustard sweater Grandma made him -- as quickly as he could. Soon, he was running back upstairs and down the corridor that lead out to the lawn.

Heavy gray clouds covered the sky, the petrichor from last night’s rain still hanging in the air. The ground was still wet from it, and it drenched his shoes as he ran across the yard to the pitch. Above the stands, the occasional Quidditch player appeared, their red or yellow robes whipping around them as they flew their practice laps around the pitch.

Kibum ducked into the stairwell, taking the steps two at a time as hurried to his usual seat. He sat up straight, craning his neck, searching the yellow robes for Minho’s 10. There he was, down on the pitch, talking with Madam Hooch and what looked like Gryffindor’s Seeker. It wasn’t a long conversation, and soon Minho was walking back to where his team was gathering on the field.

He held his hand out before him, and Kibum scooted forward on the bleachers, wondering if his earlier injury was acting up again. One of the Beaters handed him his broom and they huddled together while Gryffindor did the same several meters away. Kibum glanced around at the stands, which were full of the other students now.

Madam Hooch blew the whistle twice, and both huddles dispersed, standing in their formations on the ground until Hooch blew the whistle again. They shot up into the sky, cheers erupting from the Gryffindor side of the stadium.

Kibum cupped his hands around his mouth, yelling, “Let’s go, Minho!” He waved when Minho looked over at him before the Quaffle was thrown.

* - * - *

Sunlight peered through the clouds as Minho walked out of the hallway and onto the pitch behind the other Hufflepuffs. He yawned, his broom heavy in his hand as he stretched. “Go ahead and start stretching, guys, I’m gonna go talk to Jeffery,” Meg said before she started jogging down the pitch to where Gryffindor was coming out onto the field.

“It’s gotta be weird to play against your boyfriend,” Melissa, the sixth-year Keeper, said once they were all sitting. Minho reached for his toes, resting his forehead on his arm. “At least they’re both captains.”

“Mm.”

“Okay, so what do we remember from their last game?” Zach, the second Chaser, asked. "It was against Slytherin, right?”

Everyone nodded, and Claire, the third Chaser, spoke up. “Manns is getting lazy with his maneuvers. Like, remember last time -- “ Minho switched legs, glancing over at her, “ -- he just, fucking, let that ball through the goal, he didn’t even try to get it.”

“They still won,” Minho muttered.

“I mean, yeah, but it’s still something.”

Cameron, the second Beater, looked away from the opposite end of the field. “I know it’s been a while since we’ve played them, but we gotta remember that they play dirty.”

Sighs scattered through the group, and they all looked up as Meg ran back to them, plopping down on the ground between Marc and Cameron. “Okay so, I overheard Rogers telling Jeffery that Barnes is still not able to play.”

“The flu?”

She nodded, smiling. “So, they’re down their best Chaser and had to sub someone from their second string.”

“Everyone, gather ‘round!” Madam Hooch called from the center of the pitch. They scrambled to their feet, the wet grass squeaking with every step as they ran to meet her. Meg and Jeffery came up to the front of the teams. “Ward is playing for Barnes today?” Hooch asked as she pulled the team cards out of her robe pocket.

“Yes, ma’am.”

She made a quick note before her hawk-like eyes flicked up to meet Meg’s. “Any substitutions for you?”

“Nope.”

Minho rubbed his hands over his face, trying to make himself wake up a little, as Hooch tucked the cards back into her pocket. “Start flying laps to warm up. Seekers, stay here for a minute.” Minho dropped his hands, glancing from Hooch to Damien. The other players darted off, the swoosh of their brooms ricocheting off the walls of the pitch. “Choi, how’s your hand?”

He held out his hand, inspecting his splotchy yellow bruise. “It’s fine. I got it checked out by Madam Pomfrey last week and she said I’m fine to play.”

“That’s good.”

Damien cleared his throat when Hooch started to walk away. “Did you have something to say to both of us?”

She turned, giving them a smirk. “This Snitch is particularly feisty, so be ready for that.”

They watched her walk away from them, Damien taking a couple steps closer. “That’s too bad for you, really. I was gonna say there’s a first time for everything, but...” he sighed and Minho didn’t even bother to acknowledge him. “I would wish you luck, but I don't want to waste my breath, you know?” He patted Minho's shoulder before he turned around.

Minho glanced down at his hand as he walked away, opening and closing his fist and watching the bones move in his hand. “You good, Minho?” Cameron asked, passing him his broom.

“Yup.”

“Guys!” Meg said, standing up on her tiptoes to look over their teammates. “Huddle in.” Minho placed his hand on top of the others, leaning in when Meg lowered her voice. “No matter what, do your best out there, okay?” Everyone nodded, watching her as she looked at each of them. “That’s all I care about. That we go out there, have fun, and do the best we can.” She placed her hand on top of the pile, squeezing Minho’s hand tightly. “One, two, three -- “

“Badgers!”

“Lions!” sounded from the other side of the field a couple seconds after.

Hooch blew her whistle twice. “Okay, get in your positions.”

They all jogged across the field, Minho breaking away from Meg and Cameron to stand before them and behind Zach and Claire. Marc stood at the center of the pitch with Jeffery opposite him, and Melissa jogged to her place behind the Beaters. Hooch inspected the numbers on their backs, just to make sure everyone was in their proper place. When she blew her whistle again, Minho dropped his broom, letting it bob in the air before he mounted it.

His shoulders fell when the cheers sounded from the Gryffindor side of the pitch as they all took to the sky. They all looked so happy to be there; they weren’t resigned to losing. Again.

"Let’s go, Minho!", faint as it was, cut through Gryffindor’s excited whooping and hollering. Sighing, he turned to the Hufflepuff/Slytherin stands with a small smile. The weight on his heart lifted, if only slightly, and the toss of the Quaffle drew his attention back to the other players.

Possession went to Gryffindor. Minho listened for Meg’s signal, and it came with three taps of her bat against her broomstick. “Three, okay,” he murmured to himself as he flew up and out of the way just in time before Cameron blew past him to get into his new position. Jeffery shouted orders to his own team, but Minho could barely hear him over the sound of the wind whipping past his ears.

He cringed when one of Gryffindor’s Chasers crashed into Claire to get her from catching the Quaffle. She was almost knocked off her broom, and Minho listened for the whistle indicating a foul that never came. Minho tried to fly down to see if she was alright, but she recentered herself on her broom and darted away before he could.

Shaking his head, he started scanning the arena and the sky for any glimpse of the Snitch.

“Ten points for Hufflepuff!” Marjory Phillips called from the announcers stand, and Minho turned to see Marc and Cameron flying back toward the center. Minho briefly clapped, catching himself when he started to lose his balance.

Zach flew up to him, glancing back as the next play was getting set up -- Meg had tapped her broomstick once. “See anything yet?” Minho shook his head and Zach patted his shoulder before he flew to his new position while Minho shot up above the stands to start doing his laps.

He passed Damien, who had been hovering on the center line since the Quaffle was thrown, without sparing him a glance. The Snitch still hadn’t made its appearance, and Minho started his second lap, scrutinizing every angle as he flew around the pitch.

There was a flash of gold in the corner of his eye, but by the time he turned his head, it was gone. Luckily, it didn’t look like Damien noticed it.

There came a crack from his left, and Minho glanced over to see a Bludger rocketing toward him. He pulled back before it clipped his broomstick and threw him into a spin, watching the Bludger as it returned to the Gryffindor Beater. The Beater’s attention turned from Minho to Cameron, who flew below him, and he started to swing his arm back, aiming for Cameron.

“Cameron, look out!” he yelled, whether out loud or just in his head, Minho wasn’t sure. Regardless, Cameron didn’t hear him, and without a second thought, Minho bore down on his broom and rushed to push him out of the Bludger’s trajectory.

“Minho, what the h -- “ he started to ask, his eyes widening when the Bludger rammed into Minho’s ankle with a crack.

The pain didn’t register, at first. Instead, his left ankle and foot went numb and tingly in an instant. The force of the hit almost knocked him off of his broom, but luckily Cameron caught his arm before he completely lost his balance. The Gryffindor Beater flew away before Minho and Cameron could look back at him.

“You okay?”

Minho struggled to answer, his ankle beginning to throb. When he finally opened his mouth, there was a glimmer of gold behind Cameron. He blinked hard once, twice, then pushed Cameron away from him as he shot after the Snitch.

Wind whipped around him, the chill cutting through him as he followed the flitting path of the Snitch. At some moments, it was so close he could almost graze it with his fingertips, and then a second later, it would dip and launch itself away from him. It didn’t take long before Damien swooped in beside him, reaching out the catch the Snitch for himself.

His hand tightened on his broomstick as he stretched closer to it, watching it swoosh back and forth in front of them. It had been flying straight for a few seconds, that meant it would probably change in the blink of an eye. The last two changes in direction, it had shot upward, but this time...it would probably dip down and away from them.

Even if he were wrong, he didn’t really have much to lose, right?

Minho dropped away from Damien before the Snitch’s flight changed, his broomstick dragging on the ground. A second later, the Snitch darted before his eyes and he lunged for it, losing his grip on his broom and tumbling to the ground.

It took him a second the catch his breath.

He rolled over, his breath hitching as he twisted his ankle, and stared up at the cloud-covered sky. Deep breath in; deep breath out. He brushed his hair off of his sweat-drenched forehead and squinted as the sun reappeared between the clouds. His brow furrowed when something fluttered in his hand and he held it up, opening his fist. Minho’s eyes widened as the Snitch’s wings fluttered again and curled around itself.

He did it...He finally caught the Snitch.

Groaning, he sat up and looked across the pitch to the Hufflepuff/Slytherin stands, squinting when he thought he saw a patch of the yellow of Kibum’s sweater at the forefront. Minho pushed himself up, wincing as he leaned on his good ankle, and held the Snitch up high to show Kibum.

“Choi Minho has caught the Snitch! Hufflepuff wins!”

The arena erupted in cheers, and above them all, Minho was sure he could hear Kibum.

* - * - *

“Ten points to Hufflepuff!”

Kibum held himself back from cheering with the Hufflepuffs in the stands, instead opting to clap with the other Slytherins who also didn’t want to see Gryffindor win. The players started flying again, becoming a confusing mix of red and yellow in the sky. It took him a second to find Minho again, his eyes trailing after him as he flew above the play and started a lap around the arena.

He let out a quick whoop! when Minho blew past them on his way around the pitch. Once he was on the other side, he stopped abruptly, looking around. Had he spotted the Snitch? Minho pulled up on his broomstick when a Bludger blazed past him. Kibum huffed, glaring at the Gryffindor Beater who was raising his bat to strike again, and his attention turned back to Minho as he darted to his teammate.

A shock coursed through him when the Bludger connected with Minho’s foot, and he grabbed Aaron’s sleeve when Minho almost fell off his broom. He closed his eyes when a wave of nausea hit him. “Is he okay?”

“I…think so. It looks like he spotted the Snitch.”

Kibum opened his eyes, finding Minho again quickly enough. His flight path was erratic, which definitely meant he was following the Snitch. Soon, Damien was at his side, reaching out to grab Snitch. Kibum’s brow furrowed when Minho dived below Damien, diving toward the lawn. He wasn’t sure if Minho jumped off or if his broomstick caught on something, but Kibum’s breath hitched and he shot to his feet when Minho fell off of his broom and rolled on the field.

“He…he’s not getting up. Aaron, he’s not getting up.”

Before Aaron could respond, Minho turned over, and Kibum weaved around the others in the bleachers to stand at the banister. He held up his hand – had he hurt that again, too? – staring at it for a second before he eventually stood holding his hand up proudly.

“Choi Minho has caught the Snitch! Hufflepuff wins!“

The cheering behind him and around the stadium was deafening, that Kibum almost couldn’t hear himself yelling “That’s my best friend! He – Minho! You did it, buddy!” Kibum was pretty sure his heart was about to jump out of his chest, and if he was this excited, he couldn’t even imagine how happy Minho was at this moment.

Grinning, Kibum found him on the field again, staggering towards his approaching teammates. Oh…right. In the excitement, Kibum had forgotten that he was hurt. The others in the stands had crowded around him now, so much so that he had to push around people to get to the stairs. He ran down the steps and outside to the Hufflepuff hallway, hurrying down the hall to the open doors leading to the pitch.

He stopped at the threshold, staring at the cluster of players landing on the field. Was he even allowed to come out onto the pitch? Maybe not, but the question right now was did he care if he couldn’t? The answer to that was a solid no. Kibum jogged out, catching up to the rest of the players, and rushed to where Minho was now sitting again, his captain and Madam Hooch crouched beside him and inspecting his ankle.

“Hey!” Minho said, his eyes bright and cheerful, even as he winced when Hooch turned his ankle. He patted the ground beside him and Kibum sat down, their shoulders brushing together. “Wanna see it?”

Kibum nodded, and Minho held out the Snitch, passing it to him.

It was heavier than Kibum imagined it would be, given how small it was. He closed his fist around it and grinned at Minho. “I knew you could do it.” Minho’s smile turned bashful as he looked down at his hands. “I’m so proud of you.” Kibum handed the Snitch back to Minho and slid his arm around his shoulders, pulling him closer as Madam Pomfrey approached them.

Minho audibly winced as she untied his shoe and Kibum rubbed his shoulder, hopefully soothing him, if only slightly. She carefully slipped it off and passed it to Hufflepuff’s captain. “I’m going to roll your ankle a little to see what your range of motion is, alright?” Slowly, she started rotating his swollen ankle, and Kibum’s hold on Minho’s shoulder tightened.

Far above them, announcements were being made. Kibum wasn’t listening, but one of the Minho's teammates hunkered down beside the captain. “Hey,” he said in a poorly concealed whisper. “The group for Hogsmeade is leaving soon…is it okay if we go?”

“Sure. Good job today, guys!” she said, waving the rest of the team away before she returned her attention back to Minho.

“Well, it’s a probable fracture, but I won’t know for sure until we get you back to the infirmary.” She took her wand out from the waist of her apron and pointed it at Minho’s ankle. “Ferula!” A bandage appeared out of thin air, wrapping itself tightly around his ankle. Pomfrey glanced between the captain and Kibum. “Who’s going to help him get to the castle?”

“I will,” they said, both glancing at each other.

“You don’t have to,” Minho said, speaking in quiet Korean. “You can go to Hogsmeade.”

Kibum scoffed. “This is just the first trip. There'll be more. Why the fuck would I go without you?”

"Bummie..." Minho’s eyes widened, his already flushed face growing a deeper shade of red. “We can’t say that. Do you want to get in trouble?”

“What, can they speak Korean?”

Blinking, Minho looked back at the captain and Madam Pomfrey, who were watching him with concern. A smile played with the corners of his lips as he met Kibum’s eyes again. “Fuck!”

Both of them started to giggle, stopping when Madam Pomfrey cleared her throat. “I’ll stay and help,” Kibum said to them, glancing over at the captain.

“Are you sure?” she asked, and Kibum nodded. “Okay,” she said apprehensively, looking back at Minho and grinning. “You did so good! I’m so proud of you!” Minho’s smile turned shy again as she patted his knee. “I’ll get you something from Honeydukes, okay?” He nodded and she started running down the field.

Pomfrey stood, looking down at Minho. “I’ll go get a bed ready for you.”

“Okay.”

Kibum rubbed his shoulder before moving his hand down to Minho’s waist. “Think you can stand, buddy?” He pushed himself up, pulling Minho up with him. Both of them staggered as they tried to steady themselves, Minho on one leg and Kibum under the added weight. He stayed still, watching Minho as his breathing steadied. “Ready?”

Minho nodded with a sigh. “Let’s go.”

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rauliskafan · 7 years ago

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The Doctor and His Doll: Everything Special

Author’s Note: Happy Tuesday and Happy Holidays!!! The Doctor and His Doll are about to exchange gifts. So why are they both a little sad??? Read on to find out and check out earlier parts of the story below!!!

The Doctor and His Doll

The Doctor and His Doll: Story Hour

The Doctor and His Doll: Date Night

The Doctor and His Doll: All Hallows’ Eve

The Doctor and His Doll: Fractured Fairy Tale

The Doctor and His Doll: Sugar Rush

Tagging @vintagemichelle91, @mrschiltoncat, @yourtropegirl

“To your successful semester and a fantastic finish.”

“Amen, Doc.”

With your finals complete, you practically ran to Fredrick’s house and happily hugged him at first sight. His large hands lingered near the small of your back. You savored the feeling for several seconds and ultimately pulled away expecting a smile. Wish granted. But for some reason, he still looked sad as he guided you inside.

“Oh! You… decorated.”

“That was the idea.”

His attempt at adorning the abode with signs of the season was… simple. A few strands of garland gracefully draped over the window sills, ornaments scattered on the surface of his recently purchased coffee table, and a multi-colored star positioned atop a bookcase. No tree. A part of you wanted to tenderly shake him, to tell him that it was high time he made this place a home for so many reasons and---

“A drink, Doll?”

But instead you just smiled and nodded, dropping your shoulder bag as he popped the bubbly and poured. Clinking your champagne flute to Frederick’s, you sipped slowly and saw his eyes sparkling some when he lowered the glass of golden bubbles from his lips.

“I made you chocolate hazelnut cream cheese puffs to celebrate,” he said with a little wink.

“You know the way to a girl’s heart,” you replied, toasting him again. Of course, there was so much more to the story. For not only had he found his way to the place that skipped a beat whenever he so much as sighed, he also excavated paths to your soul that you never even new existed. His voice, his hands, every tap of his cane became a blueprint for a universe so sweet, and you wanted to live there always.

At the very least, you longed to see his smile come Christmas morning.

So why were you exchanging gifts in the middle of December?

“Sit,” he said, topping off your glass. Finishing his drink, he reached for two neatly wrapped gifts.

“Open this one first,” he suggested pointing to the bigger rectangle.

“I’m excited!” you answered. For a few seconds you pretended to play with the paper. But it wasn’t as if you were going to recycle the silver snowflakes embossed against a blue background. Tearing, the rips harmonizing with the music of his laughter, you clawed through the shining paper and tape to reveal a book with pastel tinted prints, four glorious girls on the cover.

“Golden Girls Forever?” you said, feeling your lips coil into a smile as Frederick blushed.

“So many behind the scenes tidbits,” he informed you. “And cast interviews and guest star profiles and---”

“I take it you already gave it a once over?” you asked.

“I… I might have skimmed through,” he admitted, his blush morphing from pink to scarlet, and you quickly kissed his cherry cheek.

“Well that won’t do,” you said. Setting the book aside, you reached into your shoulder bag for your first gift wrapped in gold and held your breath, fearing that you might erupt as you watched him unwrap. Maybe you didn’t burst, but his eyes looked ready to make that move as he turned the gift, a book, to face you…

…with the same cover, a quartet of four smiles constantly contented.

“We are such nerds,” you said, feeling your eyes roll in your head as he laughed and wrapped an arm around your shoulders.

“We are niche fans with exceptional tastes,” Frederick corrected, and you shook your head, nuzzling his nose until he relented.

“So... nerds,” he finally echoed. “Only you can make that sound like a good thing.”

“The best thing,” you confirmed. “We have more fun than ordinary people.”

“Doll, nothing about you is ordinary.”

Thank you, Doc,” you said.

“I am not done yet,” Frederick said. “Open the other one.”

“This’ll be hard to top,” you said, gesturing to the book. Or rather books. Acquiescing, you peeled back the paper to reveal a leather-bound case. Instantly, you recognized the name of the store and started to speak when he pressed one finger to your lips.

“To take notes,” he said. “Spring semester will start up before you know it. I adore the fact that you are old school when it comes to your homework.”

And you adored snuggling on this couch, feeling his fingers running through your hair when you drafted an outline arguing whether Kant or Mill made more sense when placing signposts on the road to human happiness. You pulled out the pen and tore off a piece of the wrapping paper. Scribbling fast, you passed the new note into his waiting hands and tilted your head to your fallen bag.

Nerds AND psychics. We know each other way too well, Doc.

Frederick arched an eyebrow, and you pulled out a package for his perusal. When he unwrapped, there was another set of writing utensils. Maybe not identical but close enough to let him laugh.

“For your next bestseller,” you hummed.

“Are you going to ever get around to reading the first one?” he teased.

“It’s my New Year’s resolution,” you said. Dropping your head, you listened to the beating of his heart. Calm and even and music to your ears, you held him, hoping this second could stretch into an eternity when he sighed like a song.

“You and me,” he started.

“Tell me more. Write a poem on the spot.” He seemed to struggle before the words spilled off his tongue.

“A matched set,” he said. “Like the pen and pencil.”

“That works,” you said, the simple statement somehow enough. Curling deeper into his side, you enjoyed the closeness of his body. The silence stayed comfortable until his sighs grew heavy, and he shifted away.

“You okay?”

“I suppose,” he said. His frame sagged, and he stared at his feet.

“Oh, now that was convincing,” you said. Slipping to your knees, you reached for his face and slowly lifted his gaze to meet yours. “What’s up, Doc? What aren’t you telling me?”

He parted his lips to speak but made no sound. Still you waited, your fingers stroking his slightly stubbled cheek, circling the space that was his scar.

“I… this is lovely,” he began.

“And I can’t wait for the cream cheese puffs,” you replied. “You must have been a baker in another life.”

“Would that I could have made you some chocolate chip pancakes on Christmas morning.”

Your fingers stopped, and you narrowed your stare, nibbling on your lip before you uttered a single syllable.

“Yeah,” you murmured, barely masking your disappointment, praying the hope you had hidden did not show in too bold a shade of sad.

“But I… I am sure that your family will be overjoyed to have you back home.”

Suddenly, like a crossword puzzle clue reaching the depths of your subconscious, the word having spent hours on the tip of your tongue, the mystery made sense, and you tightened your grip on his face.

“Is that why we’re doing this today?” you asked.

“I… well yes,” he replied, his voice thick with sorrow. “I assume you will be leaving soon.”

“Why would you think that? I was here for Thanksgiving.” Which was when you both opted against turkey, for obvious reasons, and made a feast of Caprese Salad followed by linguine with clam sauce. You still giggled at the memory of the noodle dangling from his lips before he slurped it down.

“That was different,” Frederick continued. “What was that? A long weekend. Now you will leave for… such a ling time.”

He spoke it like a death sentence before you lifted off the floor to return to his side.

“Well… Paulette did invite me to come home with her,” you said.

“Paulette?” he quickly echoed.

“Not my first choice,” you confessed. “But news flash, Doc. I haven’t gone home for the holidays in… years.”

Once more his green eyes grew wide; you knew he had questions that went unasked… that you preferred to leave unanswered.

As for the good doctor…

“Are you sticking close to these parts?” you asked.

“I… I am,” he said.

“And what are you planning to do?”

“I…”

Unable to finish, he moved away from you and seized his cane. As he paced the room, you pictured him decorating with tears in his eyes, planning a celebration that, in his mind, felt like a kind of goodbye.

“I… I thought I would read up on the Girls and write you letters.”

“Well you have the pens,” you said, trying for a joke.

“Letters…” he continued, skipping over your sentiment and clutching his cane tighter. “About how much I missed you.”

Leaving your seat, cold without him close, you held his waist and shook your head.

“You don’t have to tell me right now,” you said. “Home is hard.”

He chewed on the inside of his cheek, his metal clinking. Laying your hand on his chest, you thought him the Tin Man dying to love and not knowing that such feeling was inside him all along.

“I can just as easily be lonely here,” he sadly said, and you grasped his face, kissing him and savoring his taste until he broke free to breathe…

…and you smiled.

“Or I could hang with you and your exceptional tastes,” you said. “I’ve been waiting all week… longer…”

It felt as if you were looking into a mirror. His gears, wheels working wildly, suddenly stopped. His cane fell. You caught him before he could stumble, your arms around his neck and your lips close to his ear.

“Doc, don’t make me come right out and ask it,” you whispered. “Don’t you get that---”

“Stay with me,” he quickly said. “I will make you pancakes every morning. For dinner too if you would like.”

“I would like,” you said. “More of this.”

Kissing him and running your hands up and down his back, you eased him back to the couch and gingerly assumed the place on his lap. You stroked his hair and watched, felt him relax.

“Do I really get you all to myself for an entire month?” he asked.

“Looks like, Doc,” you answered. “Hope you won’t get sick of me.”

“Never in a million years,” he swore, leaning in to kiss you when he stopped short.

“What?” you asked.

“I… the gifts.”

“Frederick, they’re fabulous,” you assured him.

“But come Christmas morning I will have nothing to---”

“I will have you,” you said. “Best gift of all. Don’t you know that?”

Frederick’s face stayed blank. But you felt no fear, waiting… almost certain that---

“I know that walking into your shop was the start of something special,” he said. “I want more in the new year… longer…”

“Forever,” you promised, hugging him and resting your chin on his shoulder, closing your eyes. When you looked for the light again, you saw the snow starting to fall through the window.

“But first…”

He whimpered when you moved away, but you were fast to retrieve his cane and offer your arm.

“Take me for a walk in the snow?”

With a smile he stood. The cream puffs and the champagne and the Girls could wait. Christmas would come soon enough, promising so much splendor. Right now, you wanted your first snowfall with Frederick, a warm world glittering with fresh ice…

…confirmation that the day he crossed your path was the start of everything special.

#raúl esparza #frederick chilton #chilton x reader #hannibal #hannibal fanfiction #the doctor and his doll

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reekierevelator · 8 years ago

Text

Going Home

A Short Story by Brian Bourner

Arnie’s Audio Diary

19 January 2015

I’m assailed again by memories of long ago.

It was winter, early dark. We were just ragamuffin kids standing on the pavement outside the shop’s open door, our nostrils flaring in response to the overpowering smell of malt vinegar and burning fat.

From inside, behind the counter, came the familiar soft slurp of wet fish being slapped in batter, immediately followed by the spit and roar, spark and sizzle of the fish being deposited in the deep fryer.

Petey salivated, preparing to crunch his teeth through the crisp, heavily salted batter and into the chewy white cod.

Joe lifted his arms from the counter and swung his big shock of bronze hair towards us, away from the jars of pickled eggs and onions. He grinned, a big twelve year old’s confident grin, one leg bending at a jaunty angle behind the other as he caught my eye.

Behind the imitation white marble counter with its grey veins, Paolo’s sunken eyes drooped sadly. The elderly shop-keeper was still recovering from years of detention on the Isle of Man as an enemy alien. Something I didn’t know about or understand at the time. A heavy-set man in an off-white apron, he posed a question and Joe turned back to answer just as Paolo’s steel spatula plucked the fish from the boiling fat and laid it on a white sheet of paper he’d already spread with his other hand.

A portion of crisp golden chips was instantly shovelled on top, salt and vinegar generously applied, and the whole wrapped neatly in newspaper, all done in one single fluid movement in the same time it took Joe to pull the pound note from his trouser pocket. Somehow Joe always had money when he came to see us.

The till pinged, coins rattled, and Joe pocketed the change that Paolo thrust towards him. Then he stepped out into the cold air, posing proudly with the steaming food, and we quickly closed in around him.

Joe always asked for the bag to be left open, knowing the extent of our hunger and that we couldn’t bear to wait even the other half a minute it would take to open a closed parcel up again.

As we skipped and shuffled down the street, hopping round lampposts and gutters, our eyes bright and our breath condensing in the cold air, we dipped our fingers into the splendid cornucopia at will, plucking out long chips running with vinegar, chunks of white fish, and lumps of crunchy batter, stuffing it all in our mouths without formality. I knew manna from heaven could surely not taste better than such a fish supper. Only Joe was less than euphoric, his ideas still stuck in the old country, and managing a carping comment about the stupidity of people who substitute imitation vinegar for mayonnaise.

20 January 2015

It’s strange the things that fix in the memory. That chip shop tableau always stays clear and fresh and I hold it dear. My elder brother Joe, Johan, my twin Petey, Pieter, and me, Arnie, Armin, enjoying a moveable feast in the cold, grey, winter streets of an immediate post-war Edinburgh. A night of unalloyed pleasure when we had hot food to eat, a place to sleep, and respite from the bombs and bullets, the perennial fighting and screaming, that had plagued our lives in Holland.

We were immigrants, three children whose parents, as I later discovered, had been deported to the camps for organising our escape. Father had been a small tenant farmer, mainly sheep. Mother looked after a few chickens. We were born and lived in the wetlands south of Rotterdam. As the war continued we were left with nothing to eat.

We three children left occupied Holland in a small boat, sailed across the North Sea in 1941 by a friend of our father’s, a fisherman who had already planned his escape. His boat was too small to take our whole family. Johan was eleven. Me and Petey had just turned seven. We arrived frozen and hungry just up the coast from Hull. Joe had been taught enough English at school to be able to explain our position when we were stopped and taken to a police station.

Our father’s friend talked of someone, a fisherman, a man he had run into before the war. He knew he lived somewhere in Scotland called Prestonpans and he was sure that he would help him out.

After a few days we were given travel warrants and bundled onto the train for Edinburgh. But on arriving at Waverley our father’s friend made it clear that though he’d got us across the water, and out of police custody, he couldn’t supply accommodation. The Scottish fisherman with whom he was vaguely acquainted had only had a very tiny cottage, with no room for more than one visitor. When he bade us farewell we were lost.

We spent the next two days hiding in the city, a feral existence of sleeping in graveyards and scavenging for food. The police found us one night at a Grassmarket soup kitchen and we were packed off to a big cold building, standing in its own grounds, and run with strict discipline. It was called the Dean Orphanage. Joe explained several times why our parents had sent away. We knew it was for our own good but we missed our parents very badly.

All the same, the orphanage did provide proper beds, and there were adults around organising things. There was food too, though seldom enough of it. The basic meals provided barely kept hunger at bay. All the same, our basic needs were served. So Petey and me, being so young and having just survived an extremely tough few weeks at sea and then living rough, resolved to stay. Joe was happy to let us. But being that bit older he didn’t want to be confined to care himself. He ran off again, determined to look after himself and be his own master even in this strange new town.

But afterwards he would often sneak in to visit us. One day he said he was now called Joe rather than Johan because it made life easier for him. And a year or so later the orphanage authorities sometimes allowed him to take us outside. We’d go down to Stockbridge and he’d treat us to a fish supper. He’d found a house in Newhaven where a fisherman let him sleep on his floor so long as he helped with gutting, boxing, and transporting his catch. But he resented that a place to sleep was the only payment he ever received for his hard work. He didn’t think he’d stay there long.

As well as fish and chips, Joe sometimes provided us with other small luxuries, toys and boxes of sweets. But as we settled into the orphanage and our stay extended into its second and third years his visits gradually tailed off.

It was after we’d been in the orphanage several years and the authorities were starting to think of our lives after we left that they decided our names sounded too German and they officially registered as Peter and Arnold Miller instead. That was when we became Pete and Arnie. It wasn’t till we actually left the orphanage that we discovered the name on all our documents was Miller instead of Mulder.

I remember the day in 1945 when Joe visited the orphanage for the last time. That was when he told us he was having to go away. He said we might not see him for a long time but not to worry.

When we asked why, what had happened, he said something about soon turning sixteen and having problems finding work. It meant people like him sometime had to move far away.

We never saw him again.

21 January 2015

The memory of that night outside the chip shop burns brighter than the memory of Pete’s funeral. He was fifty-one, a confirmed bachelor. He’d been lucky enough to find a job in the wireworks when the orphanage decided it was time he started looking after himself. That was where he worked the rest of his life. He was simply smoking a cigarette in the canteen when he fell off his chair with a massive heart attack. He was dead before he hit the ground.

Unfortunately, the similarity of the rituals around death, and their relative brevity, mean his funeral is now mixed and muddled in my mind with many others before and after. Which songs were sung and who was attended has merged and blurred with numerous other almost identical dark suit and black tie occasions held at one crematorium or another.

Pete’s death left me, the surviving brother, as the last custodian of our family’s story. That’s partly why I’ve been recording a diary on this little digital thing that clips on to the collar of my shirt or jacket.

The problem, of course, is that I am now eighty-one, my wife Jessie is long dead from lung cancer, and my body is increasingly paralysed with multiple sclerosis. I can move a finger of my right hand, which is handy for the recorder, and my head still works. Otherwise I’m virtually incapable of doing anything for myself. At least I have no children to burden with all these problems.

22 January 2015

Today Jake accompanied me in my wheelchair on a ‘walk’ all the way along Portobello Prom from King’s Road to Joppa. A lot of new housing has been built and there are pubs and cafes where the old Marine Ballroom, Fun Fair, and Open Air Swimming Pool used to be. For the first time in years I briefly wondered what Breskins, the little Dutch town I escaped from all those years ago, would look like nowadays.

Jake is my full-time carer. He’s only twenty-six. If he would shorten his shoulder length hair and shave a bit more regularly he could be a handsome young man and maybe even find a proper girlfriend at last. He often wears a black T-Shirts. One is emblazoned with the word ‘Ramones’. I asked if they were a music group and he sheepishly admitted that they were, but all five members are long dead. It’s the same check shirt over the T-Shirt and black jeans most days too, but at least he’s reliable. And he copes with the dirty work without flinching. Occasionally, when he’s sick or on holiday, they send another carer to substitute. But mostly it’s just me and Jake.

Jake fancies himself as a man prepared to handle any emergency and I generally indulge this conceit. He likes to have a penknife in his pocket and odd tools hanging from his belt. Sometimes there’s a set of spanners, a small screwdriver, or a torch hanging there. But when a tap washer fails Jake’s immediate response is to phone a plumber. And when the plug on the electric kettle was a problem I had to instruct him on the simple process of replacing the fuse.

My own working career is long behind me. With nowhere to go after the orphanage I joined the army. I’ve been a soldier, a clerk, a shop assistant, and a scrap dealer amongst other things. I made a little bit of money before my body started to seize up altogether, but now I feel pointless. Maybe my whole life has been pointless. These days it’s fairly joyless and sometimes painful. I can still listen to the radio, watch TV, or read for short stints, but my social life is non-existent. I feel I’m treading water and that my quality of my life has shrunk to very little. My condition means regular bouts of hospitalisation. I’m tired of being just another bed-blocker, just another old coffin dodger. In fact I think it’s time to call it a day.

That Swiss place, Dignitas, was in the news again today. I briefly tried to broach the question of voluntary euthanasia with Jake. Unfortunately, his reaction was one of such shock and anger that I was immediately silenced. We’d come almost the whole way back to King’s Road before Jake could bear to talk to me again in anything more than monosyllables. He mumbled something about the sanctity of human life and how he’d been brought up to believe only God had the right to take lives.

22 January 2015

I settled in Scotland when I was very young and I’ve lived all my life here. I saw no reason to do anything else. There was nothing to take me back across the sea.

But now, after all these decades, I have decided to go home. Back to Holland, where the radio tells me they understand about ‘unbearable suffering with no prospect of improvement’.

I’ve checked it all on the computer. I could equally choose Belgium, but I suppose the Netherlands has a little more meaning for me. I made contact by email. And now the papers have all been drawn up, legally signed and delivered. I’m determined.

I refused to let Jake try to talk me out of it today. So in the end he very reluctantly agreed to be my travelling companion, to care for me on my last journey.

23 January 2015

Jake is trying to avoid thinking about the purpose of the trip by filling his mind with detail. He’s organising almost everything, all the preparations for travel – the heavy clothes and travel blankets, the medical equipment, the passport, the train tickets, food, money, and the electric wheelchair. Only the payment for the treatment is left and fortunately I only need one finger to transfer the money from my online bank account. I’ll do that as soon as I’ve finished this entry.

I tried to talk to Jake about death, about beginnings and endings and how to give the whole thing meaning. But he’s only a man doing a practical, physical job. He’s not a therapist. The progressive eclipse of physical wellbeing isn’t something with which he’s yet had to concern himself. He thought I must be worrying about the afterlife, about whether I’d end up in heaven or hell. He’s never had those dreams where life becomes more and more of an ordeal, where the Grim Reaper is always lurking around the next dark corner, where your body is already so useless and paralysed that you can’t turn back and run. All you can do is scream.

Epistemologically, I was actually more concerned with what justifies living. But I accepted that existential conundrums aren’t really Jake’s cup of tea. I suppose I can justify myself in economic terms. I’ve earned a little capital. I can afford to shop, eat, get a haircut. But then what? Sleep, go to the toilet, switch on the radio or tv, just survive. I can’t help anyone. I need Jake to brush my teeth and shave me in the morning, to actually do the shopping and make the meals. Frankly, I’m no good for anything these days.

People generally do work that is ultimately aimed at helping other people survive, perhaps even live more comfortably than before, maybe even enjoy life. So is the meaning of life just that life is for living and for helping others to do so too? Well, almost any animal could say the same. How many animals would choose to live a few more years if they were cripplingly disabled by ill-health, a decrepit body just patched together and barely functioning? But only humans are allowed, sometimes at least, to make that choice.

And if that is the meaning of life, then how can death have any meaning?

20 May 2015

Final confirmation arrived today. The date and time are fixed. I’m committed. All I have to do now is turn up.

Over the next few days I’ll check over my Last Will and Testament. There’s a few quid in there for Jake.

Then I’ll say my goodbyes to those few neighbours who still recognise me.

23 June 2015

Since I’ll be dead in two days this will probably be my last diary entry.

The big black taxi arrived bang on time at six-thirty in the morning and I drove my heavy maroon wheelchair up the ramp into the rear compartment. Jake sat in the front talking to the cabbie while I embarked on my trip to oblivion.

At Waverley Station Jake guided me on board the London train. Then I watched out the window as the coast and countryside sped past while the train hurtled south. It was a clear, cool day and by mid-morning the carriage was fully lit in sunshine. I was distracted by back gardens stretching down to the tracks. They flashed by in bright reds, blues, and oranges, riots of summer colour.

Jake sat separately in the seats in front of the wheelchair space, reading newspapers and listening to music on his headphones. As far as pop music is concerned his tastes are eclectic. His headphones sometimes leak noises he calls hip-hop and sometimes I recognise old tunes from the nineteen sixties.

I stopped asking exactly what he is listening to after he rather guiltily mentioned ‘Knocking on heaven’s door’ and ‘It’s alright Ma (I’m only bleeding)’ – titles not guaranteed to cheer me up. I remembered the line from that latter song that ‘he not busy being born is busy dying’. That seemed to simply transform life into a depressing drawn-out death.

My mind wandered back to thinking about whether life was purely random and accidental or might actually have some purpose and meaning. And back to life not being just for human beings. Did all those dinosaurs, that lived on Earth far longer than human beings, have lives with meaning or purpose? Or fruit flies that live only minutes? Is mankind the only thing living massaging its ego with theories of purpose?

The train became busier and more crowded at each halt as it journeyed further south. A tall young lady in a light brown suede jacket and jeans, furiously flicking through messages on her mobile phone, charged on board at York, throwing a canvas backpack into the rack. She took off her jacket to reveal a pretty red and yellow striped crop top and bounced into the seat next to Jake, her short fair hair falling towards the little screen.

Jake abandoned the headphones and managed to strike up a conversation. I had to wait until the train had almost pulled into King’s Cross and they were already best friends before Jake finally deigned to introduce me.

“Arnie, this is Doutzen. Doutzen, meet Arnold Miller, he’s the guy I’m looking after just now.”

“Pleased to meet you.” Her English was impeccable. I would have liked to shake hands. But ‘Doutzen’?

“You’re Dutch?” I queried.

“Yes, I am. But I’m working in Yorkshire.”

“She’s heading back to some place called Middelburg to visit her parents.” put in Jake, “Prefers trains to boats and planes. She’s catching the Eurostar to Brussels, same as us.”

So then the three of us made our way, me in the electric wheelchair driving a path through the mobbed, sticky, luggage strewn tunnel, into St Pancras International and the other two keeping up behind. But in my mind’s eye I was contemplating flat green fields next to white waves cresting on an open sea. It was that old place, Breskens, on the Westerschelde in Zeeland, where I was born, the town I’d fled from as a child. And from Breskens I knew it was only a short distance across the Scheldt to Vlissingen and Middelburg.

I twisted my head round towards Doutzen.

“Does the ferry still run between Vlissingen and Breskens?”

“Oh yes, for sure”, she replied. “But only for walkers and cyclists now, since they opened the tunnel under the Scheldt nearly twenty years ago. You know the area?”

“I used to,” I said, and inwardly lamented that since arriving in Britain I’d neglected my Dutch so much that I could now only talk sensibly to this young Dutch woman in English. “I was there a long time ago. Some interesting medieval buildings.”

She frowned. “No, I don’t think so. Very boring twentieth century architecture I’m afraid. Nice modern harbour though. Good place to visit for the Visserijfeesten.”

I think it must have been what they now euphemistically refer to as a ‘senior moment’. For, of course, I’d heard about it fifty years ago. My memory was playing tricks. The Allied carpet bombing in 1944. My old home town utterly destroyed, another reason it had never seemed worth returning. The town was resurrected in brick and concrete in the fifties.

“Visserijf…?” Jake queried.

“The famous Fishing Festival,” she supplied. “It’ll be happening over the next few days.”

In St Pancras we boarded the Eurostar for Brussels. Near the wheelchair space there were several empty seats so Doutzen abandoned the one she’d booked and sat beside us, which pleased Jake immensely. I fell into a fitful sleep, dreaming of sun shining on the green polder, and only opening my eyes as the train juddered, braking as it pulled into Brussels-Midi.

Before I was fully awake Jake was helping me to drive the electric chair out towards the low platform and he whispered confidentially “Doutzen has invited me over to her parents’ house for a visit if I can find the time.” A few moments later Doutzen’s eyes were glistening, smiling down at me. I thought sympathetically, but maybe it was in hope.

Once we’d arranged ourselves on the platform she said “I think we go our separate ways now Mr Miller. Maybe I’ll see you next time in York. Have a lovely time. Goodbye.”

She swung her canvas backpack over her shoulder, gave a little wave, and strode off towards the platform designated for the IC train to Middelburg.

Jake’s eyes followed her. As the crowds absorbed her his chin dropped to his chest. He turned to me glumly, a picture of thwarted hopes and despondency.

“What did you tell her I was doing here?” I asked.

“I said I was looking after you while you had a little holiday.”

“Holiday? A rather long holiday from life, I suppose. But it would have taken a very hard man not to have had some sympathy for Jake. I wasn’t that man.

“Look,” I said, “I don’t really care. If you feel she’s that important go after her.”

“But your appointment …”

“Oh well, the best laid plans…I’m sure I’ll be able to reorganise it for another day. It just goes to show that dying is always an uncertain business, even when it’s euthanasia. I still have some money. If you like we can go on and find a hotel in Middelburg for a day or two.”

Jake straightened up and his eyes beamed as if someone had just switched on his electricity. “Stay right here,” he said, “and look after the luggage. I won’t be long.” And he ran off down the platform with a long loping stride that I could only lay back and admire.

A few minutes later he was back, his arm entwined in Doutzen’s and both giggling merrily. Having established my agreement to the change of plans Doutzen led the way towards the train for Middelburg.

For the hour or two on the train Jake and Doutzen sat squashed together and talked intently.

Arriving in Middelburg Doutzen was able to recommend the lovely Van der Valk Hotel which catered perfectly for the wheelchair-bound and fortunately had rooms available. I booked two adjoining rooms for me and Jake and checked carefully on what assistance the hotel staff would be able to offer me, knowing I shouldn’t expect to rely so heavily on Jake for the next day or two.

Once settled in I phoned the Clinic, just in time before they closed, to re-arrange the date. They weren’t particularly reassuring. The administration implied I was backing out at the last minute and that was by no means their first experience of someone having come so near only to mentally remain so far away, phoning at the last minute to cancel. Their tone wasn’t at all helpful, focused on emphasising that payments already made could not be reimbursed. They said they’d look at possible alternative dates and rang off saying they’d get back to me.

24 June 2015

It looks like I’ll be keeping my diary for at least another day or two.

This morning I encouraged Jake – and he didn’t need much encouragement – to accept Doutzen’s invitation to spend the day with her. To give him credit he did say he’d stay if I didn’t think the hotel staff would be able to cope. Feeding someone and taking them to the toilet isn’t something many hotels can handle properly. But the hotel staff were keen to try it and in the end they looked after me well.

All the same it did become a little boring driving my electric wheelchair round the hotel’s small garden, stopping occasionally to admire flowers or watch the changing cloud formations. I did have plenty of time, of course, to update my diary.

No-one called from the Clinic.

25 June 2015

This morning Jake said that Dot – apparently he now had a pet name for Doutzen - was grateful to me for helping them to have time together yesterday, but she felt guilty about me being excluded.

Soon after breakfast Doutzen herself turned up at the hotel wearing a short denim skirt and a jolly pink top under her suede jacket. She had driven over in her father’s car. Jake greeted her as if they’d been parted for months.

“Let’s all go on a trip,” she suggested. “I can drive the three of us the short distance to Vlissingen, the neighbouring town. Then, rather than driving through the tunnel, we could take the little scenic ferry trip over to the Fish Festival in Breskens.”

I agreed enthusiastically before remembering. “But my electric chair – it would be too big and heavy for a car.”

She’d already thought of it. “My father’s car is a nice big estate car. With the back seats lowered, and with its low stowage floor, the electric chair still might not be possible but it can certainly accommodate an ordinary wheelchair, and the seat belts will work to hold it firmly in place.”

“Well…,” I hesitated.

“The hotel is happy to lend us one of their light manual wheelchairs.”

I succumbed. A little sea air and a visit to my old home town was a much better prospect than moping around the hotel driving the electric wheelchair, worrying about fixing an alternative date to die.

Everything worked out just as Doutzen had planned. We reached he harbour and Jake put a woolly hat on my head and wrapped blankets round me. A light wind was blowing white clouds across the sky and the salty sea air was bracing. I sniffed the ozone as Jake pushed me on to the little ferry.

The ferry was carrying maybe twenty or thirty passengers as it bounced across the waves. White gulls spun sqawking overhead in the blue-grey sky while Jake and Doutzen sat cosily together on a bench fixed to the deck in the unroofed open area. When sea spray reached them they cuddled closer together. My wheelchair was parked in the small enclosed passengers’ cabin.

Very soon the smell of fish hit us as we entered a comparatively large harbour that I’d never seen before.

“The new harbour was built for the fishing fleet. But then the fishing industry died,” Doutzen informed me. “But they kept on with the fish festival.”

Indeed, there were very few boats in the harbour, just one or two small ones creaking at their moorings as our bow wave hit them. But the quayside was full. All along the shore there were people crowding around little stalls with either orange, or striped red and white or blue and white awnings. Once ashore the air was full of a guttural hum, crowds of people conversing happily in Dutch. And there was the strong smell of fish and chips frying. Groups of family and friends were gathered together and stood chatting and laughing, their fingers dipping into paper cones of chips and mayonnaise. Childhood memories of my brother Joe resurfaced with a vengeance.

We mixed with the festival throng, wandering round the stalls and displays. Besides fish and chips, some stalls sold bottled beer and others pieces of domestic craft work - needlework, pottery, home-made greeting cards . We ate fish and chips with relish – Jake and Doutzen putting a paper cone on the blanket over my knees and feeding me with chips and pieces of fish using plastic forks. We looked at the various display boards planted between the stalls. The Dutch texts were beyond me but the photos of the town, mainly black and white, taken over the last hundred years or so, were fascinating. When I wanted more explanation Doutzen was always ready to translate the texts and sometimes add more detail to the information boards provided. There was an old post-war photo of people queuing for food handouts. One of the grainy figures in the queue reminded me a lot of Joe and the memories flooded back.

We were just thinking it might be time to be leaving when suddenly, there, straight in front of me, stood Joe himself. He was exactly as he’d looked the last time he’d visited us in the orphanage; the way he held himself, grinning under a shock of bronze hair, one leg casually twisted behind the other. He was maybe sixteen years old.

Jake noticed the shock that registered on my face. He asked with some concern “Are you feeling ok Arnie? Your face has just gone white as a sheet, like you’ve seen a ghost.”

It took me a few moments to remember that if Joe was alive today he would have to look even older than me. But the likeness was uncanny.

I explained the reason for my surprise. To set my mind at rest Jake drew Doutzen towards him and they approached the boy to apologise for the fact that I’d been staring at him. Doutzen explained it was just that he looked very like someone I’d known.

I was tense. “Ask him his name” I shouted, somewhat over-aggressively.

“My name is Joran Djikstra,” the boy called back, defensively but in perfect English.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be bad mannered and offensive; it’s just that… well, your grandfathers’ names then? It would settle a troubling question in my mind if you would tell me.”

The boy hesitated. Doutzen spoke to him quietly in Dutch, no doubt reassuring him that I was just an old man and it would do no harm to humour me.

The boy walked over to me, leaned down and spoke carefully. It was as if I was a small six year old again with Johan towering over me.

“Arjen Djikstra, that’s my grandfather on my father’s side. My mother’s father was Johan Mulder.”

I could hardly take it in. I was flabbergasted. But I had to face the unpalatable truth. I suppose the reason was obvious, though it had never occurred to me before. Joe, feeling himself an adult at sixteen, had surely found some way of returning to Holland in 1945. He’d left his two eleven year old brothers in the safe care of the orphanage. I suppose he didn’t know what he’d find back in Holland and didn’t want to put us in danger.

Jake had also picked up on the name the boy mentioned and leaned into my other ear. “ ‘Mulder’? Did you not tell me once that was your real name Arnie? Some kind of relation maybe?”

“I’m fairly sure this boy is my great nephew,” I agreed in a whisper, and Jake puffed out his cheeks and raised his eyebrows in a performance of mock astonishment.

“Oh, really?” he said disbelievingly.

Turning back to the boy I had to bite my tongue to avoid calling him by my elder brother’s name. “Joran, this may seem a little bizarre but I think we may be related. Could I possibly speak to your mother or father to check this is possible and I’m not just fantasising?”

And so, following Joran, we weaved through the crowds to a stall whose awning was a giant red, white and blue striped Dutch flag. This canvas sheltered a number of chairs grouped roughly round half a dozen small tables. While we watched and waited, Joran moved between the tables and stopped at one where a group of men were in conversation, glasses of beer and paper plates piled high with chips in front of them. He spoke to a middle-aged man in a brown leather jacket over blue overalls. The man’s smiling face became a frown of concentration. Eventually he rose, a little usteadily, excusing himself from the company, and followed Joran over to where I was waiting. As he approached I could see his eyelids were drooping over slightly glazed eyes. Clearly he’d been having a very good time.

The man’s English was passable but not nearly as fluent as his son’s.

“Hello. My name Rutjer Djikstra.” He held out his hand.

“Pleased to meet you Rutjer. I’m Arnold Miller. I used to be called Armin Mulder. I’m afraid I’m not able to shake hands - I would if I could. Jake and Doutzen here,” – I nodded in their direction – “are my, er, friends. Your son mentioned his grandfather, Johan Mulder. I wondered if you knew much about him?”

“Ja, ja, for sure. Johan is born here. Lived all the time here. Little farm, sheep, outside town, near the polder. Hard struggle young boy on his own. No vader or moeder to guide him. Married Alexia. All died now though. Their daughter, Beatrix, my wife.”

I was shocked at how much the news of Joe’s death affected me. After all these years it was still a blow. I couldn’t stop a tear falling.

I managed to ask, “Did he ever say anything about the war?”

“Ja, ja, one of the lucky young boys. Escaped to England with brothers. Had fine time. Was angry with England about months in Jeugdgevangenis, - how you say it – borstal, - for stealing things – food, shoes, toys for brothers. Kwam terug naar huis, - how is it, - came back home, - came home on vissersboot, after Nazis gone.”

“Fishing boat,” Joran interjected.

“Ja, on a fishing boat.

“So he stole things to try and help his brothers and as a result ended up spending time in a young offenders institution. Did he ever say what happened to his brothers?”

“Talked sometimes, de jongens, Pieter and Armin. House they were staying closed down. Once, twice tried to trace Mulders in England, but never with luck.

There were more tears in my eye as I admitted, “My God, so it looks like we were lost to each other just because in Edinburgh we had no idea where Johan had gone, and in Breskins he couldn’t trace us because he didn’t know they’d changed our official name to Miller. And having a police record he wouldn’t be welcome back in the UK to look for us.”

By the time we’d all had a drink together, told each other our stories, worked out my relationship to family survivors, and eaten our last portions of chips, it was getting quite late. Rutjer insisted I should come another day and meet Beatrix, who had been at the fair earlier but had gone home early. That was when Doutzen realized with a start that the last ferry back across the estuary had already sailed.

“We’ll have to hire a taxi to Vissingen,” she insisted.

But Rutjer interrupted our deliberations. “Nee, nee,” he said “cost a lot. Too much money. I have small boat. No used much now. So no problem. Must help my new familie, er, relative, eh? Too tired myself now but Joran ferry you over quick and bring boat back.”

Joran looked simultaneously proud and surprised at his father’s suggestion.

We didn’t like to refuse Rutjers’ generous hospitality so we said our farewells and followed Joran towards a concrete ramp which ran down into the harbour. It was no doubt intended for vehicles to bring in or tow away boats on trailers. It made for an easy approach by wheelchair.

Darkness was falling as Joran stopped beside a small launch tied up to a capstan on the quayside. It rocked, squeaking quietly against a couple of old tyres slung over its side as a bulwark against the stone harbour wall. Little more than a large rowing boat it had a sentry box wheelhouse and decking that only covered the forward section around the wheelhouse and a square section at the stern. Its white paint was peeling, its varnished brown woodwork starting to rot. Thin metal posts linked by a rusting chain guarded the port and starboard. To facilitate fishing there was no fence along the square ended stern. There were pools of water sloshing around above the wooden hull in the hollow between the decked areas. The boat put me in mind of my work in the scrapyard many years ago.

Jake and Joran lifted me, still in the hotel’s manual wheelchair, on to the little half deck at the stern, Jake making sure the wheelchair’s brake was on. I sat facing the wheelhouse. Jake helped Doutzen step aboard carefully and they held hands leaning on the wheelhouse. Then Joran jumped on, slipping past them into the tiny sentry box. We waited expectantly as Joran turned the key. After several attempts a small engine wheezed into life, putt-putting erratically.

Jake exchanged a wary look with Doutzen and me. Doutzen was clearly dubious about the boat’s seaworthiness, her forehead wrinkling into a worried expression. But Jake held her hand, reassuring her with a hug. And anyway, the lights of Vissingen seemed hardly any distance away at all.

“Are you sure you’re ok there,” Jake asked me, pulling the woolly hat down over my head. “You’ll be very exposed if a wind gets up or it starts to rain.”

I shook my head and smiled, poo-pooing Jake’s fussiness and dismissing any concerns he and his girlfriend might have about me. I wanted to show trust in my great nephew just as I’d trusted his grandfather all those years ago.

“Don’t worry Jake,” I said. “I’ll be fine. And if anything happens it’ll be my own fault.”

Instead of worrying about cold or rain, I decided that as I’d be parked by myself on the stern deck for a while, I might as well pass the time updating my diary.

“This boat reminds me of one in which I once crossed the North Sea,” I said in a loud forced tone of confidence so that Joran could hear me. He turned his shock of bronze hair back towards me and smiled appreciatively.

Doutzen was still apologising for forgetting to check the return ferry timetable when we were already halfway across the estuary. An easterly wind had got up and the engine was so weak that it seemed we were being pushed more out to sea than straight across the estuary.

“Certainly my mistake as much as yours Dot,” a conciliatory Jake was saying when the engine suddenly emitted a low sigh and cut out. We were left bumping up and down on the waves.

The silence on the boat was deafening. The moon’s face seemed to be laughing at us. Doutzen stared down at the water gradually swelling in the foot of the boat. Jake’s eye was on the moving coastline, watching as the tide coming in swelled as it ran up against the strong flow of fresh water flowing from the Scheldt. The little boat was drifting, the river water combining with the wind to force it quickly further out into open sea.

Lines of anxiety spread rapidly across Joran’s young forehead, but he didn’t panic. Like Joe he was prepared to confront the challenges life threw at him.

“Does anyone know about engines?” he asked, but unfortunately drew a blank in response. Then he tentatively suggested that we might try bailing out the water. But Jake and Doutzen had nothing with which to do that except cupped hands, and that proved wholly ineffectual. As the boat started sinking lower in the water, panic showed in Doutzen’s widening eyes.

“I can’t swim,” she repeated several times, her voice rising as it strained to suppress a growing hysteria.

“Me neither,” Jake added disconsolately, drawing Doutzen closer to him, and trying to comfort her with soothing words.

Joran dropped his head guiltily. “Old fishing communities – very superstitious people – they see learning to swim as tempting fate – so I was never taught either.”

I became very aware that safety equipment on the dilapidated and seldom used boat was non-existent. There was no short-wave radio of course, but neither were there any lifebelts or flares on board. If the boat went down we’d all drown.

Joran and Doutzen scrambled for their mobile phones. But it soon became obvious that on the open sea reception was faint and garbled to the point of non-existence.

Jake rummaged around in his pockets and eventually retrieved a small torch that hung from his belt. But no-one knew the morse code for S.O.S. Instead, he and Jorin took turns simply waving the tiny beam of light out towards the big commercial harbour at Vissingen that we were increasingly drifting further away from.

“I’m sure it’ll attract someone’s attention ,” Jake said, rather desperately hoping someone ashore would want to investigate our situation.

The water was still rising. Jake stepped into the bottom of the boat to check and was stunned to find himself soaked well above the knees. He looked towards me, his face drawn, and though he said nothing I could see the fear in his eyes.

“Soon the water will fill the boat,” Doutzen almost screamed. Jake pulled himself out of the water and, shivering, held her tight.

The situation was genuinely terrifying and, like the others, I struggled to stay calm in this crisis.

But for all that, I was still capable of enough clear thinking to recognise that the boat’s buoyancy would be greatly helped by reducing the weight of its cargo. Unfortunately, the only cargo was the four people on board. I understood my own body weight, together with that of the wheelchair and blankets, was exacerbating the problem. I couldn’t bear the thought of me being the cause of Joe’s grandson drowning, of me bringing such grief to Beatrix, his mother and Joe’s daughter. I hated to be the cause of Doutzen and Jake being so ruthlessly torn apart so soon after finding each other.

Just as wholesale hysteria was about to consume us Jorun spotted a set of red lights flickering into life in the fast disappearing Vissingen harbour.

“A rescue boat,” shouted Joran with desperate relief. “The coast guard has seen us.”

“Yes, they’ve picked up the torchlight at last,” Jake said, exhaling heavily.

“But the boat is sinking so fast. Water will soon be lapping over the sides,” howled Doutzen, splashed her legs around in the ever-deepening water. Jake held her tightly but words could no longer assuage Doutzen’s terror.

“How long do you think it will take for the lifeboat to reach us,” I asked Joran urgently.

“From Vissingen to where we are now, maybe twenty, twenty-five minutes.”

“The boat will have sunk long before that,” wailed Doutzen.

She was right. At the rate the water was rising I calculated it would only be ten minutes before the boat went down, leaving us all floundering around in the freezing water. The only chance of staying afloat longer was less weight. I estimated that removing me and my wheelchair would provide at least the extra ten minutes needed until the rescue boat arrived. And I was here to die anyway. It seemed my life, my death, suddenly had purpose and meaning after all. Maybe this had always been the reason for my existence.

I nudged my arm with my chin and let it fall to the side of the chair next to the brake lever. With my one working finger I pulled on it as hard as I could and breathed a sigh of relief as the brake lever released.

As the small boat’s bow rose up over the next wave, Jake, Doutzen, and Joran were all staring with desperate anxiety towards the flashing red lights which had now moved away from the shore. Doutzen clung to Jake, hoping against hope that his little torch might save the day, that the lifeboat might reach them before they drowned.

There was still a lovely smell of fish and chips that lingered on the blanket over my knees where my last meal had lain. I stole a last loving glance at Joe/Jorin and made a silent wish for Jake’s future happiness with Doutzen.

And they say dead men tell no tales. But if you’re listening to this it’s only because I managed to use my chin to knock the audio recorder off my coat collar so that it dropped on to the deck just as my wheelchair rolled backwards in response to a lifting the bow and leaving the stern pointing downwards.

The wheelchair would have run backwards quickly across the small section of stern decking, fast enough so that it tipped over when it hit the boat’s rim. With no guard rail to stop it, me and the wheelchair would have been dumped with a small splash into the North Sea.

So I suppose I must now be back in my natural home, lost somewhere between Holland and Britain. But even sinking to the sea floor I would have been thinking of having finally served my purpose in life and death. I’ll probably be arriving at the bottom before anyone even notices I’m gone.

#short story #euthanasia #netherlands #Reekie Revelator #war story #fishing

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